A/N: We're back. The walk continues.

Thanks to michaelfmx for his stellar beta services. Any errors are mine.

Don't own Chuck et al.

Enjoy!

—

AT LOOSE ENDS: Chapter 10

I remember a particular P.E. class where the coach informed us that the losers of the basketball game would have to do a lap around the gym. Which sounded pretty easy until he'd added they would be doing so while carrying a member of the winning team seated on their shoulders.

The coach had, by his pointed look, broadly hinted that my team—nerds, mostly—would wind up being the aforementioned losers. I felt the same way, given that my clumsiness negated my height advantage and that Morgan was my point guard. His lack of verticality, combined with a deplorable work ethic, practically guaranteed we'd be doing the heavy lifting.

(Predictably, Morgan had avoided the lap of shame by faking a sprained ankle just before the game finished.)

I, on the other hand, had dutifully huffed and puffed my way around the gym, carrying what I'm sure was the heaviest, sweatiest kid in my class. Immediately after I'd kneeled to let him hop off—trying not to think of the stains he may have left upon the back of my neck—something strange and marvelous happened.

Relieved of their load, my shoulders, of their own volition, rose skyward. For a few seconds, I'd felt like I was…flying.

I've never had that feeling again.

Until today.

With the burden of Bryce Larkin now behind us—I just hope that poor park bench doesn't buckle under the massive weight—I feel weightless, buoyant. It's as if I've escaped the clutches of gravity. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Unencumbered. That's the word. The past receding with every step we take.

Us? We?

Maybe. Hopefully.

But, of course, that's not the only reason I feel so lighthearted.

There's also the matter of the kiss. On the lips this time. Brief, semi-chaste, it nonetheless set my heart to pounding, fit to burst from my chest.

Outwardly, though, I'd played—am playing—it totally cool, not wanting to embarrass her by making a big thing about it. Just in case she feels her action was a little rash.

But I hope she doesn't feel that way, because I'd like to do that again. Hopefully, next time, I'll be able to put my astonishment aside and kiss her back. Or maybe I could just take matters into my own hands and kiss her.

I glance her way, glimpse that lovely profile, those lips, before bringing my eyes back to the walkway.

Yeah, right.

But then that odd line from Macbeth comes back to me. "Screw your courage to the sticking-place."

I was never exactly sure what the sticking place was, but the message was clear.

Don't let your nerve fail you now.

I guess eleventh-grade English wasn't a total waste after all.

…

Cute.

It takes a second or two to dredge up the word, not surprising given how few times I've had the occasion to describe anything in my life as being cute.

But he certainly is, trying to be so nonchalant, as if my kissing him was no big thing.

I'm quite certain he doesn't realize how many times he'd started to smile, hugely, then catches himself, only to repeat the cycle seconds later. Or how often he keeps stealing glances at me, at my lips, all the while thinking I don't notice.

I do appreciate his efforts, though. Giving me an out just in case I felt some level of regret over my impulsiveness.

Which I don't. Not in the slightest.

I've had to work hard to keep the smile from my face too. To resist the urge to bring my fingers to my lips. To stop myself from glancing his way.

Maybe next time he'll kiss me. I wouldn't mind, not at all.

But I think I'll have to subtly encourage him. Maybe create an…opportunity.

I'll just have to stay alert.

As we leave the bench further behind us, it comes to me that there's a certain spring in my steps. A lightness, a lightheartedness.

I can't recall when I last felt this way.

Maybe as a child?

If so, it'd been quickly quashed. Over and over, my father had drilled into me the need for constant self-awareness. To be serious, careful. To not let any childhood exuberance carry me away to the point that I'd give us or our plans away.

A totally inappropriate level of gravitas for a seven-year-old, but I'd simply assumed that was the way it should be. It took me a very long time to realize it wasn't normal. That I wasn't normal.

However, I did learn how, if the con required it, to give the appearance of being carefree. But I never truly was, right from that day my dad began to view me as his partner first, his daughter a distant second.

And, of course, the CIA had honed that skill—one amongst the many my father had taught me—into a sharp-edged tool. To the point that I can't remember myself being any other way.

Until Chuck dropped unexpectedly into my life. And became the catalyst of change.

I think I'm just beginning to fully comprehend the magnitude of what's happening to me.

It's not just the burden of Bryce Larkin that I've sloughed off. I can feel it all falling away. Everyone I've ever been, everything I've ever done, left behind there on that bench.

I have no idea where I'll go from here, my future is indeterminate.

I am sure of one thing, though. There's no going back. I'll make my resignation official at the first opportunity.

I give his hand a gentle squeeze. He turns his face to me.

I smile. He smiles back.

…

She's quiet. So am I.

But, unlike before, after I made my gaffe about inviting her to meet the family, it's a comfortable silence, both of us processing what just happened.

And what might happen now.

Then she squeezes my hand. I push my thoughts about the kiss away and look her way.

She smiles. I can't help but smile back.

She asks, cheekily, "What's next on the list, Mr. Tour Guide?"

It takes a couple of seconds to gather my thoughts, to remember where we are on my mental map.

Then it comes to me.

"Well, Miss, the next stop will be Vancouver's version of Copenhagen's Little Mermaid."

"Den lille Havfrue."

She says so it quickly, so naturally, as if it took no effort to come up with the translation.

"Is that Danish?"

She nods. "Not one of my main languages, but I know a bit."

I halt my steps, turn to look at her. "Just how many 'main languages' do you speak?'

She shrugs her shoulders, like it's no big thing. "Six, apart from English. A smattering of a dozen or so more."

My mouth agape, I stare at her. "I barely get by in one, and you're fluent in seven."

She grins. "Yep."

I shake my head. "Amazing. Cleary, you're a woman of many talents."

Her smile gets bigger, flirtatious. "You ain't seen the half of it, mister."

I gulp, unsure how to respond to that. So, instead of going down that rabbit hole, I ask, "Please say something in one of your other languages."

She thinks for a moment or two. Then, as she looks into my eyes, she softly says, "W ierzę, że mógłbym się w tobie zakochać."

Even though I don't understand a single word, something about the way she says it makes me feel all warm inside, everywhere.

"What language is that?"

"Polish."

"What does it mean?"

She seems shy as she replies, "No, not now, Chuck. Later."

"Aw, c'mon."

She shakes her head, firmly. "No, later. When the time is right."

I'm not sure exactly what she means by that, either, but I don't push.

We start walking again.

"It's just up there."

…

I know it was a little cruel to say the words and then not tell him what they mean. But I'm just not quite ready for him to hear it. At least not in English.

Maybe I'm not quite ready either. Not yet.

Despite his professions of ignorance, I decided against French or Spanish, figuring he'd probably be able to recognize at least some of the words, maybe the critical ones. Polish seemed the safest bet. Even though Bartowski is almost certainly a Polish name, I very much doubt it was spoken in his home.

I can tell he's curious and mildly frustrated by my refusal, but he good-naturedly moves on to the next stop on our tour.

He gestures. "Girl in a Wetsuit."

Perched on a large boulder, forty feet or so from shore, is a sitting, life-sized bronze figure of a woman wearing a wetsuit, dive mask pushed up above her forehead, long legs stretched out in front, flippers on her feet. She looks to the west, a serene expression on her face.

I'm instantly reminded of a mission I undertook some years ago, a comparatively innocuous one. One where no lives were lost. Just a multi-million dollar yacht.

Perhaps I could use that mission to ease my way into a future discussion of other…less innocuous ones?

I check out our surroundings. No one is within hearing distance.

"I had to wear a wetsuit for one of my missions."

He gives the statue a long look. Then looks back at me. Visualizing, I'm pretty sure.

I don't mind.

He gives himself a quick shake. "What kind of mission? Or are you allowed to tell me?"

"Not any specifics as to time or place, or who was involved, but I can give you the gist."

He replies eagerly, "I'm all ears."

"A wealthy individual—you might call him an oligarch—was using one of his yachts to smuggle arms, often selling weapons to both sides of various conflicts.

"We obtained some intel that indicated this latest shipment was bound for a small, ill-equipped rebel group in a previously stable country. We were concerned that the weapons might plunge the region into a civil war.

"But we had no proof, nothing we could act on. And the government of the island where the yacht was moored was cautious, uncooperative."

"So, what did you do?"

"We knew the yacht would be leaving for its destination at dawn. That night, I swam out. No Scuba tanks, just a snorkel. No bubbles to give me away. When I was close enough, I placed a smoke-bomb aft, just above the waterline. Then I dove down underneath and planted remote-controlled explosive devices near the propeller shafts."

"That must've taken a few minutes."

"Three or four."

He shakes his head in awe. "You can hold your breath that long."

I shrug. "I'm in good shape."

He grins. "I'll say."

I smack his shoulder with my free hand.

"Watch yourself, mister."

His grin grows wider, but he says nothing cheeky in reply, just gestures for me to continue.

"The next morning, the yacht left. When it reached international waters, the charges were set off, disabling her. The smoke bomb gave the appearance of a major fire.

"By sheer coincidence, one of our navy destroyers was on a training exercise nearby and came alongside quite quickly. They boarded the yacht, over the protests of the crew. In the course of rendering humanitarian aid, they accidentally discovered the weapons cache.

"They towed the yacht back to the harbor. With the evidence now presented, the local authorities had no choice but to act. The vessel was impounded. The owner, who wasn't onboard, of course, denied knowing anything about the whole incident. He blamed it all on the crew, implying they were the ones who had hijacked his yacht for illegal purposes."

He nods. "I never heard anything about that in the news."

"No, it was kept very hush-hush. But the message was sent and received. Not just to that oligarch, but to the others as well.

"Stay away from that part of the world."

He looks at the statue again. "I can imagine you sitting on a rock, serene, satisfied with your night's work, watching the ship leaving the harbor."

"I didn't do that, Chuck. They might have spotted me and become suspicious."

He smiles gently. "I figured as much, but I still like the idea of it."

Turning to me again, he quietly asks, "I hope you were at least a little proud of what you did?"

I think back. I helped to save a lot of lives through my actions. And none were taken in the course of my doing so. Yes. Something to be proud of.

"Yes, Chuck, I was."

He's earnest. "Good. You should be."

He smirks, something coming into his mind.

Jocularly, he asks, "Tell me, Miss Walker, were there any other missions that required you to wear swimwear?"

I hesitate, wondering if that mission in Brazil might make him feel a little hot under the collar.

No, he brought it up. He deserves what he gets. Besides, I'm curious to see his reaction.

"Yes. Once, I was tracking a person of interest down in Rio. One morning, she went down to Ipanema beach."

I give him a few seconds to absorb that.

"To keep her in sight, I had to blend in."

He nods.

"I had to wear a bikini."

It sinks in.

"A very small bikini, Chuck."

He swallows, heavily, audibly.

"Oh!" He blushes.

To his credit, his eyes never leave my face.

A few seconds pass before he's able to speak again.

…

I manage, by dint of sheer willpower, to keep my eyes on her face.

Then I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. "I doubt you'd ever 'blend in', Sarah. I'm quite sure you'd stand out, even with all the attractive women on Ipanema beach."

She glares at me. "And just how would you would you know about those women, 'Mister-I've-never-been-further-from-home-than-Vancouver'?"

I'm about to beat a hasty retreat when I remember the sticking place. Besides, it only takes me a moment to realize she's not really upset.

"I've seen the pictures. And sure, a lot of them are beautiful. But you know what? Their beauty is only skin deep. Common.

"Sarah Walker beauty, on the other hand, is a rarity. On a different level altogether."

She raises an eyebrow, archly, but I think I see a faint blush. "That's rather presumptuous of you, Mr. Bartowski. How would you know what I look like in a bikini?"

I suddenly realize what path I've led myself down. I need to be very careful with my choice of words.

"I don't know. And the wetsuit image is about as far as I will let my imagination take me." I wave my hand towards her, up and down. "You know, with most of you still covered up.

"Anything more than that just might lead to a case of spontaneous human combustion."

She grins. "Is that even possible?"

I tug at my collar. "I'd rather not find out firsthand, thank you very much."

"Poor baby. Should we talk about something else?"

"Yes. Please."

"What'll it be?"

"How about baseball statistics?"

She laughs as she pulls my hand and we start moving again.

…

He's cuter still.

His reaction to my Ipanema story was about what I expected.

Obviously affected, yet still respectful.

But not to the point where he backed down under my gentle kidding, instead boldly asserting I'd stand out even in a crowd.

I know I'm beautiful. That sounds conceited, but it's a simple truth. I can see the image reflected in the mirror.

I remember how I felt shortly after my transformation, how my heart sped up when men would comment on my looks. I was unused to that level of attention.

But any thrill with that attention rapidly evaporated. Their words became meaningless, dulled by endless repetition. As if I was incapable of remembering my appearance, so needed their constant reminders. And, if that wasn't enough of a reason for my disenchantment, I quickly grew to understand the underlying motive behind their compliments.

The words became even more hollow when uttered by my marks, their response to me altering my looks to cater to their particular preferences. My beauty came to be just another weapon.

Yes, objectively, consciously, I know I'm beautiful.

But being told such has come to mean nothing. Just empty words. So I tuned them out, responding only on autopilot when necessary. Or not at all when it wasn't.

Here's the thing, though.

When Chuck tells me I'm beautiful…I feel.

Beautiful. Inside and out. Up and down. Side to side.

Worthy of respect and admiration. Worthy of his respect and admiration.

No other man has ever aroused such a response in me.

Maybe that's why I blush so often around him.

Worthy of love?

I don't know.

I hope so.

I need to find out.

…

Despite my reply, conversing about baseball is the last thing on my mind.

I want to know her. Everything about her. Where she grew up. Her likes. Her dislikes. Her favorite band. Favorite movie. Favorite foods. Favorite…whatever.

Everything.

But I need to restrain myself. I'm quite certain that grilling her is the wrong way to go about it. And the last thing I want to do is make her feel pressured.

The whole Bryce conversation came about organically. So, rather than push, I'll tell her more about my life, the events that shaped me and see where that leads. Whatever the response, she'll know me better, and I want that, almost as much as I want to know her.

I turn my head to her. "Sarah, earlier you said you'd like to thank Ellie for training me so well."

She smiles. "I'd like to meet her, Chuck, but I was mostly kidding about thanking her. I wouldn't put you on the spot like that. Besides, your parents deserve a lot of the credit too."

I frown. "Not as much as you might think."

She's serious. "What do you mean?"

"Our parents left us, my mother first, then my father. It fell on Ellie's shoulders, a teenager herself, to bring up a thirteen-year-old boy, with all the confusion and angst that entails."

She stares in shock. "My god, why would they do something so cruel?"

I shake my head. "We never did figure it out. I blamed myself for years. If it hadn't been for Ellie and my best friend Morgan, I don't think I would've made it through."

She squeezes my hand. "I'm so sorry, Chuck."

I squeeze back. "Thank you, Sarah. Despite having to raise me, and having to work to support us, we did okay. She found a way to become a doctor. Devon is too."

Sarah looks into my eyes, quietly says, "She sounds like an amazing woman. You're fortunate to have someone like that in your life."

She sounds…wistful?

I nod. "I know. Ellie was—is—my rock. But I feel bad for the burden I must have been."

"Chuck, I don't know your sister, but, from what you've told me, I doubt she ever seriously thought of you as a burden."

"I hope not. But I'm pretty sure I gave her a lot of grief over the years."

"I doubt that, Chuck. I would guess you were a pretty good kid."

She pauses. Smirks. "Although I'm sure you had your moments."

I grin. "Yeah, there were times she could've cheerfully strangled me."

"Well, I'm very happy she didn't. Otherwise, I wouldn't have had my amazing tour guide."

"And I wouldn't have had my equally amazing guidee."

She raises an inquiring eyebrow. "Real word?"

I shrug. "If it isn't, it should be."

She nods. "So, you said you live with her and Devon. Right?"

I nod.

Looking back, I remember the look on Lou's face when she learned about my living arrangements. The surprise was followed by a quickly concealed flash of disapproval, or, perhaps, disappointment. I think that might have been about the time our relationship, such as it was, began to cool.

For a moment, even though Sarah didn't comment earlier, I worry if this might be a stumbling block with her too.

I rush out my words. "But I'm hoping to get my own place soon."

She smiles, encouragingly. "It's okay, Chuck. I think it's great that you have family you're that close to, someone who can help you through the bad times. And vice versa."

The smile leaves her face. She looks pensive. Definitely wistful.

I need to lighten the mood.

I grin. "It is. Although living in relatively close quarters means I have to make myself scarce when I see the half-lowered blinds signal."

"Signal?"

"It's like in college when your roommate puts a sock on the doorknob."

She asks, her voice innocence itself, "Why would they do that, Chuck?"

I'm flustered, unsure how to answer. "You know, when the two of them want to be, you know…affectionate."

She sounds, looks, puzzled. "Affectionate?"

I'm about to dig myself deeper when her massive grin stops me in my tracks.

I try to be miffed, or, at least, try to pretend to be miffed, but her dancing eyes and infectious smile make it impossible. "That was kinda mean."

She laughs. "I'm sorry, Chuck. I just couldn't resist. No kid ever likes to think about what their parents had to do to bring them into the world. Thought you might feel similarly about Ellie and Devon being…affectionate."

I shudder dramatically, try to sound sarcastic. "Thank you so much for putting that image into my head."

She grins. "You're welcome."

…

I like teasing him.

For all of my adult life, teasing, by word, gesture and dress, was just another weapon. Used to entice, to convince my marks that I was ready, willing and able when I was anything but.

However, this teasing is fun. And, unlike the other, not accompanied by the inevitable self-loathing.

But maybe I should back off. At least a bit. For now.

"It sounds like the two of you really got along together."

"We did, and do. Not to say there weren't a lot of awkward moments for me."

"Awkward? How so?"

"When Ellie had me do the laundry for instance.

"Because…"

"You know, having to handle her…unmentionables."

I snort. "You actually called them that?"

He rubs the back of his neck and gives me a crooked grin. "Yeah, I did. For a while. I think I picked it up from a TV show or commercial."

"Anything else?"

"Well, there were the times when I had to go to the store when Ellie ran out of her…feminine products. That was pretty stressful."

"That's it?"

He grins, sheepishly. "No, there was that occasion when she caught Morgan and me watching some softcore porn DVD he'd found somewhere. She made us turn it off. Then lectured us about having a proper view of women. Morgan replied that he thought the view in the movie was pretty good. She kicked him out. Literally. Threw the broken pieces of the DVD out the door after him."

I chuckle. "Morgan sounds like quite a character."

"That he is, Sarah. A thorn in my sister's side."

"Maybe I'll meet him someday."

He smiles, pleased by my offer. "You'll need to be mission prepped before you do. And you might want to be armed."

We both laugh.

"So, that's it? The worst of the awkward moments?"

He shakes his head. "No, there were a lot more than that, but those give you the general idea."

"You got off pretty easy, then. After all, it's not as if she had to tell you about the whole birds and the bees thing. Imagine how awkward that would've been."

He swallows heavily, drops his head, stares at the ground. Silent.

Idiot. Now I've stepped in it.

"She did, didn't she?"

He nods, choppily.

"I'm sorry, Chuck. You were thirteen, I would've thought your dad would've…"

His head still down, he quietly interrupts, "He should've. But he kept putting it off and then…he was gone."

He pauses, takes a deep breath. "It was horrible. Embarrassing. I was traumatized by having my sister tell me about the changes I was going through and what they meant. Learning from her about the whole man and woman…together…thing."

He manages to look at me. Shamefaced. "The whole incident really messed me up. I try not to think about it."

"Chuck, please forgive me. I didn't mean to bring up painful…"

My voice tapers off as he snorts, trying to hold in his laughter. He fails miserably.

I gape.

A few seconds pass before he's able to speak. "You should see the look on your face!"

Realization hits me. "You conned me!"

"Yep." He gives me a massive, face-splitting grin. "My dad had the talk with me when I was eleven. And even if he hadn't, there were classes in school. Books as well. And, of course, the internet."

I slap him in the chest with my free hand. "You jerk!"

"First of all. Ow!" He rubs his chest, faking a wince. "Secondly, that's what you get for the whole, 'Why would they do that, Chuck?'" He slips into a falsetto voice halfway through the sentence.

"I don't sound like that!"

He smiles, sincerely. "No, you don't, Sarah. Your voice is much more pleasant. But you get the point."

I shake my head. How did he fool me so easily?

My dad always told me that if you knew all the cons, you'd never be conned yourself. And yet here I am, on the receiving end of what I've done to others countless times.

I should be angry and disappointed with myself. Shamed.

But I'm not. I'm amused. This is what normal people do. Kid around with each other. Tease each other.

Nothing strange for him, but, for me, it's a big step.

I hold my free hand up in surrender. Grin. "Okay, Chuck, you got me. Truce?"

He nods. Grins back. "Truce."

We start walking again. It comes to me that with all this stop and go, it'll be a long while before we travel the whole seawall.

I don't mind one bit.

He doesn't ask me any questions as we travel the winding walkway, although I can sense that he wants to know more about me, about my life.

But he's not demanding, not even expectant.

He's…hopeful. That's how I would describe it. Hopeful that his candidness will lead to a similar response from me.

Am I ready to tell him? Am I ready for him to know about my father, and the life I led with him?

My instinctive response is no. It's too soon. The chances are he'll run, emotionally, if not physically, when he learns that I was a criminal, one or two steps ahead of the law for most of my youth.

Even the thought that he might turn away makes me feel sick to my stomach.

I'll hold off for now. Tell him later.

But then I glance his way, see his gentle smile, the kindness in his eyes.

No. He deserves to know. He needs to know.

And even more importantly, I need to tell him.

I'll have to roll the dice again.

I stop and turn to face him.

…

She's quiet again, thinking.

I'm tempted to prompt her, to ask some sort of question about her family, her parents, but I somehow manage to restrain myself, dampen down my curiosity.

Some minutes pass, then she looks my way. We stop.

I smile, encouragingly. Hoping.

She takes in a deep breath. "Chuck, my family life was difficult…strange."

"How so, Sarah?"

"I was an only child. When I was seven, I went off with my father, leaving my mother behind. I didn't see her again for a very long time. Many years."

I'm angry. "Did he take you from her?"

She shakes her head. "No, Chuck, my parents were separated, and I chose to go with him."

I'm relieved, but puzzled. "They let you make that choice? A seven-year-old?"

She blushes at the memory. "I was a stubborn, selfish kid. I demanded to go with him. I pestered her until she gave in to what I told her would be a couple of weeks on vacation with him.

"I lied."

"Why were you so insistent?'

Her expression is rueful. "He was the fun one. Always off on what I believed were these wonderful adventures. And he'd let me do whatever I wanted, whereas my mother tried to discipline me, to teach me.

"As a child, I naturally made the choice that appealed to me."

"That's understandable. I'd have probably done the same."

"Thanks for that, but I expect you would've been smarter than I was.

"You see, it turned out that the adventures my dad was always having were nothing but grifts. My dad was a con man. It took me a while before I realized that."

She stops, waits for my response.

I feel sick for her. "God, that's awful, Sarah. I can only try to imagine how difficult that must've been. Finding out your father was a criminal. And losing your mother."

"That wasn't the worst of it, Chuck." She hesitates. "For ten years I was his partner. I helped him con people as we traveled around the country. We stole money from a lot of good people. I was a criminal too, pure and simple."

Her eyes search my face as she waits for my response.

I don't know what to say, stunned by her admission.

After a few silent seconds pass, her eyes drop, her shoulders slump. I feel her grip on my hand loosen.

She's preparing to pull away again, just as she did when she thought I might not be able to handle the thought of Bryce and her together.

I will not let that happen.

Again.

I will not fail her.

Again.

I tighten my grip on her hand. "Not your fault, Sarah. Your father bears the blame. Not you."

"But even after I knew what we were doing was wrong, I still helped him. Even when I no longer wanted to."

"Not. Your. Fault."

"But—"

"No. He was the adult, the authority figure. He used his position to take away your childhood innocence, to mold you for his selfish purposes. How could you, as a young child, be expected to do anything else but follow his lead?"

I pause. "And later, after he saw your growing disenchantment, I expect he used your love for him to keep you by his side.

"Am I right?"

She nods slowly.

"So, given all that—and the fact that you've left that life behind—how could I possibly think less of you? Hold your past against you?

…

I keep underestimating him. Badly.

First with Bryce, and now with my dad.

Chuck Bartowski is a person who, although not blind to my mistakes, my faults, simply refuses to focus on them. To dwell on the negative.

Time after time, he chooses to find the good in situations. The good in me, even when it isn't obvious.

Even when I can't see it.

No one's ever done that for me before. No one's even tried.

I move in. I release his hand, but only so I can I wrap my arms around him, hug him tightly, my head resting on his shoulder. I blink back tears.

His arms encircle me. Gently. Firmly.

He smells good. Clean. He is.

I whisper, "Thank you, Chuck. For caring. For understanding."

He whispers back, "No problem, Sarah. You make it easy."

I'm about to object to that, when I realize what he said is true.

It's easy for him.

We stand that way for what must be several minutes, close, silent.

Then he laughs, quietly, softly. I feel it in his chest.

I tilt my head up and look up into his eyes, puzzled. "What?"

He smiles. "I was just thinking that with the number our parents did on us, it's a wonder we turned out as well as we did."

Turned out well?

I'd like to believe that's true.

I want to believe.

Maybe with his help, I can.

TBC

—

A/N: Next time, we join our couple for lunch. I figure they must be hungry after all this physical and emotional exercise. Thank you for all the kind reviews and you attention to this little tale.