Page 82 of Playing Her Game

HALFWAY HERE.

Anna

After exchanging numbers with Bernie and planning to meet up in two days so I can show her my favorite spots in Munich, I collect my bag from the carousel and wheel it toward the exit, exhausted enough that the thought of the drive home feels like another leg of the journey. My phone has a handful of notifications, none from Rez yet, and I resist the urge to check them again.

Germany is cold when I step outside, the air sharp against my face after the recycled warmth of the terminal. I scan the pickup area, looking for the driver my parents usually arrange when they know I'm coming home.

Instead, I see a familiar silver head beside a dark car parked along the curb.

I stop so abruptly the wheels of my suitcase catch behind me.

Lenzin’s grandmother, Oma.

Leah Margarethe von Hohenwald stands beside the passenger door, her coat buttoned neatly to the throat, one gloved hand resting on the roof of the car. She looks exactly as she always does: composed, observant, impossible to hurry. Her eyes find mine, and something in her expression softens.

For a second, I can only stare.

Then I leave my suitcase where it is and cross the pavement toward her.

“Oma?”

“Anneliese.”

She opens her arms, and I walk straight into them.

The hug is not tentative or formal. She holds me tightly, one hand settling at the back of my head, and I close my eyes against her shoulder. I didn't realize how much I needed someone to hold me until she does.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs.

That nearly undoes me.

I wrap my arms around her and breathe in the familiar scent of her perfume and wool coat. With my mother, every embrace seems to carry an expectation, a question waiting to be asked, an opportunity to remind me of something I should have done differently. Oma has never made me feel that way. She has always given me room to be myself, even when that self has been difficult for the family to accommodate.

When she finally draws back, she keeps her hands on my shoulders and studies my face.

“You look tired.”

“That's one word for it.”

“And thinner.”

“I've been eating.”

“I'm sure you have.” Her eyes narrow slightly, not quite believing me. “We will discuss that after you have slept.”

I laugh, and the sound comes out more fragile than I intend.

She brushes a strand of hair away from my face. “You have been through a great deal.”

I swallow. “You know?”

“I know enough to understand that your mother has made things difficult.”

That is putting it mildly.

“I'm sorry you had to get involved.”

“Anneliese.” Her tone is gentle, but there is no mistaking the warning in it. “You are not an inconvenience to me.”