Chapter 20. Lennix
LENNIX
Maxim’s smile steals hearts for a living. The magnetism of it draws me to him sitting on that wall across from the hostel.
It’s only been a few hours since we parted ways.
Maxim brought me home long enough for us to both change and prepare for our day together.
He slides his aviators into his hair, and strands of it curl around and cling to the lenses.
I’ll miss the way his hair feels threading through my fingers when he’s inside me.
I’ll miss the way he kisses me like he can’t believe it’s real—a startling sense of wonder from someone so pragmatic, cynical even.
I’ll miss the way he tangles our fingers under tables and touches me every chance he gets.
There are a dozen things I’ll miss about him.
I’m already cataloguing them with only two days left of whatever this is, has been.
“Hey.” He stands from the wall, laying that same book about Antarctic expeditions down, spine up.
He grabs my hand and pulls me into a hug.
I don’t wait for him to bend and kiss me but tip up on my toes to take his mouth with mine.
My hands slide over his shoulders and into his hair.
I press him close and keep my eyes sealed tightly over sudden tears.
I’m going to lose him.
I’ve only had a few days with him, but just the thought of not having this every day brings tears to my eyes.
He pulls back and links our hands at our sides.
“Well, good morning to you, too,” he says with a chuckle.
I force a laugh and keep my lashes lowered a second longer, composing myself. Get your shit together, girl.
My little pep talk goes to hell when I glance up to find his stare fixed intently on my face.
I fear my shit is beyond getting together.
Can you feel so deeply for someone after just a few days?
But Maxim has been inside me. It’s not just sex; he’s entertained my impossible dreams. Witnessed my nightmares.
Maybe I waited so long to make love because I knew I’d be bad at this—at taking someone into my body but checking them at the door to my soul.
I rolled out a welcome mat for Maxim, and it’s no one’s fault but mine.
He said no attachments from the beginning.
I don’t care if it hurts.
I said that the first night we made love. Naive, silly girl. Myopic child, thinking only to have him with no notion how hard it would be to let him go.
“You okay?” he asks, a frown pleating his thick brows.
“Yeah.” I brighten my smile for him. “I’m fine.”
“Kimba and Viv didn’t mind me kidnapping you for the day?”
My smile becomes more natural. “They’re actually relishing sleeping in. After dinner last night, Aya took them drinking. They’re pretty hungover.”
“Good. Then they won’t miss you too badly.”
We walk to the train station and board. Anticipation overtakes the sadness the thought of our pending separation brought on.
“Where are we going?” I lean onto his shoulder where he’s seated beside me.
“West,” he says, deliberately cryptic.
I pinch his side, though it’s just lean muscle, not much to get hold of.
“Ow!” He laughs so loudly several heads on the train turn. “You little… I’m punishing you for that later.”
“Spank me?” I give him an eager look. “Tie me up? Gag me?”
“Are you sure you were a virgin just days ago?” he whispers. “I’m not sure I can keep up with you.”
“You seemed to be doing fine this morning.”
“And last night.” He licks at the seam of my lips, teasing them open for a deepening kiss. “God, I want to fuck you all the time.”
“We have that in common then. Now tell me where we’re going.”
“Sassenheim. Keukenhof Gardens is a little more curated. Like a tulip museum. I thought we’d go a little off the beaten path.”
“Says the man leaving for Antarctica in a week. I’m pretty sure you’re king of ‘off the beaten path.’”
“You may be right about that.” He laughs. “I think we can access tulips better on our own, finding the fields, seeing windmills along the way. Maybe have a picnic. Sound okay?”
“Seriously? It sounds like the best day ever.” As soon as he said “we,” it sounded perfect. I want to see tulips and the coastline and anything of this country he wants to show me, but I mostly just want more time with him.
“Good. The season for tulips is just beginning, so they won’t be in full bloom but still beautiful.
The weather has been favorable this year.
Mid-April is best, so we’re about a month early.
I just wanted some time out of the city,” he says.
“Some quiet with you. A slower pace with fewer distractions where we can just enjoy each other.”
“It’s working already.”
The train ride lasts about a half an hour, and as soon as we step off, I’m in love.
A canal runs through the village, bordered by narrow houses.
Small boats line the canal walls, and stone bridges crisscross the water.
It reminds me of Amsterdam but emits a different energy, like the city’s restive cousin.
It’s so vivid, and the air is crisp. It only takes a few minutes to rent bikes, find a bike path, and start off.
It’s cool, and the wind whips at my face and hair. Exhilarating.
“You okay?” Maxim asks over his shoulder, pedaling slightly ahead of me on the bike path.
I increase my speed to pull up beside him. “Yes. I’m loving this.”
“I thought you would.”
As we ride, the landscape changes, signs of the village falling away and replaced by lush countryside, by fields and horses leisurely grazing, not bothering to look up when we ride past. Stout windmills, their thick, wooden arms lazily whirring, dot the scenic route along the highway hugging the coastline.
He pulls over and stops at a railing bordering the bike path. I pull up beside him.
“See those?” He points out to the water.
“The windmills?”
He slants me a grin. “Those are wind turbines, not windmills. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah, well, what about them?”
“They’re mine,” he says, a possessive glint to his eyes.
My mouth falls open, and I scoot closer to the rail like that will somehow bring me much closer to the objects floating on the water, starkly white and elegant.
“What do you mean they’re yours?”
“I bought them. Just those few, but it’s a start. I used the last of my money.”
“You own them? Oh, my God. What are you gonna do with them?”
“The Netherlands is making real headway with wind energy. It’s a viable substitute for fossil fuels and the dirtier ways we get power.”
“Wow. You own windmills.”
“Wind turbines , Nix.”
“You’re a regular old Don Quixote,” I go on, warming to my analogy. “A knight errant, determined to save the world. Comes fully equipped with windmills.”
“So I’m a joke now, huh?” He reaches for me with a playful growl.
“Ahhh!” I jump on my bike and take off, pedaling furiously, yelling over my shoulder when I see him coming after me, “It’s Doc Quixote!”
We ride and laugh until we reach the tulip fields, rolled out like vibrant carpets displayed in an open-air bazaar. Great swaths of purple, yellow, red, and pink.
“Most of these fields are owned by farmers who sell the tulips. Some won’t even let you take photos, much less pick the flowers,” Maxim tells me, bringing his bike to a stop. “Fortunately for you, your guide knows where to pick ’em.”
We ride a bit farther, alternating between moments of easy silence, conversation passed between us as we ride beside each other and, at one point, a rousing chorus of Billy Joel’s greatest hits. Maxim makes up his own ridiculous lyrics for “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”
“Rabbit ears, Britney Spears, iPhone, Home Alone .”
“I’m pretty sure the iPhone hadn’t been invented when Billy Joel wrote that song.” I laugh after his last chorus, which included such anachronisms as The West Wing and DVRs.
“You have to go ruin it with technicalities,” he says.
“Also known as truth.”
“Truth is relative.”
“If you think that, maybe you should go into politics,” I say. We’ve reached the flower-picking garden and walk our bikes through wide aisles between the rows of tulips. “Do you have a general disdain for all politicians, or have there been any good ones, in your expert opinion?”
“There’s just always an agenda. Their own glory usually, but a few of them have inspired me.”
“Like who?”
“I liked the Kennedys.”
“Figures,” I say with a snort.
“Excuse me?” He sends me a lifted brow and a half grin.
“Don’t tell me no one’s ever compared you to JFK Jr.”
“What the hell?” His surprised laughter rings loud in the relative stillness of the field. We’ve come on a weekday at the very beginning of tulip season. There aren’t many tourists today, and we have a private patch of this colorful quilt to ourselves.
“Oh, come on.” I smile and tip my bicycle’s kickstand, leaving it and walking down a row of flowers. “The height, the dark hair, the dreamy smile and bedroom eyes.”
“You think I have bedroom eyes and a dreamy smile?”
“Like I would have given my V-card after a day to some slouch with a non-dreamy smile.”
“Don’t forget my bedroom eyes.” He bats his long eyelashes rapidly and laughs when I flip him off. He settles his bike between two rows of tulips and joins me.
“The Kennedys were far from perfect, you know,” I tell him.
“Well documented, but why do we expect our politicians to be perfect? I’d rather have someone say, ‘Hey. I cheat on my wife, but what does that have to do with me keeping us out of stupid wars? Or raising taxes on the people who can least afford it?’”
He takes my hand and pulls me into his side as we walk farther away from the bikes.