CHAPTER 17
CALVIN
Each morning, afternoon, and evening is now full of perfect moments. A lingering look across the breakfast table. Georgia’s hand brushing mine as she passes me something. The way she smiles when she catches me watching her work.
Over the next few days, we steal as much time together as we can. There are talks in my tent after Ella falls asleep, the baby monitor turned on in case she stirs. Lunches where we sit next to each other, doing our best to not touch so as not to be obvious.
We’ve been at the site for three weeks now, and it feels like a lifetime. The person I was when we arrived—wound tight, controlling, terrified of failure—seems like a stranger. Maybe because I’m starting to understand what Georgia has been trying to tell me from the beginning: some things can’t be rushed. Some discoveries require patience.
Some relationships too.
I spend my days with Ella now, and it’s become the part of my routine I look forward to most. We build and destroy andput new toys together. We help Fatima out in the kitchen. We practice words, and she’s learning new ones daily. Yesterday she said “excavate,” or her version of it: “ex-ba-bate.”
“Close enough,” I told her, grinning.
“Ya!” she shouted.
I never knew I could enjoy the company of a toddler. But Ella is funny and curious and surprisingly good at teaching me things.
A bonus is that, while I entertain her, I get to watch Georgia work. I see why she was so respected in academia. Every decision is thoughtful. Every instruction is clear. Her team doesn’t just respect her; they genuinely like her.
And I… well. I’m starting to think what I feel goes beyondlike.
The thought should terrify me. Usually it does. But watching Georgia crouch over a new fragment, her face lit with excitement as she explains something to Yasmin, I just feel warm. Content.
Happy.
“Cav-cav!” Ella holds up a stick covered in sand.
“Very impressive,” I tell her seriously. “That’s an excellent stick.”
“Ya!” she agrees, then throws it.
These are my days now. Sticks and sandcastles and stolen glances at a woman I’m not supposed to be falling for.
My nights, though. My nights are Georgia.
It starts innocently enough. After Ella goes to sleep, Georgia and I meet in the documentation tent to review the day’s findings. We discuss patterns and what it all can mean. There haven’tbeen any more big discoveries, but the team is making progress on the map.
Somewhere around day four after our first kiss, the conversations shift.
We’re sitting closer than necessary, our shoulders touching as we lean over the work table. The lantern casts soft shadows, and the camp is quiet around us.
“Tell me more about your grandmother,” Georgia says, setting down the photograph she’s been studying. “What was she like?”
I lean back in my chair, surprised by the question. We’ve mostly talked about the project, about her theories, about Henry’s research. There hasn’t been much personal talk since the night we first kissed.
“She was…” I search for the right words. “Fierce. Funny. She could make you feel like the most important person in the world just by listening to you. And she told the most amazing stories.”
“About Jumayah?”
“About everything. But yes, especially about Jumayah. She’d describe the markets, the smells, the sounds, the colors. The way the light looked at sunset over the desert. The taste of her mother’s cooking.” I smile, remembering. “She made this place sound magical. Like something out of a fairy tale.”
“And now you’re here,” Georgia says softly. “In the place she loved.”
“Yeah. I just wish she could see it. Could know that her stories led to something real. That I didn’t just listen—that I acted on them.”
Georgia’s hand finds mine on the table. “She knows. Wherever she is, she knows.”
