Shaw

I barely give him a second glance. The TSA agent eyeing me is just looking for a reaction. But all I feel is boredom. Besides, I've faced harder trials than airport security.

I'll never forget the night the FBI showed up at my door. It wasn't unexpected, nor was the way they turned my life upside down. Looking for her. They found nothing, of course. She was careful, and so was I. But they tried for a long time. First, with ransacking my apartment and interrogating me for hours. I told them everything, just like Root said to. I had nothing to hide.

They'd called me out on all of it. Accused me of lying, said we were more involved than I wanted them to know. I'd had a biting response to that one. They tried to make me out to be an accomplice, even laying out a list of her crimes to try to get a reaction from me. They got none, of course. I wasn't surprised to see it. It was mostly cyber crimes, as I'd once guessed, but the length of that list did take me aback a little. They also had a collection of aliases, including the name I knew her by. I was pretty sure none of them were real. Not in the legal sense, at least.

They'd had a field day with the evidence of blood in my place. Cleaning it up had only confirmed for them I was aiding and abetting a criminal. Which I was. But I cleaned up well. There was nothing there for them to follow, not enough to test for DNA. I reminded them I was a doctor; I know how to clean up blood. But that doesn't mean I'm hiding anything.

They had to release me, eventually. Not that that was the end of it, of course. They'd talked themselves into believing that I was the key to finding her. And so they followed me for months. Watched my apartment, talked to my fellow interns, ruined my standing with my attendings. I can't prove it, but I'm pretty sure it's what triggered certain people to look at me a little more closely. I figure it was the catalyst that resulted in the psych eval that lost me my job. Fuckers.

If they'd wanted my help, they went about it the wrong way. Not that I had ever planned on handing over Root, even if I could. But she didn't give even me the power for that. She was too careful to give up anything vital to their investigation. I had nothing for them but my cooperation and they botched that. I wouldn't put it past them to still be keeping tabs on me even now. Low key, from a distance kind of tabs, but I imagine they are nonetheless. They're hoping she comes back.

She doesn't. Weeks pass, and then months. She never reappears. I don't expect her to. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't, for her own safety. I don't blame her. I'd have run, too.

But while Root disappeared from my life in the blink of an eye, she didn't take all traces with her. The sort of trace that the FBI could never see. The smell of her perfume, which lingered in my couch for all of a day before the FBI came and started touching and dusting everything. The vision I have of her in my kitchen, making coffee, early one morning when she slept in, failing to sneak out before I was awake. She had been sheepish but unashamed, quick to proposition me. Only since she was still around, anyway... That morning triggered the allowance of more real kinds of sleepovers. The kind where she didn't sneak out at dawn like a one-night stand. Eventually, she was spending days at my place, when she was in town, so we could have sex in my time off. Those were the pieces that lingered. My memories lingered.

I don't miss her. I'm not capable of it. But sometimes, I think I feel the shadow of what missing someone could be like. Like standing in the sun and feeling a cloud pass overhead. But then I look up and it's gone. I do miss the sex, though, I won't lie. I haven't had anything like it since. Weirdly enough, it wasn't just that part of it that I had to lose. I didn't realize it until she was gone, but the thing we started doing, over time, it had changed. It wasn't just great sex anymore, and it wasn't all that I liked about her. She came to know me. My body, first, understanding it in ways even I hadn't. And then other things, little things. Anticipating my moods and then weathering them like it was nothing. Sensing any hint of emotion that crept up on me, seeing it and reading it like I was an open book to her. I didn't feel the cadence our relationship had developed until it wasn't there anymore. For a long time, it felt strangely like something was missing. I'm not sure, but I think I experienced something akin to loneliness.

Not that anyone would ever know. The only reason anyone even found out about our semi-regular hook-ups was because of the FBI. I never told anyone I knew or worked with, and I never answered their questions when they asked, even after the FBI left. I most certainly never let on that it mattered to me. I continued working, just as before, like it never happened. More, actually, sometimes putting in as many hours as I was legally allowed to. I told Root I couldn't leave my job for her, and so after she left, I threw myself into work. I aced my medical boards and jumped into my residency with gusto.

I want to laugh now. Now that I am unemployed and blacklisted from the medical community. All of that and for what? I have student loans piling up and no job, no prospects. What am I supposed to do now? All because some cocky, hospital psychiatrist thought I was unfit for the job. As if I would risk patient lives merely because I have no emotional connection to them. I wanted to risk his life. Or at least make him fear for it. He was already scared of me, I could tell. No different from the bullies of my childhood, taunting me for being different, but afraid to come too close. Turns out, those kids never really grew up. Just got older and got into positions of power that have now ruined everything I worked for.

Which has landed me on a plane to Istanbul. Well, I put me here. With the last of my savings. If I have nothing to go home to and no job to pay off those bills breathing down my neck, I may as well go somewhere nice. I grew up traveling, moving with my father's position in the military, sometimes as often as every few months. And I remember enjoying seeing different parts of the world, exploring new things. I'm not sure it will be the same now, as an adult, alone and broke, but I'm willing to try.

If Root can run from her problems, why can't I?

The flight is long and tedious. I forgot how much I hate flying. That puts a kink in the travel plans. Oops. I rise to stretch frequently, watching the minutes tick pass. I do so hope this isn't the rest of my life, watching time pass on. I worked hard in school because it was all I had after losing my father; it became the thing that kept me from getting into too much trouble. Not all of it, but most of it. And then college, med school. I'd studied so hard my eyes swam. But then my internship came along, and I had sixty to eighty-hour work weeks to focus on. Now...nothing. Just thinking of it makes me bored. No, I can't do this forever.

I collapse as soon as I'm in my hotel room. I'm exhausted, and don't mind whiling away some time with a nap. When I wake up, I'm ravenous. I eat at the hotel bar, downing two beers while I'm there. At least it isn't hard alcohol. Yet.

Istanbul is probably most known for its architecture. When people aren't being drawn to the beaches, they're swarming the mosques. There's also a few grand palaces and mansions to check out, and they are sure tourist attractions.

I don't want to go where the tourists are. Well-built buildings are fine and all, but if anything, I admire them for their strength and their functionality, not how they look. Plus, people. No, I want to see the real Istanbul. I haven't been here since I was a child, but I have a good sense of direction and nowhere to be. I'm free to explore for hours.

I start in Ortaköy. It's on the water, offering a cool breeze as I walk. In the summer, I expect to see somewhere in the eighties by the afternoon. Certainly not as hot as some of the other places I've visited. But I'll start to feel it after I've been walking for a while, so I'll appreciate that breeze later.

I can't walk through a high-tourist city without running into some type of market geared toward the summer influx of foreigners. I expect it and ignore the cheap, colorful trinkets as I walk past the numerous stalls. I don't respond to the prices and compliments and other various attempts to get my attention that are called out as I go. It's not like I have the money to spend, even if something did catch my attention. I do splurge on a bag of fire-roasted walnuts. I can't resist the smell as I pass, and despite my big breakfast, I'm already starving. Munching on them as I walk, I casually cast my eyes over the wares being offered.

Only one stall actually draws me in. It's a little more set back, smaller than most of the others and not as flashy. It's not so much for the tourists, though clearly this guy will make money off them if he gets the chance. It's the flash of metal that catches my eye, calling to me. I wander over, the walnuts forgotten in my hand.

The table is covered in jeweled daggers, mostly ornamental pieces. Now this is the kind of beauty I can actually enjoy. I lift one blade, testing its weight in my hand. I don't have experience with a weapon like this; I prefer hand-to-hand combat, but I can appreciate it. It's designed more as a decoration, but it's sharp, I realize upon testing it. Could still kill a man. Too flashy to carry if you wanted to fly under the radar, but beautiful.

"You like the weapons."

I look up at the man in the shadows. He's dressed in native clothing, simple sandals on his feet and a thick white beard covering most of his face. He's still in his seat, avoiding the hot sun until he senses a sale coming.

"I can appreciate a good weapon," I tell him noncommittally.

"You know blades?"

I shrug one shoulder. "Not as well as I'd like." I set the one in my hand back down. "These are real, though. You're not worried who you might be selling to?"

He laughs, a hearty, full-bodied sound. "No, no, no. Why should I? Humans always find ways to hurt each other, weapons or no weapons. Why should I not make money?"

I smirk. "Fair enough." And he isn't wrong. I worked in a hospital, doing regular stints in the ER. I've seen what people will seek treatment for, the sort of damage that can be inflicted, and almost always by other people. I run my fingers over a gold hit, carved with the head of a lion. Much of these are decorated with an Asian tilt to the design, which makes sense for the area. I see Asian influence in many places I look.

The old man is still eyeing me thoughtfully. "You American," he declares. I don't bother to confirm it. "But not tourist. Work visa?"

The way he says 'visa' makes it sound like a completely different word, rolled up in his accent. I just shrug. "I'm rethinking my career path."

"Ortaköy is a beautiful city. Good place for beautiful woman. Perhaps you should stay here."

I smirk at him. "Why? Offering me a job?"

"I am growing old," he says, stretching dramatically. "These bones could use apprentice. Pretty woman could sell many blades."

"Most of your customers wouldn't like me," I tell him.

"They do not need to. My real customers would not care." I'm starting to suspect this man does more than sell decorative daggers to tourists. "I could teach you about those blades." He points a finger at me. "Give you more than coin."

I'm already shaking my head. "I don't know where I'm going yet."

If he's bothered by my like of positive response, he doesn't show it. "Think on it. I am here every day."

"A fair offer. But like I said, I'm rethinking some things." I consider carefully before telling him, "America didn't like me either."

My sudden use of the Turkish language seems to delight him. "Ah! Well then, they lose! Turkey wins!"

I just grin. "Maybe no one gets to keep me." I gesture to his table. "Your blades are beautiful, but sadly, I am a bit short on money." I start to back away.

"But woman like you," he rises to his feet, "does not carry anything so...bold. Something small. Simple. Easy to hide, yes?" I pause at the words. He pulls something out from behind him. "Something like this." A white cloth is laid out on the table. He unwraps it slowly, revealing the item within.

This dagger isn't like the others. It's barely over six inches, a blade of Damascus steel, dark and imprinted with swirls like fingerprints. The handle is dark blue, smooth to the touch and carefully carved to fit snugly into a set of fingers. I can't help the way my eyes light up.

"I thought so. A beauty, isn't she? I have no equals."

I nod slowly, my eyes still tracing its lines. It's sexy as hell. I can't deny that I want it with an ache that is almost physical.

"Special blade for special woman. I cut you deal. And if you work for me...it be your first paycheck."

I glance up at him, eyebrows raised. "A generous offer."

"Am generous boss. But...you think on it." He winks, his reversion to the Turkish language almost intelligible to me. I'm not as fluent as I'd like. But I could learn.

The offer is almost as appealing as it was unexpected. I didn't come to Turkey to stay. But I left the states to find what else was out there. Maybe this guy and whatever he's doing on the side would be interesting enough for a little while. It's better than whatever else I have waiting for me. Or the lack thereof.

I wonder if it's even legal. The way he spoke of it, how vague he was, I suspect not.

That line of thought inevitably leads me to Root. Her once careless answer to my probing that even if she was doing anything illegal, she wouldn't tell me. I knew she was a hacker; I didn't need her to confirm that. But at the time, I only had my suspicions as to how she was using those skills. And the night in my apartment, the night she showed up for stitches and a goodbye, when she told me that whatever else I might call her, she was a survivor. It didn't bother me, knowing she was a criminal. She's not a serial killer, so who cares? I did wonder what she was up to, when not with me, but she wasn't telling and I didn't care enough to dig.

I actually cared if she made it out. I didn't want the FBI to catch her, whether or not she deserved it. I know she made it, though. Even if their frustration with me and continued tossing of my life for weeks after her disappearance didn't tell me, I would have known. I could see it in her eyes that night. She wasn't the type to fall into their noose.

I almost felt sorry for the FBI. Not really, because they were douchebags. But they didn't even see how outmatched they were, the poor things. They really thought they had her, but they were clueless as to who they were chasing. Even with that long list of alleged crimes of hers, they knew nothing. I knew more about her than they did.

So I'm glad she got out. Occasionally, when something reminds me of her, I wonder where she is now. Still living under the law, I imagine. I told her that night that I wouldn't leave the life I had to become a criminal, which makes the job offer I just received all the more ironic. But that wasn't really it, was it? I told her I wouldn't leave for her. I'm surprised she even asked. Did she really think I would? I suspect she only asked on the off chance I would say yes, not because she actually thought I would. We both knew I wouldn't run away with her. We just weren't that kind of couple.

I continue on toward Bebek, taking in the sights. It's a busy city, but some of the commotion dims as I get further away from the tourist attractions. The real Istanbul begins to show, in the darkly colored cafes and restaurants and brightly colored homes. I see less white skin and more dark, hear less English and more Turkish. This is where I want to be.

The buildings grow closer together, forcing the walkway to narrow. I can feel the slope in the ground as I head up, getting closer to Arnavutköy. My stomach growls again, reminding me that the day is almost half gone and roasted walnuts will not suffice. I keep walking until I find it. A top floor bar, Alexandra, is my next stop. It's dim inside, forcing me stop and allow my eyes to adjust. Thankfully, it isn't busy. I take a seat and order food and a beer.

There's a TV in the corner, showing news in Turkish. I focus on that, trying to follow as much as I can. Something about an internationally wanted art thief, a local museum, and I'm guessing the hunt isn't going well. There's a general rise of crime in the area, which some locals blame on tourists. I want to snicker. It's always someone else's fault. I tune out in the middle of the political segment, draining my beer and ordering another. It slides over to me on the slick, dark wood of the bar.

Once my hunger is satiated, I'm bored again. I've never been particularly good at staying in one place for long. I toss money next to my plate and head back out into the sun. It's on its downward descent, reaching for the tops of the buildings. I'm not afraid to be out here after dark, but still, I should probably head back sooner rather than later. I decide I'll only go a little farther, not yet ready to call it a day.

It's well past dark by the time I get back to the hotel. I'm weary, less restless than I have been recently, in my newly unemployed state. All the walking did me good. I choose to walk back, too, save money on a cab. I see no need to waste what little I have left when I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself. It's just a long walk.

But I'll do it again tomorrow.

It's my fourth day in Istanbul when I make it to Balat. I quickly decide it's my favorite so far. It has a Greek feel to it, making it a bit different from anything else I've seen. I wander through the streets, diverting to walk into an art shop specializing in hand-drawn portraits of people and animals, as well as a cafe, and then a rundown asylum, now abandoned. I have lunch in the smallest restaurant I can find, with the fewest number of people. I order Ayranasi Corbi, Pide, and Baldiz Tatlisi. The cold yogurt is refreshing after the heat, but it's the filled flatbread that really satisfies me. I order extra peppers with it, craving that kick, and find it is as delicious as I expected. I eat every scrap on the plate before following it with the sweet pastries filled with helva. This meal tops the menemen I had for breakfast. The traditional Turkish breakfast dish of eggs, tomato, green peppers, spices, and white cheese was fantastic, but this is by far the best. I'm definitely loving Turkish food. I've had something different every day so far.

I take it easy before leaving. I ate too much food to be on my feet again so quickly, so I sit back with a cup of excellently brewed Turkish coffee and relax. This place is definitely going down on my list of spots to come back to the next time I'm in Istanbul.

My back is to the door, my seat next to the window, allowing me to people watch as I sip. Two small children are running through the street, chasing a soccer ball. Their feet are bare, unbothered by the stone road they're on. They jeer at each other and kick out, trying to throw the other off. The taller one gets caught behind the knee and stumbles, allowing the other to steal the ball and run. I snicker, hearing his angry shout as he regains his footing and follows his friend.

Movement registers in my periphery a second before someone slides into the chair across from me. I look over and freeze.

"Sameen."

The way she says my name makes me unfreeze. I carefully set my coffee down, my eyes never leaving hers. "Root."

She smiles slowly. "Long time, no see."

I can't seem to stop myself from taking her in, every inch of her. She's dressed exactly as I remember, from the form-fitting leather jacket to the heeled black boots on her feet. Her hair is the same length and style, too. As if nothing has changed. As if the last sixteen months didn't happen.

The craving that flares up inside me is almost as surprising as seeing her is. The intensity of it makes me pause. Really? Still?

"What are you doing here?"

"I came for lunch." She props her hand on her fist, eyeing me playfully. "Guess I'm catching up with an old friend, too."

A red flag waves in my brain. "Uh-huh. And you just happen to be in Istanbul. Having lunch in the same café I am."

She bats her eyelashes. "It's coincidence, I swear. I'm here on business."

I don't bother to ask what the business is. "Really."

"Really."

I just raise my eyebrows.

She rolls her eyes. "I didn't know you were here, how could I?" When I don't answer she adds, "Okay, I could have. I certainly have the skills. I...have checked in once or twice since I saw you last." She isn't ashamed to admit it, but something in her eyes flickers. Is she worried about how I will react? "I was curious. But I only just found out you were even fired-"

"Quit," I snap, rushing to correct her. "I don't care what the fuck they put in my file, I walked out before they could fire me."

"And so you should have," she says without sarcasm. "They didn't deserve you." Now I'm rolling my eyes. "But why Istanbul? What brought you here?"

I shrug. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. What else do I do now that I'm unemployed? Not that it matters where I go."

"No job hunting?"

I scoff. "Job hunting? Where? At Walmart? I spent four years working my way through one of the hardest colleges in the country, another four in an equally challenging medical program, during which time I amassed massive amounts of debt. Then I spent a year being treated like shit, because apparently, that's how an intern learns. But I got past that, too. And my boards, miles ahead of everyone else, I'll have you know. Only to be told that I'm not fit to be a doctor. So where would I apply? What use does anyone have for a washed up, second-year resident officially labeled a sociopath?"

"Actually, they didn't put that in your record. I guess with no real reason to fire you, no incidence of any kind, it wasn't the sort of thing they could blacklist you for. Outside of the medical community, that is."

I glare at her.

"But I see your point." She nods once, leaning on the table. "As I said, their loss." She grins. "My gain."

"How do you figure?"

"You're here, I'm here. You're right, that is an awfully big coincidence. Maybe it's fate."

I'm still glaring. "Fate? Are you fucking kidding me?" I am so not in the mood for this. Not after the month I have had. Root just shrugs carelessly. "I always knew you were fucking crazy." I fall back into my seat.

"What does that have to do with anything?" She tilts her head at me. "What are the chances, Sam? After all this time..." I don't answer. "I haven't ever stopped thinking about you."

"I stopped thinking about you." I can't tell if she believes me or not.

"And now we're in the same city, in the same country, at the same time. You no longer have that career you worked so hard for, nothing holding you down. I asked you once before to come with me-"

"The answer hasn't changed." I meet her eyes steadily. "I've no interest in the life you lead. And I'm not a travel-size fuck buddy."

She only smirks in return.

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm passing. Again. Sorry, but I don't do relationships."

Now she's laughing. "Relationship? Who said anything about a relationship?" She leans forward again. "Just between you and me, I still don't do relationships, either, hun. They're weird and messy and complicated. But I wouldn't say no to a partner in crime."

I reach into my pocket for my cash. "Look, it's great to see you again and all. Been fun catching up. But I gotta go."

She slaps a bill onto the table. "My treat."

"No thanks."

"I'll just take any money you leave." She narrows her eyes at me. "After all, I'm a criminal."

I huff in annoyance. "Whatever. Waste your money, I don't care. Have a nice day, Root."

Just as I get to my feet, she reaches for me. The shock of seeing her has dulled my reflexes, allowing her to grab my hand. Before I can pull it away, I'm caught by the look in her brown eyes. It's desperate, all traces of playfulness gone. "Please. Consider it." She rises, too, towering over me in her heels. She leans down, swamping me in a familiar scent. "I don't care what you want to do with your life beyond Istanbul, I just want to see you again. Call me someday?"

As her hand pulls away, I can feel the card she's left there. "No matter what happens, if you call this number, I will answer." She brushes a kiss over my cheek. I blame a surge of hormones for not making me stop her. "Radisson Blu, room Two Thirty-Three. I'm here for another day."

I don't remember much after watching her walk away from me for the second time. I don't even remember going back to my hotel. I'm just there, lying on my back on the unmade bed, staring at a plain white card with an eight-digit number on it. I'm not sure if I'm trying to figure out how this is a phone number, or what I'm going to do with it. So far, I don't have an answer to either.

I never thought I would see Root again. It hadn't even occurred to me to wonder. We went our separate ways, with no reason to cross paths again. It was just chance we met in the first place. Something she was doing, some job she was on, perhaps, allowed her to enter my life for one night. If I hadn't agreed to take her back to my place then, that would have been it.

But here we are, over a year later, twice the length of our in-and-out relationship, and we find each other in a foreign country. Why did I come to Istanbul again?

I've never been in such conflict. I can't decide if I want to see her again. More accurately, I know that I do, but I'm not sure I should. Listening to what my body wants is not conducive to making life decisions. She's right, there's nothing holding me anywhere anymore, but that still doesn't mean I want to follow her around the world. And if I go to her, I'll be contradicting my own words. That action alone will tell her I want her more than I want to go my own way, that I can be swayed by my body's desires.

I let the card fall to the bed. No, I can't pursue her again. There's no point. That thing we did before, in between her jobs and in my time off, worked because we hardly saw each other. And when we did, it was just sex. Even if I started letting her spend the night, even if she worked from my place sometimes, and even if we shared the occasional meal, outside of bed. But now? Now that I've been kicked out of my career, I have nothing. No job to go to, no purpose, nothing to keep me busy. She wouldn't just be a diversion anymore.

And I don't want a girlfriend.

I think of the old man at the bazaar, the job offer he gave me. I still have no idea what that entails, but not knowing is a part of the appeal. Worst-case scenario, I don't like it. I learn a few things, walk away with my dagger, and try again in a new country. That's what I'm here for. To start over.

I don't fall asleep until the wee hours of the morning. I've been wearing my body down every day, traipsing through cities on foot, only returning to my room after the sun goes down. My feet ache constantly, but I sleep well. Until now. Restlessness keeps me rolling around, my eyes wide open. I don't just think of Root, though she's prominent in my thoughts. I consider everything else. Everything I've ever done, every decision I've ever made. My mind drudges up old things, things I'd forgotten. It keeps me spinning for hours, before I finally fall into an uncomfortable semblance of sleep.

It just makes me feel worse. I'm groggy and disoriented when I wake up. It's almost noon. My head aches, my stomach growling painfully in between the throbbing. I take a hot shower to wake myself up and get dressed in clean clothes. For once, I'm not in the mood for breakfast. I settle for coffee, appreciative that the Turks make it so strong. Finally, my mind begins to clear.

Nothing has changed. Not really. I'll stay here until I'm ready to leave, until I'm tired of exploring this country. When I'm out of money, I'll work for food, maybe hitch a ride across the border. I have no reason to stay here, unless I decide to go back to the old man and take his offer. I'll see where things take me next.

Karaköy is too much. Too many tourists, too busy, too many bright colors. It's a good place for photography, depending on what one is in to, and a great place for shopping. But I have no interest in either. And I'm not in the mood for crowds.

I check out of my hotel before dinner. It'll be time for me to go soon, anyway. Istanbul is starting to wear on me. I don't have much luggage with me; I didn't own much to bring. One backpack and a large duffel hold all that I own, but for the furniture I left behind. I sling both over my shoulders, glad to be traveling light.

I allow the temptation to take a cab to get the better of me. After my sleepless night, I'm not in the mood to walk twenty miles. He asks me where I want to go. I think on it and ask him how far his range extends. I request the maximum. The more distance I cover, the better.

The ride takes almost all of what I have left. I'm definitely going to need to find some kind of work. If I'm not careful, I'll be sleeping under a bridge tonight. Some kind of manual labor will do. Something to keep my hands busy, if not my mind, and feed me for a few more days.

Bomonti isn't exactly tourist-free, either, but I stick to side streets and avoid the crowds. No markets today. I keep an eye out for any sort of help signs, but I figure my best chance of work is more likely in country areas. Maybe something on a farm. They always need extra hands.

It's cooler today, a slight breeze brushing my skin. I've darkened with all this time in the sun. I didn't have time to be in the sun when I was working in a hospital on twelve-plus hour shifts. It feels good, to be outside, to be getting so much exercise. I miss having a job to keep me busy; I miss the challenge that is medicine. But still. There might be perks to this nomad life.

The sun is going down when I pass my first hotel. It's one of the nicer ones, nothing that I could afford even if I was looking. I glance up and pause. "You have got to be kidding me." No one is kidding, sadly. I'm standing in front of the Radisson Blu. Just knowing who is staying in this hotel, maybe three hundred feet from me right now, makes my skin feel tight and my blood hot.

"No," I whisper to myself. "You told her no." I force my feet to move, backtracking. I stumble into someone, nearly knocking us both down. I jerk away as if I'm the one who's been hit. I hurry on, determined to get control of myself.

Okay, what the fuck? Seeing her was strange enough. An unlikely coincidence I'm still not entirely convinced she didn't engineer. But stumbling on her hotel? I didn't even know where it was. I didn't tempt myself by looking it up. She couldn't have arranged this. And in a place as big as Istanbul, the odds are astronomical.

It changes nothing, but still. Annoyance swamps me. Why now? Why this temptation? My life has been turned on its head, leaving me lost and pissed off in the weeks since. I dropped everything, what was left anyway, and took off to another country, trying to get my feet under me. And I find Root. The one person who always left me feeling like my footing was never all that steady. I don't believe in fate, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't believe in it, either. But I can't help wanting an answer. Some reason as to why this happened. As someone who doesn't feel very much, reason is all that I have.

I stop on a hill overlooking a chunk of the city. I drop my bags down and sit, worn and frustrated. Reasons...

My reason for coming here was to get away. Simple enough, I did that. I booked a flight.

My reason for staying was to explore the city. I did that, too.

My reason for leaving is more of the same. All I need to do is cross the border.

My reason for not taking that job... I'm not sure. I guess I just don't feel compelled to stay in Turkey.

My reason for saying no to Root? Exactly what I told her. Even if I had to lie a little to do it. I'm fine with that. Lying only prickles the conscience of those who have one.

I have my reasons, and they're all sound. The benefit to being so logical, incapable of being swallowed by emotional decisions, is that I can do things with confidence. I weigh the pros and cons, then I make the best choice. It's what I've done my whole life. It's gotten me this far, hasn't it?

Decision made, I climb to my feet. The city is still so alive, even after nightfall. Lights are on everywhere, voices floating on the air. I sling my backpack on and head back to join them.

I don't pay much attention to what I pass. I don't care about any of it. There are whole new things to see at night, as in most countries, new attractions coming to life. Bars and clubs that are just opening, new food from new vendors lining the streets. None of the smells appeal to me, draw me in as they normally do. I just keep walking.

The air conditioning is a pleasant break from the warm evening air, but I barely notice that, either. I climb the stairs slowly, bypassing the elevators. Just in case I need the time to change my mind. But nothing does change, between those steps and my fist on the door of room two three three.

I don't know if I would have garnered any satisfaction from it, if her face had been surprised when she opened the door. But it isn't. She just grins broadly and steps aside to let me in. I don't notice this room anymore than I did the lobby. All I can think, feel, smell is her.

"Is it just tonight?"

I don't answer Root's question. I don't feel like talking. I grab her and pin her to the door, enjoying her sudden intake of breath. First, I'm going to take her. Then, I'll take it one day at a time.