Chapter 11
MANUELA
“No luck.”
“Connor, there’s no freaking way no one speaks English,” I say, stomping my foot like a child.
It’s getting late, and we haven’t had any luck finding someone who can tell us where the nearest train station—not the one we should have been at hours ago—is.
I was hoping that maybe we could get to a different one, served by a different train, and that would connect us to our stop, but I can’t figure out the train systems and the language is so complicated.
Even as a bilingual person, German is nothing like Spanish or English, even both of them combined.
“I already tried Uber,” he says, holding his phone up so I can see the app frozen on the screen. “The closest car available is forty kilometers away.”
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“Let’s try one more spot,” he says, dragging me by the hand to the end of the street.
We walked for about fifty minutes south—according to Connor’s compass app—and ended up in a charming town with approximately four streets.
It’s a miniature version of Tres Fuegos, which has been, consistently, the smallest town I’ve ever been to.
“There’s a neon sign on that window, look. ”
The restaurant is small and quiet, dimly lit with amber wall sconces and a few tables scattered around. In a corner, two patrons are engaged in conversation, their plates empty but their drinks topped up. It’s the only table with people, but this town seems sleepy, so I’m not surprised.
It smells incredible, like melted cheese and warm bread, and honestly, I could cry just from that.
A man in a burgundy wool sweater stands behind the counter. He looks up as we walk in, drying a glass with a white towel.
Connor steps up to the bar, that easygoing smile of his already in place. “Hi,” he says to the stoic man in front of us. “Do you speak English?”
The man nods once. “A little.”
I exhale through my nose, somewhat dramatically, because I’m relieved. “We’re trying to get back to Lucerne. Is there any chance the trains or buses are still running?”
He makes a sound that could be half laugh, half sigh, and shakes his head.
“No more trains. Last one left at seventeen.”
Connor leans in slightly. “Five p.m.?”
“Exactly.”
I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s almost seven. I think we both know we missed our window, but hearing it out loud makes it real.
The man gives us a small smile. “You could try the Ubers, but I don’t think you will have… eh, how you say? Any luck.”
My eyes widen. This was absolutely not in the plan, but I guess I’ll have to go with it. Part of the adventure, right?
“Next train comes in the morning.”
“Well,” Connor says, turning to me, “looks like we’re staying.”
I tilt my head at him. “So when you said, ‘Let’s try one more spot,’ this was your grand plan?”
“No,” he says, and the corner of his lip lifts slightly. “But we really have no other options, do we?”
The bartender gestures toward the tables. “You want dinner?”
Connor looks at me, eyebrows raised.
My stomach answers for me, growling just loud enough to make us both laugh. “Yes, please,” I say.
“Fondue?” the man offers, already reaching for menus. “Very traditional.”
Connor flashes a grin. “If we say no, do we get kicked out?”
The bartender chuckles. “Fondue is good.”
We settle at a table near the window. Outside, the streets are dark, with only a few lights on inside the homes across the street. It’s quiet and intimate and familiar somehow, even if I’ve only just started to get to know the man across from me.
Connor shrugs off his coat and hangs it behind his chair. He stretches out like someone who’s not sure if they’re allowed to relax yet. Measured and controlled.
I peel off my sweater and sit on my hands for a second, warming them. “I can’t believe the trains stop running at five.”
He lets out a low laugh. “Switzerland’s got boundaries, apparently.”
“I should text Elle,” I say but get distracted the moment the bartender returns with a steaming pot of fondue, a small basket of bread, and two short glasses and a chilled bottle of white wine. He sets everything down with practiced efficiency and nods once.
“Let me know if you’d like potatoes.”
My eyes flick to Connor. He doesn’t reach, just says a polite thank you before the man disappears again. I’m not sure what is going on in his head, but his expression is more curious than concerned.
I busy myself with pouring the wine, reading the label carefully. “Well. This wasn’t in the itinerary.”
He grins, resting his forearms on the table.
His hair is ruffled slightly after the walk, and for a second, I remember the version of him I used to glimpse at parties years ago—always impeccably dressed, posture tight, scrolling on his phone or nodding along as Athena dazzled the room with her stories.
He’d hover behind her like an afterthought, like he was trying to make himself smaller.
Now, he just… takes up space. Easily, like he doesn’t have to ask permission first.
“I don’t know,” he says, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Feels very… me.”
I snort. “What, getting stranded?”
“No,” he says, picking up a fork. “Things not going according to plan.”
The wine slips down easily, and the fondue smells amazing—sharp and creamy with hints of something herbal. My stomach growls again, and this time I don’t even try to hide it.
“Go for it,” he says, motioning to the red pot at the center of the table. “I think we earned it.”
I stab a cube of bread, dunk it carefully, and take a bite. It’s too hot, but I pretend otherwise.
He watches me for a second, then copies my motion. “Okay, yeah,” he says around a mouthful. “I take it back. This was definitely the plan.”
I laugh hard, and Connor makes a face, tilting his head to the side in confusion.
It makes him look like a puppy, with those brown eyes and ruffled brown hair that is longer than usual.
His lips twitch like he wants to say something else but doesn’t.
Instead, he leans back in his chair and looks around the restaurant.
It’s empty now, the other table having left at some point while we ate.
The only sound is the soft clatter of dishes being cleaned somewhere in the back.
“I thought you’d be more annoyed,” I say quietly. “About missing the train.”
He looks at me, eyes warm but unreadable. “I’m not.”
I nod, unsure what to do with that.
Outside, it starts to drizzle, so fine it’s barely visible against the light of the lone streetlight a few yards away. The glass fogs up slightly, the way it does when a place is warm inside and cold out. I lean toward the fondue again, trying to stay focused on the food.
“This is really good,” I say, mostly to fill the silence. The food, the wine, his presence—it softens the edges of a hard day.
He dips a piece of bread into the pot and swirls it around slowly. “It is. I didn’t expect to be this into melted cheese, but here we are.”
I grin. “You say that like it’s not a lifestyle.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever had fondue before. Do you think Swiss people eat this regularly or it’s just one of those tourist traps that definitely got to us?”
“That’s a great question.” I laugh, then take a sip of wine, letting the warmth settle in my chest. “We could ask.”
Connor smiles at that, like he knows we’ve been duped. “What about you? Do you eat steak every day back home?”
“I mean, in this economy?” I say, twisting the fork with a piece of bread into the cheese mixture.
I feel the bread fall off the fork and spend an exorbitant amount of seconds trying to fish it out.
“I do not. But in Argentina? I would say yes. Everyone eats beef in some style of preparation at least three times a week.”
“That actually sounds kind of amazing.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” I say, leaning into the center of the table, almost conspiratorially.
I think the wine is finally hitting my system because I feel loose and relaxed.
I would never, ever own up to any of this so freely—except maybe with Martina or my other close friends back in Argentina—so I’m taken by surprise by my candor. “I’m a little homesick.”
He pauses, fork halfway to his mouth.
I nod. “Yeah. I know. You would never guess.”
Instead of laughing it off, he sets his fork down and studies me. “That makes sense,” he says quietly. “You changed the whole rhythm of your life. That’s not small.”
The words feel like permission, like someone finally validating what I’ve been carrying. Of being here but not fully, afraid to say it out loud. Of dodging calls from my sister or my mother because one mention of home can break me open like a dam.
I swirl my glass gently, watching the wine catch the dim light from the lamp overhead. “New York feels a little… much sometimes. You know?”
He nods like he gets it. “I grew up there, so I thought I was immune to it. All the noise, the pressure, the never stopping. It just becomes a background hum after a while. But somewhere along the way, I stopped noticing everything else too.” He stops himself abruptly and takes a sip of his drink. “It’s so loud, right?”
I glance over at him, the glow from the table lamp casting shadows across his face. There’s a quiet honesty in the way he says it, like he’s not putting on a mask for anyone in our friend group like usual. Not even himself.
“You’re allowed to think that,” I say gently.
He gives me a small smile, one that feels like it belongs just to me.
For a moment, it feels like we’re both suspended in something neither of us wants to name.
Then he drums his fingers lightly against the table, a small grin tugging at his mouth, and the moment loosens its grip.
The rain is falling harder outside, and the condensation on the window is forming irregular paths on the glass.
“We should probably figure out where we’re sleeping. ”
I blink, thrown off by the shift in topic. “Right.”
We finish the last of the fondue, letting the conversation trail into something soft and quiet. When the man comes back with the check, Connor looks at him and asks, “Is there a hotel nearby for us to stay the night?”
The man, who hasn’t shown any emotion all night, puts on a devilish smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”