For what must be the twentieth time that day, James Wheeler tells himself that he's doing absolutely nothing wrong.

It started over breakfast, when Trish, a coffee balanced in one hand and her portfolio in the other, kissed him good morning.

'How's your day looking?' She'd asked distractedly, her attention on the work spread out across the breakfast bar she - no, they, always they - specially imported in from Rome. The piles of paper and fabric samples were a welcome splash of colour against the cool black marble, and once again he wondered why their house was so monochrome, so devoid of fucking colour.

'Hmm?' The noise he made was small, nearly vacant, and it made Trish look up, her heavily made-up eyes searching his face.

'Your day,' she said again. 'How is it looking?'

His pulse instantly picked up tempo, and he worked hard to keep his face still in the face of his heart's betrayal.

He shrugged at her, casual and indifferent. 'The usual. Busy.'

'Oh,' Trish continued to stare at him. 'Well, maybe tonight we can grab a late dinner? There's that new restaurant on Union Street. Italian, I think. The owner dropped a card at my office... I think he's trying to get us onside. Nothing like a celebrity couple being photographed in the local eatery to get people through the door, I guess. Anyway, I...'

Wheeler listened to his girlfriend talk, nodding occasionally, his hand wrapped tightly around the white porcelain coffee cup she - no, they - picked up in Paris. It was pretty and dainty and far too delicate for his large hands, and he resisted a sudden urge to throw it across the room.

Get it together, he ordered himself. You're only in a funk today because of-

'Wheeler? You listenin' to me?' Trish's voice, high and tight, cut into his train of thought.

'Yeah,' he nodded. 'Union Street. Italian place. Think they do vegan?'

Trish rolled her eyes. 'You aren't a fucking vegan.'

He shrugged again. 'I'm the world's number one celebrity spokesperson for the eco-safe lifestyle, and veganism is the number one cure -currently, that is- for deforestation, carbon emissions and land overuse.'

Trish continued to look at him, her scepticism written all over her face. 'You still aren't a vegan.'

He fell back in his seat, giving her a wry grin. 'Yeah, but I gotta look the part. I was a Planeteer, for Christ's sake.'

He berated himself for a fraud, saying the word. Because James Wheeler, Planeteer, feels like a long time ago and a very different man to the James Wheeler who sits today in his expensive Brooklyn brownstone, drinking coffee from a fucking Parisian teacup.

But Trish either didn't hear the bitterness in his voice, or chose to ignore it, because she simply looked away from him and back down to her work.

'Alright,' she agreed, sipping her own coffee. 'I'll have my assistant phone them. Make sure they get some fucking tofu in or something.'

'Thanks.'

They sat in silence, drinking their coffee. Wheeler couldn't help but stare at Trish, taking in her immaculately styled blonde hair, the platinum colour startling against the grey of her designer suit. Her face was clear and beautifully contoured, her nails manicured and painted a deep red. Her heels were strapped artfully to her feet, lifting her petite frame and showing off her slender legs. She oozed a kind of effortless togetherness which still surprised him, because, if anyone knew how far Trish Wickloff had come in life, it was James Wheeler.

He'd been along for most of the ride, after all.

'Hey, Trish, there's something I gotta tell you and...'

His words were cut off by the sudden trilling of her cellphone, and Trish held up a hand to him. 'Wickloff Interiors,' she answered, in that sing-song voice which made him wince, even after all these years. He watched as her face went from bright to tense, and she tapped a hand irritably against the table. 'No,' she said, 'no, we cannot move the Roberts meeting to Wednesday. Absolutely fucking not. For one thing, I've had that day marked out on my calendar for eight months now - I'm picking up my wedding dress, for fucks sake - and for another thing, the Roberts project is worth over two hundred grand to us and...'

And Wheeler tuned her out, standing and giving her a quick peck on the cheek before leaving the room. He padded upstairs to their bedroom, changing into an old t-shirt and his running shorts, before going into the home gym she - no, they had built.

This is good, he told himself as he set the running machine. Keep to your normal schedule. You've got nothing to feel guilty about. You've done nothing wrong.

Not yet, at any rate.

He'd run four miles when Trish came upstairs. She had her phone in one hand and her handbag in the other and was obviously on her way to the office. 'See you tonight?' she shouted, above the whirr of the running machine and the music from his headphones. He nodded, and she smiled. 'I'll have my assistant send you the address of the restaurant later. Nice shirt, by the way.'

He looked down, and in his surprise and horror stumbled on the machine, his legs struggling to keep pace. He jumped off, and panting, looked down again.

A sky-blue shirt, the fabric an organic cotton, a little faded, a little wash-worn, but still whole and good. The Planet emblem, stitched into the material, was recognisable, all too obvious against the breadth of his chest.

His Planeteer shirt.

He'd put on his fucking Planeteer shirt.

Lightning quick, he wrenched the offending garment over his head, throwing it across the floor where it fell in a sad heap. He inhaled deeply, trying to calm his ragged breathing, running a palm over his sweat-soaked face.

'Hey,' Trish's voice was gentle now, and Wheeler looked up, surprised.

He'd forgotten she was there.

'You okay?' She asked.

He nodded, looking away from her and back to the shirt.

'Yeah,' he exhaled. 'Yeah. I'm okay.'

I'm okay, he told himself firmly. I'm okay. I'm home, and everything is fine.

But he heard the lie in his head, and almost wanted to laugh.

If he doesn't laugh, he's almost certain he'll cry.

Because he's not okay. Not really.

He hasn't been okay for five years, two months and twenty-two days.

Not since the night he lost the Planeteers.

Not since the night he lost her.

He'd been to NYU a few months before, to interview some economics professor who'd written a detailed plan on how to combat climate change without destroying the livelihoods of thirty million Americans. The professor himself had been full of shit, a pompous, arrogant old man who cared less about the planet and more about getting his name in the press, but still, Wheeler had sat with him for over three hours, going over his plan.

'It was a shame what happened to you and your friends, you know,' the professor had intoned at one point, just as they were wrapping up. 'Such a shame.'

'Yeah, well, shit happens to a lot of people,' Wheeler had shrugged, unwilling to revisit that particular topic.

The professor had leaned back, shaking his head. 'Strange, we've another ex-Planeteer lined up to visit here in a month or so. Two Planeteer visits in one term... The University newsletter will be practically thrumming with Planeteer nostalgia.'

At that, Wheeler looked up.

'Who?' He'd asked, deliberately keeping his voice blank. 'Which one?'

'Your Russian friend. Doctor Orlova, from the University of Cambridge.'

Wheeler felt himself grow hot and cold all at once. Even if he'd wanted to speak, the effort would've been futile. His lips were inexplicably dry and his tongue felt heavy, suddenly too big for his mouth.

The professor had stared at him, confused. 'That's right, isn't it? Doctor Orlova was a Planeteer, yes?'

'Yeah,' Wheeler finally found his voice. 'Yeah, she was. Once upon a time.'

'Well, she's giving a talk here in a few weeks on climate change and its effect on bird migration patterns. I read her thesis and some of her other books. I get the impression she's something of a genius, Doctor Orlova. She writes well about anything, and there was a rumour about your friend recently- just a rumour though, I should say- that when Cambridge was attacked by that Wanna Cry virus she personally hacked into their systems to stop it. She's a woman of wide interests, your friend.'

Wheeler wished he would stop calling her that. His friend, like they hadn't ever-

'You might want to tell her to tone down her political work though.'

The professor's words, when they finally registered in Wheeler's mind, made his throat tighten.

'What do you mean?' He'd asked, sounding more worried than he meant to.

The professor had looked at him gravely. 'Her political work. Her criticisms of Putin and his government. She's a big name and they won't take kindly to one of their own turning against them so publicly.'

Wheeler had stared at him for a moment, fear gripping his insides, before he looked back to the papers before him.

'Well,' he finally replied. 'I'm sure she knows what she's doing. Besides, she never listened to me back then so she sure as hell won't listen to me now.'

He'd gone home that night and, after making sure Trish was busy and setting his browser to 'private', typed 'Linka Orlova' into google.

There wasn't much, to be honest. Mostly old Planeteer articles and photos, which he clicked through quickly and with practiced indifference. There was only one photo he lingered on, a grainy image taken- if he had to guess- in Thailand. In the pixelated photo, he's embracing Linka, her head resting on his shoulder, bloody marks trailing down their wrists. He remembers that moment.

'They nearly got us, this time,' Linka's voice is hoarse with dehydration, blank with exhaustion.

'But they didn't,' he shrugs, pulling her closer, relishing in the feel of her body- warm, soft and alive- next to his. She must be tired, or frightened, because she doesn't protest. Just nestles into him, her fingers clinging to his shirt.

'One day they will,' she says abruptly. 'One day they will be more thorough. One day they will not turn back. One day luck will not be on our side.'

He hates hearing her talk like this. He's twenty-years-old and like all young adults, he feels invincible. He hates it when she reminds him of his mortality, and he feels downright terrified when she reminds him of hers.

'We don't need luck when we got these, babe,' he reassures her, one of his hands caressing the ring on her finger.

She sighs but says nothing. He waits for her to push him away. Waits for her to knock him down. Waits for the moment when this moment will end. Like all the moments between them inevitably seem to.

But she surprises him.

She closes her eyes and interlocks her fingers with his, stealing away his breath and a little more of his heart.

In the background he can hear the other Planeteers. They are moving around, tending to each other's injuries, loading the geo-cruiser. A few locals gather around them, gawking or helping, chatting amiably about the events just gone. Wheeler thinks he can hear Gi approach, her footsteps light in the foliage. He thinks he can hear Ma-Ti, telling her to leave them be. He thinks he hears the click of a camera, he thinks he can hear the cry of a bird.

But he can't be sure, because all he can really hear in that moment is the steady beat of his heart, joined with hers.

He tightens his hold on Linka, feeling a wave of contentment go through him when she nestles in further, her hair soft on his neck. He closes his eyes, for once giving himself entirely over to the moment.

'Babe,' he whispers. 'I got you.'

Wheeler licked his lips and closed the image. More determined now, he typed 'Doctor Orlova, Cambridge' into the search engine and sat back. And yes, now these results were interesting.

He learned very quickly that she went by 'Helena' now, the anglicised version of Yelena. And that surprised him, because if Linka was anything, it was staunchly proud of her Russian heritage. It had been one of her reasons for rejecting him, once upon a time.

'You are American,' she'd told him, 'I am Russian. You think I should betray my people like that?'

'Hey,' Wheeler had grinned. 'Anna Kournikova betrayed her people for love.'

A hint of a smile had crossed her face. 'I am not Anna Kournikova.'

'With your body? Coulda fooled me.'

Now she really smiled. 'Well, you are no Enrique Iglesias then. Remember, I have heard you sing before.'

'Just give me a guitar, babe,' he'd leaned back, crossing his arms lightly. 'Just give me a guitar.'

Helena Orlova was quite the academic now, it seemed. There was very little mention of her Planeteer work- she seemed to shun it, unlike Wheeler, who'd embraced his celebrity status on leaving the Planeteers, and used it to further his television career. But she'd written hundreds of essays and papers on the environment, ornithology and the impact of rapid climate change. All very good, all very worthy, all very Linka.

But it was the political essays that interested him most. And there were several of them, all deeply critical of Putin, the Russian government and the corruption she believed was deeply entrenched there. And under most of her work was commentary from the press, supporting her work and ideas but ultimately wondering if it was wise for her to be so vocal in her criticism.

'There are calls for Dr. Orlova to be stripped of her citizenship,' Wheeler read with increasing worry. 'Though Putin- it had been heard- has dealt harder hands than that to those he deems to be political insurgents.'

And that made his stomach clench with fear, his palms dampen with perspiration.

She isn't his to be worried about, he knows that. He gave up that right five years ago, when he walked away from everything, including her.

But he's worried all the same.

He let go of her because she needed him to. He let go of her because he loved her. And he knows that part of him, deep down and hidden away under years of pretence and denial, loved her still. Part of him will always love that girl.

And over the next few weeks, lying beside his girlfriend at night, watching the minutes of the clock tick slowly by, he came to a decision.

He had to see her.

The auditorium at NYU was full, and Wheeler had to flash his press pass just to gain admission.

'Hey, aren't you...?' A puzzled ticket clerk began to question him, but Wheeler whipped his pass back into his pocket and shook his head.

'Nope, sorry,' he replied.

He turned away from the press seating area though, instead finding a seat in the back, cloaked in darkness, between a gaggle of undergraduates on one side and a throng of postgraduates on the other. He blends in easily enough- he's only twenty-six, after all, and still younger than some of the postgraduates he's sat beside. His youth, for once, seemed to work in his favour. He felt safer amongst the students, less conspicuous... less himself.

It struck him hard that he was hiding, and Wheeler, with increasing discomfort, tried not to think too hard about why that might be.

You're not doing anything wrong, he told himself again. Trish has no idea you're even here.

After a long twenty minute wait, during which Wheeler squirmed on his hard plastic chair, the lecture finally began. A nasal-voiced professor got up to give the opening oratory and introduce their 'special guest', and Wheeler found himself sinking further and further into his uncomfortable seat, suddenly bombarded by images of Linka and the other Planeteers, appearing on a screen before him. Images of himself at seventeen, eighteen and nineteen, brash and smiling, seemed to taunt him, haunting him and hurting him all at once, and when it got to the point where he couldn't take any more, where he seriously considered getting up and leaving- because fuck this- the auditorium abruptly fell silent and he had to take a deep breath, because she entered the room.

Linka, in her time as a Planeteer, had always been referred to as an 'if only' beauty. As in, she would be beautiful if only she would wear make-up. She would be beautiful if only she would wear her hair down. She would be beautiful if only she would smile once in awhile. Gi, who read all the fashion and gossip magazines she could get her hands on, would be indignant on Linka's behalf, though the Russian would only shrug.

'What they think about me does not change who I am,' she would say. 'They can epitomise all they want; it does not bother me.'

'Criticise, babe. Not epitomise,' Wheeler would grin, but secretly, he thought the press was crazy.

Because how could anyone not find Linka as beautiful as he did? She was tall and slim, with hair that encapsulated every colour of gold, the blonde changing with the rise and sinking of the sun. Her eyes were like the sea, flashing green in a storm, or blue-green when waters were calm. And her grace, her poise, her intelligence... everything about Linka did it for Wheeler. If he'd been a poet, he'd have written sonnets about her. If he'd been a musician, he'd have composed her a concerto. If he'd been a painter, he'd have slaved over portraits of her, knowing all the time that he would never quite capture the spirit and strength that made her her.

Fuck the critics, he'd always thought. There was no 'if only' beauty about Linka to him.

And nor did her beauty need any qualifications now. Wheeler inhaled sharply, watching her take to the centre of the stage, a microphone pinned to her collar.

She'd grown into her looks, if such a thing were possible. He'd known Linka to be gangly at fifteen and awkward at sixteen. He'd known her blossoming at seventeen and lovely at eighteen. And he'd known her at nineteen, new to love and sex and romance, her body glowing for those awakenings. At every stage and at every age, he'd admired and loved her. And now, seeing her today at twenty-five and finally an adult, he had to stamp down a sudden resurgence of affection for her. Because there was a new grace to her movements that had not been there before. A new elegance to her being the teenage Linka could not possibly have possessed. She'd found a new kind of beauty in her adulthood, and he wondered what events- no, what man- had brought that out in her.

Whoever he was, Wheeler suddenly hated him.

He listened as she spoke, completely enraptured. Her Russian was toned down, and there was a hint of a British twang to her accent that pleased him. Abruptly, he recalled his eighteenth birthday, when, sleep-deprived and exhausted, he'd fallen asleep on Linka's shoulder in a dodgy 'Tunnel of Love' in whatever God awful town they'd ended up in that day. He'd dreamt of them while passed out, seeing them older, married and surrounded by children, Linka once again round with his child. In that dream she'd spoken with a harsh, raspy accent- nothing like the lilting sounds that drew forth from her mouth today.

She dodged a fucking bullet there, he thought bitterly. No good would have come for her if she'd ended up with me.

Her talk, as expected, was wonderful, drawing rapturous applause from the audience. Once or twice, Wheeler thought he saw her gaze settle on him in the crowd, but she just as quickly looked away.

She can't see you here, he reminded himself. You're doing nothing wrong.

When the lecture hall began to empty and the lights were dimmed, one after the other, he hung around, his hands shoved in his pockets, leaning by a doorway. Once again, he thought about what he would say on seeing her, hoping against hope he wouldn't look too expectant or ridiculous. When she'd stopped returning his calls all those years ago, he'd realised he'd been sent a message, loud and clear. But he always carried- still carries, if he's honest with himself- a small flare of optimism, where Linka was concerned, and that optimism saw him through from seventeen to twenty, and then again, through the lonely years beyond.

There's nothing wrong with wanting to see an old friend, make sure she's okay, he thinks. You're not doing anything wrong here.

And he's missed her, after all. He's really, really missed her. Losing the Planeteers, losing Hope Island and Gaia... that had been painful. But losing Linka had been like ripping away a piece of his soul and-

And when she appeared again, at the opposite stairwell to him, her arm was linked through that of another man. He's distinguished and put together in a way that suddenly reminded Wheeler of Trish, and he stepped back into the shadows, praying that Linka hadn't spotted him. Hadn't seen him for the fool he undoubtedly was.

The fool he'll undoubtedly always be, where she was concerned.

He doesn't call out to her. Doesn't stop her in her tracks. What sort of an idiot is he, after all? What sort of a pompous prick, thinking Linka needed his help? It's nothing but his fucking hero complex playing up, and he hates himself as he makes his way back to Brooklyn.

At dinner that night, eating vegan lasagne, Trish tells him that she thinks they should bring the date of their wedding forward.

And Wheeler can't think of a single reason to say no to her.