CHAPTER 7
ELLIE
Archaeologists are accountable to the communities they are researching within, and to each other. And I am totally dependable to my team…until today.
It takes longer than I expected to scour through the racks of the secondhand store, looking for pants long enough to fit Zarek. My speed is also hampered by my frequent stops to text Jo.
Jo
This is by far the most insane thing you’ve ever done. I love it.
Me
I want you to know that your approval of this little side quest does not improve my confidence in my sanity.
Jo
Sanity’s for the birds. I’m proud of my little rule stickler.
She’s right about that. I can’t remember a time I’ve thrown caution so completely to the wind. Disturbing dig sites. Making deals with aliens. Taking the scenic route. None of this is my style.
I keep reminding myself what it’s all for. Sweet, sweet knowledge. Knowing something that feels unknowable. Understanding.
Jo
You still didn’t tell me if he’s hot or not.
Maybe middle school me was right in thinking friendship was overrated.
Me
Just because you would fuck the loch ness monster doesn’t mean I find non-humans appealing. I barely tolerate people of my own species.
I pick up a few pairs of jeans that seem like they won’t cut off above Zarek’s ankles, and rummage through the aisle of sweaters and hoodies, trying to find things that will keep him relatively warm. The activity isn’t distracting enough.
Jo’s innuendo weaves around the tender parts of my brain, poking at long-sore bruises.
My prickly personality hasn’t just impacted my work relationships—it’s been years since I’ve even attempted to date.
My unwavering dedication to my work, coupled with my lack of baseline attraction to most people, doesn’t create a lot of opportunities for romance.
Honestly, I can barely maintain friendships.
Jo does most of the heavy lifting between the two of us.
And it’s not that I can’t see what someone would objectively find attractive in Zarek.
He’s tall, which I’ve found is a pretty universal metric for hotness among people attracted to men…
or however Zarek’s planet classifies sexes.
He seems smart, if not easily distracted.
And I can empathize with his dedication to his work.
I can admit that I’m starting to warm to him in his alien state, with all the shades of blue.
The eyes are still a little disconcerting, but even that I’m getting used to.
So I can imagine that, among his own people, Zarek is probably seen as rather attractive.
But that doesn’t mean I’m attracted to him.
I pay for the thrifted clothes and let the cashier pack them into a paper bag, hoping there’s a laundry service on the train to get rid of that musty, thrift store smell that seems to be universal.
When I exit the shop, I expect to find Zarek exactly where I left him, which is probably naive of me, knowing what I do about him.
Predictably, he is nowhere to be found.
I sigh and try not to panic, even though that’s my default setting, scanning up and down the road. It takes me a moment to remember I’m not looking for nearly seven feet of cyan, and once I recall what his human disguise is, I recognize him standing outside a window, about half a block away.
Easily distractable.
He barely notices as I walk up to him, mesmerized by the storefront window in front of us. I turn so I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with him and stare into the display.
Dozens—maybe hundreds—of plants can be seen through the glass.
It’s like a sea woven with every variance of green available on the planet, crested with pops of red and pink and orange.
Vines climb over the tops of display cases and down walls, leaves crowding and stretching into every corner available.
When I look back at Zarek, he seems somehow both at peace and in awe.
“Do you have a lot of plants where you’re from?” I ask, staring at the line of his jaw as he smiles.
“Not as many as you do,” he replies, a touch of envy lacing his tone. “But plant life is almost sacred at home. Only the most prestigious families are allowed to be botanists.”
There’s a wistfulness in this tone, and not for the first time, I feel something for Zarek.
It must be hard having your entire future decided before you’re even born.
If I had to follow in my mom’s footsteps and become a kindergarten teacher—well, let’s just say, my sensory problems and need for control would not do well in that setting.
“We should get going,” I say, nudging his arm with my shoulder. He hums in a resigned, melancholy way, and turns away from the storefront.
“Let’s go find my bloom.”
It doesn’t take long to get back to Gare de Lyon.
Architecture isn’t my area of expertise, but the French really go all out when it comes to public spaces.
Grand staircases, glass ceilings, and chandeliers are common fixtures throughout the building.
The Amtrak station closest to my university doesn’t even have restrooms.
It’s just past rush hour for locals, so the Hall One is a little calmer, making it easier for us to find our way to the correct platform.
The group gathered around our platform is very small—an older couple with their arms linked, a sullen-looking teenager with a pierced eyebrow, a small group of middle-aged women chatting in a circle, and a few others milling about.
We have a few minutes until they start boarding our train, so I pull my wallet out of my bag.
“So I have a plan,” I start, drawing Zarek’s attention from the glass ceiling to my face.
I slip my passport out of my bag and open it to my photo.
“I looked it up last night, and for the most part, the people of Reddit say that they don’t check IDs as long as you have your tickets,” I explain, grabbing our paper tickets out of my bag as well.
“If they happen to ask, we’re going to say your passport got stolen in a hostel, but your name is Derek Benshoof. ”
“Where is Reddit?” Zarek asks. It takes a few beats for me to process the question, and I blow a heavy breath out. How he keeps picking up on the least important details of everything I say, I’ll never know.
“It’s an online forum where people share information,” I answer, trying to distill the multitudes of the site down to its core. “Anyway, the point is, follow my lead.”
“Isn’t Elliott a male name on your planet?”
I close my eyes and breathe through my nose, realizing this is becoming a common response to Zarek’s questions. I think of knowledge. I think of human language. I find my happy place.
“Yes, historically. Though there is a recent trend of using traditional masculine names for girls, and vice versa. Gender is a social construct on Earth,” I reply, opening my eyes to Zarek’s delighted expression.
“Ah! We share that. Gender does not exist on Terilia in the same way it does on your planet. I’m happy to see your species evolving,” he congratulates. I open my mouth to explain the nuances of gender, politics, and human interaction, before realizing that there is literally no time for this.
“I need you to focus,” I say, reaching up and grabbing his chin so his eyes don’t wander back to the architecture. “Your name is Derek Benshoof. Your passport was stolen in a hostel. Understand?”
“Are we married?” Zarek asks, his head tilting inquisitively in my grip. I drop his chin like it’s burning me.
“What? No. Why would you ask that?” I accuse, crossing my arms defensively over my chest. Zarek’s eyes flicker to my hands before he answers.
“It’s your last name. On your passport. So we must be married. It is still human custom to share a last name after your union, yes?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, a little embarrassed that I didn’t think this through. I honestly chose my own last name because I thought it would be easier to remember.
“We could be relatives. Siblings, or cousins,” I offer, shrugging as I adjust the strap of my bag over my chest.
“No, I don’t like that. I think us being spouses makes more sense,” he argues neutrally, as though his logic is plain to see. “We are sharing an overnight cabin and will be seen together quite frequently. It might seem odd for relatives.”
“Not for the French,” I mutter, earning me another raised eyebrow from Zarek. “Fine, whatever, it doesn’t matter. Just remember your name and why you don’t have a passport.”
He does the same little hand motion that he did in the catacombs, and I can’t help the twitch of my lips in response.
“What is that?” I ask, nodding at his hand, now raised right at chest height.
“Oh, it’s a sign of respect among sapphiro.
It means I trust your direction, that I will let you lead,” he responds, repeating the motion, slower this time so I can track each little twist of his fingers.
Something about the gesture, given so easily by someone who has no one else here he can trust, makes a flush climb up my neck.
“Le train panoramique de 10 h 30 à destination de Briancon est maintenant à l’embarquement.
” The overhead announcement is crackly, but the small group around us reacts immediately, gathering their bags and turning to face the platform, where our train awaits.
I give Zarek one last nod before facing the point of no return.
“Here goes nothing.”
Despite the heart palpitations I got approaching the train, no one asks for our identification, which I’m a little pissed about, to be honest. Does this luxury train line not care about our safety?
The answer is obvious as the train attendant scans both of our tickets and waves us down toward the sleeping cars without a second thought.
We make our way through the narrow hallways until we find our assigned cabin, Zarek ducking nearly a foot to fit inside. I knew when we booked the tickets that this was a luxury experience—the cost of the tickets alone clued me in to that—but I didn’t realize we’d be getting such a time capsule.
The cabin is split into two sections. To our right, two twin beds are spaced side by side, with barely a foot between them.
The headboards are ornate, and the linens look soft and clean.
To our left, there’s a small sitting area, with two plush chairs and a small square table.
Behind the sitting area is a pocket door that is propped half open, revealing a compact but well-appointed bathroom, large enough for at least me to shower comfortably. I can’t say if Zarek will fit.
It’s not as glamorous as some of the other experience-based trains I’ve seen advertised across Europe, with velvet headboards and blown glass sinks, but it’s lightyears fancier than any train I’ve taken in the United States.
“Wow, the state of your public transit has improved vastly since my parents’ recordings,” Zarek remarks, turning in place now that he can stand up fully. “This is rather nice.”
“Please don’t take this as the standard,” I grumble, tossing my overstuffed bag on the bed furthest from the window. “This is fancier than most of the hotels I’ve stayed at in my life.”
Zarek nods like he’s cataloging that knowledge which…maybe he is. That is, after all, his job. I take the opportunity to survey the room, noting the little chest at the foot of each bed to store belongings and the outlets near the headboard.
“You said the human disguise takes up a lot of energy, right?” I ask, removing my clothes from my satchel and folding them neatly before storing them in the chest. Zarek takes his cues from me and begins unfolding the thrifted clothes from the paper bag.
“This disguise is simpler, so it takes less energy than the dynamic camouflage you saw earlier,” he says, shrugging his shoulders as he airs out a cream half-zip. “But yes, any disguise takes more energy than not disguising at all.”
“Then I think at night, when we’re in the cabin, it’s probably safe enough to drop it,” I reply, a strange nervousness tugging at my chest as I do.
Probably for fear of getting caught. “If someone happens to see you, we can just say you’re practicing your cosplay.
It’s what I thought at the beginning anyway. ”
It feels, for some reason, like I’m trying to convince both of us.
“You’re sure it won’t bother you?” Zarek asks, also seeming to avoid my gaze. At least we’re both acting equally, if mysteriously, awkward right now.
“No, I really am getting used to it,” I reply honestly, tossing my phone, laptop, and chargers toward the head of my bed. I grab my toiletry bag and take it to the bathroom. “Only if you want to.”
“Hmm.” He’s still facing away from me, even though he’s done unpacking. “Yes, I think I will. To conserve energy, of course.”
And I hate to admit it, but I think I’m looking forward to seeing the real Zarek again.