I’ve always found it easier to say nothing unguarded at all.

* * *

The dinner marking my final evening in Kluvberg isn’t held at another fancy restaurant. It’s held at a tiny beer garden tucked in the midst of the city. The more relaxed atmosphere serves as an accurate depiction of the shift that’s taken place amongst us attendees over the past two months. Pop music and reminiscing punctuate the air as we scarf bratwurst encased in pretzel buns and gulp beer. There’s a communal mood. Tonight, we’re not attendees of different universities without matching passport covers.

Tonight, we’re teammates.

For the first and final time.

Halfway through her first beer—which is only relevant because I’m pretty sure it means she isn’t drunk—Olivia gives me a hug and informs me she hopes the rest of the American team isn’t as good as me at the next Olympics. Coming from her, that’s the equivalent of pledging lifelong devotion.

Then, I get drawn into a dance-off to Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” with Ellie; a song that owns a permanent spot on my pre-game playlist, meaning I’ve got a full arsenal of moves to bust out as I toss my hair and lip-sync the lyrics. There’s no official winner crowned by the laughing onlookers, but I’m pretty certain it’s me.

Breathless and thirsty, I return to the picnic tables. I gulp some water before switching to my glass of beer.

Alexis is still in her same seat from dinner. “Did I see Olivia hug you?” she asks.

I laugh and take another hoppy sip. “Yeah. See any pigs flying?”

“What?” Alexis looks thoroughly confused, and I can’t say I blame her. It’s an expression I’ve never fully understood. If you were going to highlight the impractical nature of a farm animal leaving the ground, wouldn’t it make more sense to choose the heaviest one? Like a cow? Or a horse?

“Never mind. How come you’re not dancing?”

“I prefer to watch the rest of you act like idiots.”

I grin. “Harsh. Come on, it’s our last night. You’ve got something better to do?”

“Nope.” Alexis takes a sip of her own beer. “Kind of surprised you’re here, though.”

She’s studying me closely. “I came here for Scholenberg. Where else would I be?”

“With Adler Beck?”

I scoff, mostly to cover the fact that the sound of his name hits me like lemon juice in a paper cut. “Things aren’t like that between us.”

“They aren’t?”

“No.” The word comes out harsher than I mean it to.

“So, you’re done?”

I nod.

“Do you want to be?”

I stopped dancing for a cold drink and somehow stumbled into a therapy session. “No. Yes. I don’t know.” I pause. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.”