Page 63 of The Stipulation
“Why?”
“You don’t strike me as someone who tolerates failure.”
He looks far into the horizon. “I don’t see my failures as a setback. I see them as another rung in the ladder of success.”
I nudge his knee with mine. “What a great way to look at failure. For what it’s worth, I failed spectacularly at gymnastics.”
He turns to me. “Gymnastics?”
“My mum thought it would build character. I cried every time I had to go on the beam.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like heights.”
He laughs, and I realize I’m starting to chase that sound. To say things just to hear it.
“What did you want to be when you were eight?” he asks softly.
“An archaeologist.”
He seems surprised. “Really?”
“Yes. I wanted to brush dirt off ancient things and discover secrets.”
“You do that now.”
“I guess I do.”
“Tell me something no one knows,” he asks after a moment.
“That’s a dangerous request.”
“So, live dangerously then.”
I study his face. There’s curiosity there, but not interrogation. Not the calculating businessman weighing assets and liabilities. Just him.
“I still sleep with the window slightly open,” I say quietly. “Even in winter.”
“Why?”
“My grandpa used to say fresh air keeps the nightmares away.”
He doesn’t mock it. Doesn’t dismiss it. He nods like that makes perfect sense. “I check the locks twice. Even when I know they’re secure.”
“Why?”
He laughs again. “I hate the thought of giving robbers an easy ride.”
I reach for his hand without deciding to, without thinking about it. Our fingers lace together naturally, like they’ve done it a thousand times before. His thumb brushes slowly over my knuckles.
We sit there, our hands tangled, talking about ridiculous things, like whether croissants are superior to pain au chocolat (they are), whether dogs or cats are more loyal (he says dogs; I say cats are simply more discerning), whether we’d rather live bythe sea or in the city (we both say city, but only if there’s water nearby). We agree on more than we don’t. And where we don’t agree, it feels less like friction and more like texture.
At some point, I realize I’ve stopped watching the gardens and turn slightly to face Axel. I watch him. The way his brow furrows when he’s thinking. The way he listens - actually listens - like what I’m saying matters. The way his hand tightens fractionally whenever I laugh, as if anchoring himself there.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks quietly.
“Like what?”
