“Sorry,” I say, distracted by the strap I have fisted.

“You’re sorry?” Colt huffs an unamused laugh. “You tore off after a thief who could have fucking stabbed you or worse. All for a fucking camera?”

But that’s not what I retrieved.

The racing of my heart lowers along with me to a crouch so I can unzip the camera bag. Colt sets off on a rant about how it would kill him if anything happens to me, but it barely registers.

My eyes scan inside. Black fabric and dividers, Remi’s camera and cords and equipment. I drag the zipper across for the side pocket, then I let my fingers finish the search for me. The second they connect with velvet, I swallow and slowly pull out the dark red pouch. I can feel the hard plastic square through the fabric before I open the top of the bag. At the bottom lies the SD card.

A relic Remi cherishes above all else. Resentful dick or not, I’d never let her lose it without a fight.

Having it in my possession now, knowing without a doubt this part of us was true … it further disturbs our remains.

I have no idea if it changes anything or only intensifies the grief over what I lost.

10

REMI

Before…

A cool breeze kisses my skin. Looking up at the orange and red leaves dancing in the trees above, I almost forget where I am. Finished wood presses into my palms, braced behind me while I lean back and stare skyward. It could belong to the top of a picnic table anywhere with an autumn. My legs could be dangling over the edge near a lake in Switzerland. The wind traversing Kyoto, Japan.

I blindly feel for my phone beside me, refusing to lose the view. I wait for the perfect moment. A gust wraps through the towering trees, and I snap a picture. I lie back the rest of the way, and shortly after, a text comes through. I bring my phone over my face to see the screen and smile at the picture.

An unfamiliar but similar sky peeks through branches covered in different oranges and reds.

The leaves floating toward me could be falling in Prague.

A video chat pops up. I close my eyes and bite down on my lower lip. All of me turns way too fluttery at Foster’s name and the picture of his reflection in a shop window, phone in front of his face.

I fight it every time. Deny the warm tingle beneath my skin is anything other than a hormonal response to a sexy voice. Refuse to believe we share anything but a mutual appreciation of art. Ignore the uptick in my pulse at each Wanderer notification, and pretend every message outside the app and the video chats mean nothing more.

I just want to see the world, and he wants to share it.