However, the fear has receded.
A more dominant part of me craves how my heart races in Aksel’s presence. Perhaps if I stop thinking so much about being afraid, I won’t be. I can live a normal life without assuming everyone around me is a threat.
“You don’t like talking too much about your past, do you?” Aksel asks cautiously. We are dancing around an issue neither of us wants to confront.
I gather a chunk of snow from the ground and squeeze it in my mitten.
“I was seven when I recognized it the first time. We’d been living in Tehran almost a year when I arrived home one afternoon to find our house packed: the rugs, the art, gone. We left that night in a troop transport. After that, I never knew when it would happen, but I always knew it would. I could try to have a normal life, and yet I could still wake up and have to board a train to Turkmenistan or a plane to Yemen.” I drop the snow from my mitten back to the ground: “Like that.”
My hair tumbles loose from behind my ear. Aksel reaches his right arm across his body and tucks the stray lock back. Tingles spread down my ear to my neck, collecting at my throat in a wave of heat.
“What about you?” I ask, trying to maintain my composure.
Aksel smiles tentatively. “What do you want to know?”
“Why were you born in Germany?”
“My dad’s German—he met my mom at Harvard during medical school. They were visiting relatives when I was born.”
Germany. Berlin. The Bubble. It must all be related—but how?
“When did you first come to Waterford?”
Aksel gestures back toward the house. “I spent my childhood here. My parents were both doctors, but my dad was always committing to speaking assignments, humanitarian missions … My mom went with him when she could, but mostly, she loved the mountains, the privacy. She grew up with a summer home here. On this property actually, though my parents rebuilt it.”
“So, you moved here to get away?”
“Yeah, I guess. It’s fun here. Swimming and running in the high altitude. Shooting.” Aksel shakes snow off his boot. “Waterford adults think teenagers should target practice in the woods.” He smiles coyly.
“Aksel, why were you in Berlin?” It comes out suddenly.
With his sleeves pushed up above his wrists, I see the muscles in his forearm go taut. His smile fades. He gathers a chunk of snow and throws it into the lake like a baseball.
A stream of clouds roll in, shrouding the moon. When they clear, Aksel pushes his palms against the ground, reclining with his legs straight out in front of him. His chiseled profile is silhouetted in the moonlight.
“I was in Germany over spring break when I got a request to meet an official at the American Embassy.” He glares ahead at the lake. “They said they had information about my parents’ plane crash … to be shared in person …”
Although less than a meter away, Aksel feels distant, almost robotic. I pay attention to every syllable that crosses his full lips.
“The embassy seemed normal enough until they escorted me to a secure floor. It was weird being inside the Bubble, you know? This woman asked me a few questions, told me what she said they knew, and that was it.” He shrugs.
Restlessly, his fingers spread out over his knees, then he balls his hands into fists and extends his fingers out again, his knuckles cracking.
“Did you learn more about the plane crash?” I ask, wondering if he’s told me all he will.
Aksel smiles, but it is a sad smile and doesn’t reach his eyes.
“My parents’ plane didn’t crash, Sophia.” He brings his knees up to his chest and stares out at the lake. “It was shot down.”
CHAPTER 23
Planes don’t just get shot down. That happens in my world—not his.
Several seconds later, I still haven’t let out a breath.
“Aksel, I’m so sorry,” I breathe out, but a sideways glance tells me he doesn’t want my sympathy.
“Yeah, I know,” he apologizes. “One day I’ll learn to say thank you when people say that.” He stretches his hands out again. I notice a small scar across his left knuckles.
The intimacy of our shared history is overwhelming—we are seated feet apart, and yet I have never felt closer to someone, or more vulnerable, in my life.
Tucking my hands inside the lining of my jacket, I stand and walk to the edge of the luminescent lake. “You must swim here often,” I comment.
Aksel sits forward, propping his hands on his knees. “Sometimes. The hot springs keep the lake from freezing over. It’s not warm, but it’s not too cold either.”
I take off my mittens and toss them on the rock. “Do you want to race?”
His eyes gleam. “You’re joking.”
“If you’ll get in, I’ll race you.” I peer at him challengingly. “Unless you’re scared.”
Aksel stands and points to the lake, apparently checking which lake I am referencing. “You will get in there?”
I tug at the laces on my snow boots. “Sure.”
Suddenly, his hand is on mine. His palm sends fiery sparks across my skin. I pause, pulling the lace out of its knot. My heart thumps in my chest.
“The lake may not be freezing, but it’s November,” Aksel cautions, “and we don’t have any towels.”
“As long as there’s no avalanche, we should be good, right?”
His eyes linger on mine. Briefly they land on my lips. How long would it take for his mouth to reach mine?
“The only thing we’re missing is the northern lights,” I say.
“Let me guess, the last time you swam in a mountain lake in winter”—he exaggerates the word, letting go of my hand—“was in a Norwegian village above the Arctic circle?” He shrugs out of his jacket.
“Iceland, actually.”
“Close enough.”
“Not really. It’s a thousand nautical miles from Reykjavik to the western fjords.”
“You’ve sailed that route?”
“Oh no, it’s dangerous.”
Aksel stops with one boot in his hand and the other on his foot. He is bent over, tugging the laces free. He stares at me, incredulous. “You think a boat ride between Iceland and Norway, the two safest countries on earth, is dangerous?”
“Not a boat ride. Sailing,” I clarify. “The North Sea doesn’t have piracy problems like the Black Sea or the Gulf of Guinea, but the conditions—strong winds and icebergs and rough currents—are dangerous.”
“Very,” he says, smiling.
“It’s true. Fact-check me. The North Sea is as unpredictable as Cape Horn.”
He sets his boots on the ground. “So you would never sail to Norway?”
“Never say never.” I shrug.
“Not about you, Sophia,” Aksel says, and when he looks at me, my breath catches in my throat. He lifts his sweater over his head.
Blushing, I look away. With my boots off, I unzip my puffer, slip my sweatshirt over my head, and slide out of my pants. I’ve begun wearing a camisole and seamless shorts beneath my clothing for warmth. I’ll swim in these—it isn’t as though I am swimming naked.
The lake is temperate, and small at less than two hundred meters across; Aksel’s house is only a half kilometer back through the woods.
Hypothermia risk is low.
“Depth?” I query.
“Twenty feet,” he answers.
I dive. Before I hit the surface, I see Aksel follow.
It’s not freezing, but it’s not exactly Reykjadalur. Turning toward me Aksel shakes his wet hair off his face, grinning. “You’re indomitable,” he remarks.
“I’m not in here alone,” I point out, treading water.
His mouth curves up ruefully. “Peer pressure.”
Even in the dark, I can see the taut muscles etched across his neck and shoulders.
Stretching his arm backward, Aksel places his hand on the rock. I do the same, settling my fingers into a cleft to keep steady.
Only a few centim
eters of serrated rock separate our fingers. Why did it bother me so much when Tate put his fingers on my knee, while now, I wish Aksel’s were closer?
“It’s one hundred seventy yards to the far side of the lake. The farthest point is that clump of evergreens,” Aksel says, pointing across the smooth, dark surface. “Whoever touches that large boulder in the water wins. You say ‘go.’ ”
I nod. “All right. Three. Two. Go.”
I kick off from the rock. Ignoring Aksel’s position—and speed—I focus on getting into my own rhythm. Every few breaths I check to make sure I am headed toward the boulder. In my peripheral vision, I can see Aksel ahead, gliding smoothly across the surface.
By the time I reach it, Aksel is treading water, waiting. I brush my hair off my face.
“That probably wasn’t fair,” he apologizes.
“You’re right,” I agree. “We’ll have to race back,” I say. “Except this time, underwater. Whoever goes farthest with one breath wins.”
Aksel scrutinizes me. “Okay, Sophia, but we don’t have to race—”
“Three,” I interrupt, taking a breath. Because I do have to race. I have to prove to myself that I am no longer afraid. Not of the men who attacked our boat off Djibouti, or of who killed our guides in Kenya, or of whoever Aksel thought was following me tonight.
“Two.”
I take another breath.
I am not afraid. Not anymore. Not in Waterford.
“Go.”
I plunge back into the lake. Kicking my legs and pushing aside water, I propel forward. After thirty seconds, I want air. After forty-five seconds, I need it. At sixty seconds, I wonder if I’ll lose consciousness. Ninety seconds. One hundred and thirty seconds. I need to emerge. It’s been too long since I last practiced. One hundred and eighty seconds. My lungs flare.
I break the surface. Curious how far ahead Aksel is, I whirl around, scanning the water. The lake is a glass sheet.
Panic rises in my throat. I look across the tranquil lake back at the clump of evergreens, then ahead toward the rocks where I see his clothes.
Four meters behind me, the water stirs.
As soon as he surfaces, I sense something is wrong.
“SOPHI—” Halfway through yelling my name, he sees me. With quick, deft strokes he swims to me. “Where were you?”
“Underwater—”
“Yeah, but …” Aksel glances at the evergreens and back to me. He ducks his head into the water and emerges half a meter from me. He is so close I can see droplets of water on his carved shoulders. “I’ve been out over a minute. I didn’t see you come up for air.”
Adamantly, I shake my head. “I did not cheat!”
Aksel’s mouth tilts upward, like he wants to smile but can’t. “I wasn’t worried about you cheating …” The word lingers in the air.
We stare at each other in uneasy silence. The fervor in his eyes doesn’t subside. He runs a hand through his wet hair, pushing it off his face. We both tread water; at some point our legs brush by each other.
“You’re not exactly who I thought you were,” Aksel finally says.
“Who exactly did you think I was?”
Aksel looks at me in a way that feels like he is looking through me, not at me, before saying, “Come on, this way.”
Unsure if he has complimented or criticized me, I roll onto my side and swim after him. Back near the flat rocks, a bubbling current of hot water drifts into the lake. We swim through a crevice between two rocks and into the pocket of hot springs. The warmth is instantaneous. I was wrong: this part of the lake is like Reykjadalur.
Above us the night sky is clear—a sea of gemstones sparkling against indigo silk. Silhouetted against the sky, the mountain hovers above us like a jagged triangle cutting into the night.
Aksel watches me pensively; behind his smile, his eyes are simmering.
“What is it?” I ask, sensing that tension in the air between us like a thick fog.
“When I saw you in Berlin,” Aksel says abruptly. He pauses, as if giving me an opportunity to stop him. I hold his gaze steady.
“You were pale,” he sighs. “Your eyes were hollow; you looked more ghost than person, except …” He leans against a rock, staring into the sky.
I swallow, but keep my eyes on his. “Except what?”
“Except you were the one being haunted,” he says softly.
Aksel leans toward me. His eyes glint in the steam swirling around us. “Sophia, I didn’t think I would ever see you again and yet I still remembered you, and it wasn’t because you were beautiful—I mean, you were, you are beautiful,” he adds, and a blush rises up his neck—“but it was the way you walked, with those men on either side of you holding your elbows, like they could touch you but not actually touch you. Like you possessed some ethereal power to prevent them from hurting you.”
Shouting … warm blood … running … engines.
Sparks of light flash behind my eyelids; I’m concentrating so hard to prevent it.
My body is hot, but my face is cold. I dunk my head into the near-scalding water. I stay under until a large hand grips my left forearm.
“Hey,” Aksel says sharply, pulling me out of the water. “Careful.” His eyes flash with concern.
I can see every wet eyelash, every water droplet on his skin. Steam rises up from the hot springs and swirls in mist around us.
Something about Aksel ignites every nerve in my body.
He exhales slowly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“It’s not that.” I wipe the condensation off my face.
Aksel’s chest heaves with each breath; his body is broad and sculpted and I truly have no idea how he is only a senior in high school. An American high school.
Yet, he saw me in Berlin. It has to be a coincidence. And maybe, if I tell myself it is only a coincidence enough times, I’ll start to believe it.
I climb out of the hot springs and sit on a burnished rock at the edge. I tug my knees up to my chest. “Aksel, what happened … before … I can’t …”
He hoists himself up onto the rock beside me. Tentatively, he wraps his arm around my back. Nestled in the crook of his shoulder my skin is hot from the water, cold from the night air, and warm beside Aksel.
“You don’t have to,” he says firmly.
My palm is open, resting on my thigh. He takes my hand and weaves his fingers into mine. He presses the top of my hand with his thumb.
Deep inside me, something triggers.
Whether I want to admit it or not, I know that Berlin is only the beginning. Our lives are irrevocably connected, and I just don’t know how deeply.
Above us, a tiny clump of clouds sweeps past, temporarily veiling the moon.
I feel something for the first time in more than eighteen months.
Safe.
Back on the flat rock, I dress quickly and turn to see Aksel slipping on his coat. He strides over to me, shaking out his hair. Looking down at me, he takes off his coat and places it around me. I shiver when he zips it, his hands dangerously close to my chest.
For a moment, we stare at each other in silence. His brooding, deep-set eyes search my face. Is he looking for permission? He has it. He has had it. For, like, weeks.
“I should get you home,” he says, dropping his gaze. “Let’s hope the grizzlies are hibernating,” he adds with a wry smile, “because I don’t have a weapon.”
I pat the waistband of my pants. “I do.”
Aksel’s mouth twitches. “You should at least carry bear spray when you’re running. Your knife might make her angrier—even if you’re accurate.”
“I am not defending myself with a can of aerosol,” I respond. “Besides, Charlotte says bear spray doesn’t work.”
“People often use it incorrectly. You have to wait until the grizzly is less than thirty feet away before spraying.”
I stare at him, confounded. “While a grizzly is charging me, I’m supposed to stand still and casually ca
lculate the distance between us?”
“Technically, you should play dead. If you can’t, bear spray works.”
“How many times have you been charged?”
Aksel smirks. “Once too many.”
I shake my head, laughing. I have lived in a lot of dangerous places, but none of them involved fighting off a charging grizzly with a can of spicy hairspray.
Standing to clip into our snowshoes, Aksel reaches down to help me from the boulder. I place my hand in his, but as I stand, my snowshoe catches an edge. I stumble forward into Aksel, clinging to his sleeve and landing with a soft thump against his chest.
I smell his clean skin, feel his warm torso against mine.
His arm is braced firmly around my waist to keep me from falling. He stares down at me, and my cheeks go blisteringly hot. I feel light-headed. Snow and starlight envelop me in a bright wave.
I’ve forgotten how to breathe, how to talk.
Aksel contracts his arm around my lower back. My breath quickens. I’m torn between embarrassment and a thrilling desire to be closer to him.
Reaching my other hand forward, I place my palm against Aksel’s chest. I feel his heartbeat—steady, not charging like mine.
Aksel gently nudges the wet hair back from my face. Gliding his hand down, he cradles the back of my neck; his thumbs graze the skin below my ear, like matches lighting my skin in flames.
Our eyes lock. Our faces are centimeters apart. Our lips, millimeters. His forearm tightens against me, drawing me into him. His palm settling into the concave of my lower back. I want him to kiss me—I want him to kiss me so badly I feel like I might explode.
Aksel’s lips press against mine. His fingertips trace my cheek, my jawline, before returning to the nape of my neck. My fingers weave into his. His lips are against mine, and mine are against his.
Then Aksel pulls away. His eyes catch mine, and there is a flash of intriguing vulnerability.
We stare at each other in protracted silence. Emotions filter through me—as if the hesitation between us has finally been obliterated.
Then our lips are meeting again and every nerve in my body is electrified.
In the cold winter air, I discover the one word in English that adequately describes what it’s like to be near Aksel Fredricksen—consuming.
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