Chapter 12
Vico
Her gaze reminds me of a startled rabbit. Does she really think I'm homeless?
"I live in my camper," I correct her before she imagines me sleeping under bridges and warming myself by a fire in a discarded metal barrel.
My answer doesn't seem to reassure her. I can see the "why?" written all over her face. "But…"
The idea that someone could be content with little seems beyond the imagination of a businesswoman.
"I am always exactly where I want to be. I carry my home with me always." I look at her with a fulfilled smile, but she still seems skeptical. "I'm free," I add, and I feel the impact of those words on myself at the same moment.
Since we left the estate behind, the pressure on my chest has disappeared. My shoulders have relaxed with every step. Now, talking about the life I am destined for feels like breathing pure oxygen.
"Nobody is free." Hanna fidgets awkwardly with the clipboard, seemingly unable to let it go even here in the midst of nature.
Unfazed, I spread my arms. "I am."
"But how do you make a living?" she asks timidly as we continue to approach the valley.
As we enter the shade of the trees, their branches forming a canopy over us, she finally releases the clipboard from her grasp. "Ever heard of freelancing?"
She nods, and she seems at least a little reassured. "In what field?"
"Graphic design." My answer seems to please her, and she probably has all the information she asked for. However, I feel the urge to tell her more about myself. "It's not exactly my dream job, but until I make enough money with cliff diving, I take on just enough freelance projects to make ends meet." And that could be over soon. If only the talent scout would finally get back to me.
She swallows hard. "Cliff diving?" Suddenly, her chest rises and falls as if she were about to take a plunge herself. "That's way too dangerous."
"Not if you do it right." I'm immediately engrossed in thoughts of my passion. I've only been back home for a few days, but I already miss the sport with every fiber of my being. "When you've got the technique down, it's like flying. Adrenaline courses through your veins, and you feel so… alive."
I can't help but beam at her, hoping my enthusiasm will rub off on her.
She can't hold my gaze, as if she sees something in my eyes that terrifies her. Nervously, she tugs at her fringe. "Have you ever been injured?"
I stop, roll up my jeans, and show her the scar that stretches across my calf. "There was a rock in the water."
With an incredulous expression, she reaches her hand out to me. Seconds before she touches my injury, she pulls back abruptly. "One must always take care of oneself," she mutters, but I can barely hear her. I'm preoccupied with pushing away the strange feeling spreading in my stomach.
Now, she looks up at me with a penetrating gaze. "Safety first," she says, her tone serious.
"Safety is dull," I respond, unsure why I'm being so reserved with her. Perhaps because I don't like how she talks about my passion. Or maybe it's my hope to quell the odd tingling sensation.
She straightens up, her disheveled hair and natural look making her resemble a cute woodland elf amid the foliage.
The businesswoman is gone.
"But you also have to think about others. Imagine how your sisters would feel if you seriously got hurt," she says, sounding fearful, and I can't tell if she's truly serious.
Involuntarily, I step closer. "So you'd choose a long life of monotony over a shorter life filled with energy and excitement?"
As if doubting herself, she shrugs. "Safety first," she repeats.
She definitely never indulges herself. All she does is work and sleep; there's nothing else in her life. Tilting my head, I observe her. "You've never experienced an adrenaline rush, have you?"
She presses her lips together and looks around hastily. I can almost see her brain working hard to find a suitable response. Then she continues along the path.
"So no," I answer my own question and follow her. As we emerge from the trees, the sunrays dance on the ground. I catch up to her. "Do you realize what you're missing out on?"
As if finding her lifeline, she raises the clipboard demonstratively. "Speaking of missing out, what did you want to show me down here?"
How can someone be so controlled? Especially someone who occasionally seems so dreamy, as if her mind is somewhere else entirely? She has two sides to her. Which one is her true self?
I study her facial expressions, but her tense jaw and rapid blinking don't give me an answer. "The geyser behind you," I murmur absentmindedly.
She turns to look at the grumbling water fountain, which she hadn't noticed before due to her stupid checklist. I think she says something, but I'm not listening. My mind is busy envisioning what would happen if I could get her to let go of her control.
Would she let me see the real Hanna? How would she react when the thrill of adventure courses through her body?
It's not my job to show her that. And whether she ever lets me see that fascinating, dreamy expression again or not, I couldn't care less. Yet an idea already starts to form in me, a way to make it happen.