“Well, I’m blaming Hunter for this damn panic attack,” I say, glancing sideways at Robin. “You okay?” With our heads bent low, we manage to make our way down the street, around the corner and head toward the main entrance of Greenwich Market.

“We’re fine. Better than fine. Hunter was unprepared for the surprise we threw at him, that’s all.”

“Well, that freaked-out fear-mask he threw at me when we hopped out of the limo hit me like a punch. He knows I’m a worrier and now I can’t get the look that was on his face out of my mind.”

I glance down at her again, trying to invoke some of her inner calm into myself because it’s going to be hard to watch over her if I can’t see through the fear clouding my eyes. Considering we’re entering a funnel of people who are now going inside the market along with us, my attempts at finding this calm doesn’t work, and I catch myself gripping her hand too hard.

“Again, we’re fine.” She laughs up at me wiggling her fingers loose and flexing them while making this face that says instead of judging me for being possibly OCD or simply insane because of my chronic worrying, she finds it—me—sort of cute.

As we enter the main doors we both pause at the entrance and look up, amazed at how the whole thing has this glassed in ceiling, industrial greenhouse look to it.

“Wow. Cool,” Robin calls out releasing my hand and spinning around to take in the space.

I don’t take time to look at anything else, but that’s because I’m about to vomit because I’m sure people are now taking note of how Robin’s face is so enchanting under the light.

Quickly, I start looking for shelter. When I spot a booth that looks like it’s got clothing inside of it. It’s also one of the few booths that is not just an open table. This one looks rather big, and it’s tented off on three sides. I intercept Robin mid-spin and take up her hand again. I know I’m all but dragging Robin towards the booth, but that’s because…hell, it’s either this or run back out and try to get us into a cab.

* * *

When we get inside, my heart is galloping so hard I can’t speak from the panic attack I’m fighting. I also calm down so, even though the place is empty and I know I’m being irrational, I drag her to the very back of the booth.

“What? Royce? What?” She says, and suddenly her voice seems too loud and shit…did she say my name out loud?”

I’ve all but shoved the poor girl into one of the circular clothing racks. “Have we been spotted?” she whispers, questioning me again.

“No.” I’m finally able to speak as I toss her an apologetic glance. “But should anyone look back here, it looks like I’m all alone. You know, like one person. Not with anyone. And Robin. Please. Don’t say my name.”

“Okay. But you just said my name, too.” She pokes her head out of the rack. “I’m also not the one people are going to notice or swarm. You should be standing in this rack.” She giggles a little at my glower.

“Humor me. You in there, somehow makes me feel better.” I chuckle a little, too, as she giggles up at me again. “Stay in between those clothes and see if you can, you know…shop from the inside out. Maybe find a couple of outfits that might work for you, and I’ll do the same. But…let’s do this really fast, okay? We need disguises now. Five minutes ago. Yesterday.”

“Okay. I’ll try.” She tucks her head back in, this time full-on laughing, but she stays in there and from the way the hangers are moving, she’s already going through the rack.

Hell. It’s the first time I don’t like the way her laughter sounds because it’s as noticeable and as cute as she and her damn-gorgeous face is. There is no way I’m not going to be spotted with this darn girl by my side.

I whisper into the rack, “Put whatever outfit you find over your current outfit, and pull off the tags so I can pay for them. Anything else, hand to me I’ll get it up to the register or into a bag. Damn. That reminds me, we need a backpack or a suitcase or something to hold all of the stuff for this adventure.”

“Go work on that and get your own outfit swapped out some. I’ll be fine.”

A grizzled old bald man who’s up at the register keeps looking over at me. It’s possible he’s seen me stuff my girl into the back of a clothing rack, but like he’s seen every kind of person and situation at this market, he does a funny little eye roll at us and stays seated at his stool while he calls out, “I’m not trying to insult you, because you two don’t look the type to steal or pull sexy-time shenanigans back there, but I want you to know the back of my place has a video camera recording everything and I’m not sure what your friend is about back there but if you break the rack, you will be responsible for buying it.”

Robin cracks up again, but like, I can’t even find one bit of humor in any of this now. Because…cameras! “Crap,” I utter out, ducking while trying to see where the camera is located. When I spot it, I turn my face away from it, giving Robin a wild glance, saying “Crap, this whole thing has been recorded, probably with sound.”

Ignoring my next wave of panic, Robin climbs out of the rack and waves, still laughing as she answers the old man quickly, “Yes, sir. And you’re correct. We aren’t the type. Please don’t worry. It’s not broken.” Then she smiles up at me, reaching out to take my hand this time. She gives it a hard squeeze, saying, “Hey. Husband.” She lowers her voice to an imperceptible whisper, “It’s okay, even the camera is okay, as long as he doesn’t recognize us.” She shrugs. “And even if he does, so what. He’s got a good story and we’re out of here fast. Royce. It’s fine.”

“You. Said. My. Name.”

She blinks up at me, shaking her head, the laughter in her blue eyes disappears and is replaced with genuine concern. “Come on. Breathe. For real. If you don’t want to do this, or if you think you can’t…it’s okay. We can bolt. I’ll totally understand. I didn’t know that this would be so extreme for you.”

I pull in a huge breath, letting my gaze rove over her flushed face as I almost take her up on her offer to bolt, while at the same time I’m telling myself to carry on.

Because…damn, suddenly…I’m down to get mobbed and mauled because the way she’s caring for me right now feels nicer than anything I’ve felt in a long time.

I go for one more long, deep breath. “This all seems harder than I thought it would be. I guess I take the bodyguards for granted and…” I shrug. “And, I’m in. Okay, with whatever happens, good or bad and…” I swallow. “I’m sorry I’m such a freak.”

Dismissing my statement with a small head shake, she reaches up and presses the creases out of my forehead, then nods like she approves of the result. “Good. Now get shopping. I want to see that castle.”

“Can I help you two find something?” The man calls out as Robin starts pushing hangers aside on a ladies dress rack. “We offer a selection of new and vintage, so if I can direct you from here, shout out your questions, okay?”

Robin pulls two dresses off the rack and brings them to stand in front of a mirror a little away from me as the man goes on, “I’d come assist you, but can’t leave my post until my wife returns from the coffee shop.

“No problem.” I say, finally able to muster up what I hope is a normal sounding voice. “Hats. I’m looking for all kinds of big…hats.”

The man points. “There. In that basket on top of the other round rack.”

“Thanks and, also…” I try to modulate my voice to not sound so American. “And…have you any of those baggage-valise-type-things?”

Robin snort-whispers, “Most questionable English accent I’ve ever heard.” Then she laughs outright at my responding attempt to not laugh out loud, along with her.

“And what in the world is a valise?” she asks.

“You never watched Downton Abbey? The Royals?” I whisper.

She shakes her head, no and I slap on my crap English accent attempt again to answer her, “A valise is a fancy-man-bag. Usually packed and unpacked by a valet.”

“I thought valets were guys who parked cars at hotels.”

I ramp up my fake accent even more and pull my posture up to stiff and haughty. “Only in this century, my darling, young lady. Back in the day, a valise was a suitcase. A valet was a fancy man-maid-advisor. And all gentlemen who were anyone worth their salt, had one on staff. Both words are very UK.”

When a couple pauses at the door of the clothing booth and peeks in, I tense up and whisper, “Would you consider going back behind the racks?”

She shakes her head at my paranoia, but does turn away a little while answering me in her own horrible, fake English accent, “Proof again you’ve married a commoner. The only UK word I know is, “Bloody. Oh, and I know apartments are called flats and…I also know woolly-jumper. That’s a sweater. It is the most adorable thing, wooly-jumper, isn’t it?”

I hold my body stiff and poised to run, but thankfully the two women move along and don’t come inside the booth.

“Did you say wooly jumpers?” The man up front calls back. “Those are out of season, but you can find some in a box up here by me as well as I do have some vintage suitcases, if those would work for you, sir. I overheard you say valise.”

“Go pick one. Practice breathing in, then out, and prepare yourself because I’m going to follow you in about two minutes.” Robin shoves at my shoulder, then winks at me. It’s so surprising the lower part of my belly spins with butterflies and heat and something that feels like pure delight.

“Okay.” I stalk ahead of her, pausing to flash her a smile that tells her I really am under control now, and then I wave a couple of floppy beach hat options from the basket I was just plowing through.

Following, as promised, she chooses a wide brimmed straw garden hat for herself while whispering up to me, “You—take that beige one. The one with the string on it and the wide brim.”

“I think that’s a fly fishing hat, but okay…” I eye the one she’s talking about with some skepticism because it looks so ancient I’m afraid it will crumble as I start tugging it on my head. “This is pretty old…but it does fit.”

“Oh. It’s perfect.” She blinks up at the hat. “That can be our inspiration piece. We’ll both dress all Grandpa and Grandma chic. Like we’re from another time. When you’re at the register see if there’s any eye-glasses. You know, the cat eye ones with little rhinestones at the edges for me.”

“Like granny-readers?” I crack up.

“Yes.” She waggles her brows. “Oh, and here, if you like my hat idea, I’ll choose all of these dresses, but only if you search out a woolly-jumper-vest to wear. One that might go with the hat?”

I shake my head. “I love this idea, but I draw the line at wearing a vest.”

“Okay. Fine. No vest. What do you think of these?” She hands over two hangers with what look like pretty cool, 1950’s housewife-looking floral dresses. “They’re very I Love Lucy—Leave it to Beaver style. I love them.”

Before I can answer she jumps to a small belt rack. “The vintage stuff seems legit. It’s also kind of expensive. Hope it’s okay. Each dress is around sixteen pounds. Do we have enough money for me to get one of these brown leather belts, as well? That way, if things don’t quite fit, I can improvise?”

“Of course we have enough. I love the dresses, too. And the belt is a good idea, can you grab one for me?” I shake my head, amazed at how she worries about things—money—when I always take that for granted. I wait for her to pick the belts and add it to her pile, stepping away. “I’m heading to pay. If it’s safe I’ll give you a signal. And just in case, track the back of this tent space for some sort of flap so we can run out of here, if needed.”

I see her rolling her eyes as I re-adjust my awesome, canvas, old-man hat low on my forehead so I can hide my face when I get up to the register dude.

I pause at a rack of button down men’s shirts and grab a few that look like they might oddly ‘match’ the old dresses Robin chose. Some have formal glossy prints going through the fabric, some are funny, casual stripes. One is so cool I pause, place her pile of things on top of the shirt rack while I shrug it on over the top of my outfit.

The one I’ve tried has an extra straight collar, vertical grey stripes, and from the crisp feel of the fabric as well as the steep price of nearly 30 pounds, it’s possible it has real abalone shell buttons on it.

Like Robin said, it’s true vintage. And very cool.

“The cut has to be easily from the 1940’s or 30’s even, what do you think?” I ask the booth owner.

“Dead on, young man. You’ve got a nice eye. The one you’re wearing is 1929.”

I pause at the mirror he’s got stuck on top of a jewelry case to check how it looks. I decide to button it all the way up to my neck, tugging the tag off of the arm, as well as tugging the tag off the hat in front of the owner handing them to him as well as Robin’s pile as I reach the register.

“Do you mind if I wear these out?” I ask. “And my wife, can she wear some things out, too?” I pull out my wallet.

“Please do, sir. Is that all?”

“Well, you know how it is shopping with a wife. I’m sure there will be more.” I glance back at Robin, who’s rolling her eyes at me again, but is still waiting at the back of the store for me to wave to her.

Before the booth owner can get a good look at me I find the exact glasses Robin was hoping for on a little rack by the register and wave them in his face. “Can you add on these as well, sir. If you don’t mind.” They’re made of some sort of silver metal and very old-lady as Robin requested. On impulse, I grab a pair of men’s black framed glasses for myself off the same rack, thinking, why should Robin have all of the fun? “And these.”

As he’s ringing those up as well, I pop out the lenses in my glasses because they turned out to be prescription. It’s too impossible to see out of them. Once I have them in place on my face, I check how I look in the mirror again, and decide it’s safe enough to call Robin forward as I ask, “How much are the suitcases? They seem really old.”

As Robin wanders in my direction looking at a few other racks, the man looks me up and down as if assessing how much he thinks I’ll be willing to pay before answering my question about the suitcases. “They range from 10 pounds, to thirty, young man.”

I pull out the second smallest suitcase. It, like the shirt I’m wearing, looks like it came from the 1930’s. It has muted color. Greens and grays, plus wide brown leather strips going across the sort of waxed burlap fabric that makes up the front and sides. The handle has this cool yellowy tortoise shell pattern on it as well. I push on the funny little metal buckles up top until they click open. I’m happy to note it’s lined with what has to be original, salmon-colored satin, and that it looks virtually untouched despite its age. It’s even got little sewn in, elastic pockets under the lid. For some reason, I get the idea that Robin will love it. “Is there a price on this one?”

“That’s the finest of the lot. Again, you’ve got a good eye.” He grins, his eyes going from the bag, to my wallet then to Robin who’s paused in front of a mirror to fix her hair. “I’ll give you the whole lot, case, clothes, glasses and hats for one hundred fifty.”

“One hundred forty, cash,” I counter, because I know in a flea market you have to counter or you’ll get no respect.

“Done.” The guy all but grabs the bills from my hands as soon as they’re out of the wallet. I smile at the guy, pulling my hat down lower and trade my fake glasses for my usual, darker sunglasses as a pair of grey-haired ladies enter the booth and head toward the racks in the back, thankfully without glancing once at me or Robin.

Robin joins me at the register and I quickly hand her one of the dresses and pull out the granny-glasses, happy at the pleased look on her face, and suggest, “He says we can wear stuff out. It will be fun.”

Robin gets this is more of a command than a statement, and takes the dress, pulls off the hoodie and buttons it over the white shirt, leggings outfit, pulling the leggings up so you can’t see them anymore. “Yay.” She puts on the glasses. “This is all so perfect.” Thanks to the glasses, her eyes have gone fishbowl-huge when she pauses to blink up and me. “Wow. Bifocals. These are making me dizzy. Wait.” She laughingly positions them halfway down the bridge of her nose and squints up at me as she twirls in the dress. “What do you think? Granny adorable, right?”

“Perfect,” I laugh at her scrunched face and gently place the wide brimmed hat she chose for herself over the halo of blond curls that have started to escape from the two buns she’d made to hold her hair tight, yanking it down a little too roughly, as two more people enter the booth.

I hand Robin the suitcase and she admires how beautiful the old suitcase is, just how I thought she would, as she places our items inside of it. “I love this thing,” she’s whispering. “I love all of this.”

The man at the register asks, “You two going to a costume party or something?”

“Yes. Yes we are, and we’re late.”

It takes all of my strength to turn my latest anxiety attack into a laugh, as I take the now packed suitcase out of Robin’s hand to carry it, while Robin quietly thanks him for helping us, and I nudge her toward the door.

* * *

In seconds, we’re out of the clothing booth, and have exited the entire flea market. Even though there’s no need to run, we’re slightly jogging down the street toward the tube entrance. I look behind me, wishing the limo with Hunter and Vere waiting inside of it could miraculously appear, but it’s long gone.

My worrying-ways surface again as we purchase our tickets from the machines and go through the turnstile. When we make it on to the correct subway, and we manage to grab two seats in the back facing the wall instead of facing the crush of people inside the care and still no one has given us a second glance, I start to let down my guard and breathe and allow myself to be distracted, mesmerized and enchanted by Robin’s reaction to everyone and everything she sees.

Like right now she’s grinning up at the tube map that’s posted inside our car while trying to figure out where we’re going. At each stop, she leans near the glass of the subway’s window to get a look at the inside of each station, quietly calling out the name tiled into the wall, then pointing it out on the map in front of us like I can’t read it for myself or something. “Come on. Throw me a bone. Which station will be our exit?”

I study my app. “The final goal is Victoria Station. We got on at Cutty Sark, we will have to hop off this one and change to get to a place called Waterloo which gets us to Victoria. That’s where we will have to get off, get new tickets and swap to a commuter train.”

“Wow.” She waggles her brows, then studies the map some more. By the ways she’s frowning and looking at the intersecting lines, I can tell she’s about to say something like, hope we don’t get lost, but she knows that’s what I’m already thinking, so she quickly changes the subject to: “A commuter train? Really? That means we’re heading out of London? Just where is this castle. What’s it like? Tell me more.”

“Nope. Some of this is a surprise. And this is our stop. Canary Wharf. We are looking for signs to the Jubilee line which takes us to Waterloo.”

I pick up her hand and twine my fingers into hers as we hop out of the first subway. “Waterloo,” she’s saying. “Like the Abba Song. Do you know it? From Mamma-Mia? One of my favorites.” She tugs me along. “There’s an arrow that says Waterloo. Come on.”

I don’t let the panic take over this time, nor do I analyze or track what anyone else around me is doing for once.

Instead, I keep my eyes only on her. Despite the crowds and how I’ve got the app on my phone, I let myself be pulled along, and I relax into her confidence.

I love how I feel drunk on the way the edges of her eyes crinkle slightly when she smiles back at me every time I slow down to avoid bumping into someone. I’ve already grown addicted to how her hand feels warm, tight and so very right nestled into mine as she bossily tugs me along. I’ve endlessly fallen in love with how this girl never asks or expects more from me than just the moment we’re living in—how she loves the here and now.

It’s as if she thinks whatever we are doing together, no matter what that might be, is enough…is…the best.

This morning, she made this same crinkle-eyed smiling face when we were in the hotel room doing nothing but waiting for room service. And she’s made this same smiling face to me, during the crap-press conferences we’ve had since the day we got married. She’s even done this while doing shit that is not easy for her—like getting jostled between bodyguards and roped off crowds, after we’ve been tossed into limos—or hell—into whole clothing racks—like I just did to her back in that flea market.

Right now, I get this feeling that hopping from subway to subway in thrift shop outfits has become everything she’s ever wanted to do—but it’s more than that it’s everything she’s ever wanted to do…with me.

Only, the ‘me’ I’m referring to right now is someone I hardly let out for the world to see. Because…shit…that guy, he’s a mess and truly, who am I without my guitar, my bandmates, my fame, the money, the entourage and the bodyguards?

Who?

I swear, this girl seems to have the answer, because her smiles and the way she bores those eyes into mine make the hidden parts of me feel seen. Exposed even. But now that she and I have been hanging out, she makes the all that is seen feel known, feel welcome and accepted. All with her style of zero judgement and unconditional love, to boot. Something I can’t even give to myself.

As awesome as that feels, because don’t get me wrong, it’s incredible, it’s also forcing me to acknowledge that this ‘me’ this ‘real me’ is a person who has been so lonely and craving a solid connection to someone so badly, that I didn’t know how deep the holes in my heart truly went.

Not until Robin’s friendship started filling them back up, that is.

* * *

Once again, our time in the train station goes off without a hitch.

We buy tickets and get lost in the crowd along with everyone else going through the turnstiles who were trying to exit or switch trains like us. We’d even paused to listen to an amazing classical violinist who’d set up her violin case for tips between the tunnels. The music is so pure and haunting as it echoes, it’s like Robin and I have been struck frozen there, along with everyone else. All eyes on the musician, all ears listening to her magic.

When Robin takes up my hand the next time and gives it a tug, I realize we have to run to make it onto our next train. Once we find the track, and leap on, my chest swells with the success of this day and how happy I am doing this with her, that I start grinning wildly.

“What?” She half laughs, breathless as we take our two seats near the back of the train again, luckily this time, the car is nearly empty, with only two old ladies who are sitting way up front.

“No wonder Adam ran away every weekend for years,” I whisper. “If this is how anonymity feels, I could get addicted to it. I suddenly understand why he stayed in that small town in Wales called us once in a while, but then never came out.” I risk glancing behind me as the doors open and close at the next stop which lets on only one more passenger who chooses to sit up front. I keeping my eyes shaded under my hat, before whispering on, “It’s so cool being ignored, isn’t it?”

The sides of her lips turn up and she adjusts her own hat. “Is it really that bad, people admiring you?”

“It’s not bad if it’s one-on-one. And I do like when people enjoy the music or the lyrics we write. Of course I love that, but it’s the energy people send out when they’re in a big group and they spot us out in public. Do you know anything about mob mentalities?”

“Not really.” She shakes her head. “But I wouldn’t call your fans a mob.”

“They’re not, but like…any big group of people can become a mob. They feed off of each other. I’ve seen it happen. People will swarm and follow others, and once they realize it’s a famous band or a movie star, they think they want to meet or get close to them—things can get crazy. They don’t care if you’re just trying to eat dinner, or walk down the street. Worse, they don’t acknowledge you’re a living breathing human. Paparazzi can especially act like that, especially European and UK paparazzi. Over here, they have a different, much closer ‘comfort-bubble. In the states, we stand further apart. But here, there is not that much space in general. Plus there’s twice as many people, so it seems normal to crowd in. Normal for them, not for someone who has trust issues as well as a who is a chronic worrier, like I am, that is.”

“Trust issues with people, huh? That’s how you define your worrying?” She’s staring up into my face like she’d like to know more. “Why? Like…is it all people or just fans?”

I shrug. “Never really thought about it. When I’m out in public I have this constant feeling that I can’t breathe, because I’m never sure which random person is going to invade my space, force a smart phone at me, one that’s probably on video record. I get exhausted tracking all of the motion. More so, worrying about which person is going to try to grab me or ask for free stuff, tickets, or to sign their stuff…purses, t-shirts, and even sign their skin, for crap’s sake!” I lean back into my seat, dropping my voice again. “I hate that request the most, because what’s the point of making me stop my life and do that, when people are going to just shower it off in a few hours? Or hell…often it’s not even the physical contact that gets to me. It can be verbal randomness as well. I’ll be walking down a street and have to listen to complete strangers say insane things to me, like how they hated a song, or how they think our music was ripped from another song, or, stuff about how we overall ‘suck’ which, by the way, is shouted at us a lot in public. Why do people think that is cool, I’ll never know?”

She frowns. “Wow. For real?”

I nod. “They even say stuff like: why did you even write your last album, or how we’re so boring and so over. As much as fans grabbing me makes me stressed, comments like that can crush my creativity. I know it’s not supposed to, that we all need to have thick skin in this business, but like…damn, It’s not like you can go out and order extra layers of thick skin from Amazon.com, right. If only.”

She laughs. “Right? I wish. I’d order boxes and boxes of it.”

“Crowds can make Hunter shut down completely if we’re not careful. You’ve heard the stories about how, when we were in high school and Guarderobe was part of the Newt TV channel network—how he tried to commit suicide?”

“Yeah. Vere told me. That he was sent to Colorado to hide out and rest.”

“They called it un-making. Unmaking Hunter Kennedy was the title of the news articles that hit the world circuit. Sold a ton of albums because of the attention, kind of like what’s happening now thanks to this.” Royce laughs and taps the ring on my finger.

“Please.” I shake my head and ignore the sales comment, keeping the conversation to things I understand. “Hard to believe Hunter and Vere have been together since high school. I think he’s an inspiration to so many because he spoke so openly about his anxiety and his depression.”

“Yeah, he did. And he is an inspiration. But one day, you’re going to spot the scars on his wrists and you’ll flip. They’re gruesome. What that kid went through was tragic. He didn’t know who he was, and we didn’t know where or how to be proper friends to him. We were all so damn young we could hardly process what he did to himself. We were just kids, trying to grow up inside this freak-show. The crowds, the fame, the endless soul-sucking judgment that happens to us is part of why he did that. Adam, he laughs it off mostly; but that guy, after he met Evie? He was seriously thinking about never coming back to us. And I mean…never.”

I shake my head leaning forward, my eyes going over hers as she’s processing all that I’ve said. “Talking about this makes me worry.”

She grins, and raises one brow. “It is?” She laughs feigning mock surprise.

I don’t return her laugh, instead I ask, “But what about you. Robin? Is it—the exposure—getting to you?”

“You mean the magazine articles that have been written about us? So far, so good.” She shrugs.

“No. I mean the other stuff. I’m sure you’ve seen the hate and endless gossip going on about you all over the internet?”

“No?” Her brow furrows. “I heard there was some chatter,” she frowns, shaking her head. “But I haven’t looked actually. I suck at Instagram and Snapchat. I’m trying to ramp up, but by the time I go to bed, I’m just too tired. Is it really so bad?”

I tug the brim of her hat low so she can’t see my eyes anymore and lie to her, “Not so bad. Maybe you should try to never look.”

She pushes the hat back up. “It must be bad for you to say that! Tell me.”

“There’s stories that call you a gold digger and ones that have brought out all school pictures ever published of you in yearbooks.”

She gasps and covers her mouth. “Including middle school?”

I have to crack up then, “Hell yes. And I’m not going to lie, you were really cute with those braces.”

She leans back groaning. “Oh no. What else…come on. Don’t stop.”

“Most keep saying you’re pregnant with my baby.”

“Wow. But we told them at the first press conference that I wasn’t.”

“Well…now they’re waiting to see if your belly swells.”

“That rumor will take time to disperse. Maybe in September we can go to Hawaii where we let photographers take photos of you in a swimsuit so they can you are not at all pregnant.”

She grins, impishly, patting her stomach. “Maybe in September I will look pregnant with twins from eating all of the food I have on my European bucket list.”

“Really?” I raise my brows, curious. “This morning, I thought you said you didn’t know what you wanted to see here in Europe.”

“Seeing is not eating. And I’m starting with the promised fish and chips this afternoon. In France, we’re going on non-stop, Tour De Cheese. Germany it’s going to be sausages and bratwursts all the time, and in Spain we’re going to be all about olives and tapas.”

I rub my own stomach. One that has started to growl after all of her food descriptions. “As soon as we switch trains one more time we’ll hit the first pub we see for the fish and chips.” I glance at the app, then at the time on my phone, feeling my own stomach starting to growl with our future lunch-time plan. “Can you wait about one more hour?”

“I can wait,” she jokes, patting her belly again and grinning over her scarf. “But the twins…they can’t!”