The Bucket List

16.1 The Suit

In. And out.

Every muscle in my body fights this—the rhythmic pounding of my feet against the pavement, over and over and over again. The burn in my lungs is unbearable. Almost unbearable. Because I do bear it, for mile after mile. Anything to keep my thoughts from straying too far.

Anything to keep my thoughts from straying to Nicholai Ivanov.

I focus instead on my breath. In. And out. In—a fellow runner passes me by, ponytail swinging. The mother with the twins. I recognize her from that first morning with—

No. I won't think of it. I won't think of him. Nevermind that I haven't heard from him in two days. Not since his abrupt departure from the cafe.

In. And out. Breathe. All I have to do is breathe.

If only it were that easy. Without a running partner to check my stride, to urge me onward, I find my pace slipping, muscles screaming for me to stop, stop now. So I do. I slow to a walk and step off the path to catch my breath. Other runners zip by: the silver-haired women with their ankle warmers; the burly, bald fellow with the canary yellow sneakers who is still so familiar while being a complete stranger to me. Couples, young and old. So many faces. So many stories.

My body is a riot of pain, but there's something about it that isn't altogether unpleasant. Exhausted, I stumble away from the path and onto the sand, heading for the calm stretch of sea just ahead, so vast it disappears into the horizon, making me feel so incredibly small.

And so incredibly alive.

My heart pounds-pounds-pounds in my chest. I'm here, it says. I'm here.

I throw myself down on the sand—my aching body and my aching lungs and my aching, crashing heart. For once, I don't mind this. Being alone.

It feels good just to be alive.

# # #

Seconds pass. Or minutes. Hours, even. I'm not sure. But eventually I stand, legs shaking like a newborn colt. The morning is gone, and in its place is the unbearable heat of a summer's day.

Sand coats my leggings, my skin. I start to dust myself clean when my phone rings. I answer it without a thought. "'Sup."

"I'm surprised you're awake."

Nicholai. I almost drop the phone at the sound of his voice. "Nicholai," I say, a bit breathless. I immediately check the time. Ten o'clock. It's not early, but he has a point. "I went for a run."

There's a long pause. "I was under the impression you hated running," he finally says, surprise coloring his words.

"I do. I just..." I must sound ridiculous. "I needed to get out of the apartment. It's peaceful out here."

"Where are you?"

"At the beach," I hedge, not wanting to admit that I've been running the same route he led me to.

Nicholai laughs, low and quick. "You're going to have to be more specific than that."

"Why?"

"I need to go shopping and would like a companion."

Just like that. Two days of silence, and now he calls—not with an explanation, but with another absurd task in a long line of absurd tasks. I sigh and make my way back to the path. "Will you be spending an abhorrent amount of money on this shopping spree?"

"Most certainly."

"And will there be free food involved?"

There's a smile in his voice. I just know it. "If that will make the offer more enticing, then yes."

Now I'm the one grinning like a fool. "I'm in. Let me go home and change—"

"Miss Rossi."

Startled, I peer through a sparse veil of trees shielding the path from the curve of the main road. There's a black car idling nearby, orange flashers tick-tick-ticking. Beside the car is a man in a crisp white button down and black shades, a gun holstered at his hip. Chester.

"No need." Nicholai's voice is smug on the other end of the line. "I already sent Chester to retrieve you."