I glance around for some napkins, but Beck’s the one who snags a stack and sticks them underneath the cup. The exasperated sigh he releases takes away from what would otherwise be a thoughtful action, but I still feel obligated to mutter, “Thanks.”

By the time I’ve cleaned up the mess I made and successfully transferred the rest of my coffee atop what little remains of the ice, Beck is having his drink handed to him. I’m tempted to ask the barista for more ice, but she looks frazzled enough already. Tepid will have to do. And of course, I’m now stuck exiting the coffee shop with Beck right behind me. I was hoping I’d be able to put at least a block between us before he departed for our mutual destination. No such luck. My only option to gain any lead would be to sprint. Doing so would place my coffee in peril again, not to mention I’m wearing flip-flops to show off my vivid pedicure.

Side by side it is.

There are a couple double takes as we start down the street, but Beck slips on a pair of sunglasses as we walk along, which make him look a little more like an insanely attractive guy and less like a world-renowned soccer superstar. Meaning there are stares, but no autograph requests or photos. Getting kicked out of Scholenberg for trespassing on Kluvberg’s field would be nothing compared to anyone at Lancaster seeing a photo of me with Adler Beck.

“So, who was the baby?” Beck asks, seemingly oblivious to the attention we’re garnering. The attention he is garnering, rather. I look like the poster child for American tourist in my baseball cap and the Statue of Liberty t-shirt Emma bought me.

“He belongs to my older sister.” I take a long gulp of coffee.

“Are you two close?”

“Yes. No. Sort of,” I blurt, caught completely off guard by his question. What does he care if I’m estranged from my sibling or calling her every twenty minutes? I’m not a sharer, and I never encourage sharing. Which makes my next couple words a surprise. To me. “Are you?”

“Close with your sister? No, but I’d love to meet her.”

“She’s married and inherited the morals in the family. I meant yours, obviously.”

“We get along fine.” A vague answer to rival my own.

I don’t press, turning my gaze ahead to watch the imposing shadow of Kluvberg’s stadium appear in the distance.

“She’s younger,” he states.

“What?”

“My sister. She’s younger than me.”

“Okay… not sure if that’s her fault.” His tone implies it is.

There’s a ghost of a grin. “Obviously. But it means she gets all of the perks and none of the pressure.”

“What do you mean?”