“I don’t like this,” Alex said, his features inflexible.

“I know.”

“I want….” He paused and gathered a deep breath. “I want to be okay about this, about your friends.”

“Good. Because I want you to be okay about my friends too.” Enough of his rigidity had dissolved that I felt comfortable reaching for him. I stuffed my fingers into the front pockets of his jeans and shifted a half step closer. “Maybe, over time, they might become your friends too.”

His eyes squinted, “I don’t think so.”

“I don’t see why not. A lot of them have significant others, wives even. Look at Nico—Elizabeth’s husband, our friendly apple fritter deliveryman. He’s my friend. You seemed to like him. You even said he was nice.”

I recognized that Nico was not the most accurate example of my friends because he and I never dated. But, for now, he was a good choice for introducing Alex to the concept. Also, he was perhaps my best chance for Alex accepting the possibility of viable friendships with my other male friends.

With visible reluctance, Alex’s expression morphed from obstinate to pensive. “Yeah. I guess he was nice.”

My mouth curved at the unwilling compliment; I caught my bottom lip between my teeth so the grin wouldn’t become too broad. “We’ll start with Nico and Elizabeth.”

Alex’s frown—to me—felt almost comical, like a stubborn grizzly bear. I fought against the impulse to giggle and instead pressed my body against his.

“Okay, it’s a plan,” I said. “Now let’s go take a look at some books.”

***

We navigated to the periodicals section. Alex thumbed through magazines until he came to the Economist. He handed it to me—last week’s issue—and pulled out the newest one for himself.

I flipped through the magazine. “Where are all the pictures? And why is this font so small?”

He laughed at me—yes, at me—and said, “Don’t you read medical journals? Those don’t have pictures.”

“They have graphs and charts, which are picture  p**n  for scientists. This doesn’t even have a summary table of figures.”

He eyed me with plain amusement and pointed to an article on some important global current event. “This is a good one. It’s about China and their ban on the use of bitcoins inside the country.”

I glanced at him. He held my gaze, his expression wry. It felt like he was offering me a clue, to him, to his past. I nodded and scanned the space around us for a seat. We eventually found two chairs at a table in the far northwest corner.

I read the article. Rather, I tried to read it. In the end, I had to interrupt Alex from his reading to ask questions.

“So—Alex,” I whispered because we were in a library, and that’s what you do in a library. “The Chinese don’t want bitcoins to be used because they circumvent the system? Right?”

He nodded, leaned close to me and whispered in my ear—because that’s what you do in libraries. It also gave me goose bumps. “More or less. Bitcoins exist outside of any government or country. They’re not regulated. Governments have no authority over them as a currency. The Chinese government can try to block access to them, but they won’t be completely successful. Bitcoins belong to the people. And they exist entirely outside of the influence of politics and special interests.”

When he leaned away, I saw pride in his eyes. I liked it—the pride—and it spoke volumes about why he’d been reluctant to hand over a skeleton key to the NSA.

“But why do they have value? Why are they worth money? Aren’t they just numbers and algorithms and mathematical voodoo?”

He grinned, his eyes examining my features, then he kissed me on the cheek like he couldn’t help it.

He said, “Why does gold have value? Because we have assigned it value as a global society. The same is true with bitcoins. People believe in them, see their worth, buy into the idea of a finite currency, and use them to purchase goods. As a form of currency, their value can’t be inflated or deflated based on the whims of those in power. The people give them value.”

I watched his face as he spoke. It transformed, he transformed. He could have been talking about his child, or something he’d created and was proud of. But it was also reluctant pride, like he wasn’t willing to accept credit for whatever his part might have been—he hid from it, buried it.

“This is why you won’t help them.” My words were barely above a sigh, but he heard them.

He cleared his throat, looked away, then drew me to his lap, his arms around me, and whispered softly in my ear. “I know bitcoins are being exploited by terrible people. I will fix the problem. But I can’t give someone the ability to destroy what’s been built. I don’t trust them to do the right thing.”

I nodded and leaned into him as he pressed his lips to my forehead.

I understood his cynicism. It made complete sense to me. As a child and an adolescent, he’d been forced to place his trust in a system that failed him repeatedly. The fact that he would even consider believing in anyone ever again was astonishing. In that moment, I felt honored and amazed and a bit overwhelmed that he’d decided to place his trust in me so completely.

He stirred. “Come on.”

I reluctantly stood from his lap and gathered our magazines. “Where to next?”

“How about computer science reference materials?” The sound of Agent Bell’s voice was an ugly wakeup call, and just as jarring. I stiffened and whipped my head toward her, my heart sinking to the pit of my stomach.

Alex unfolded from his chair and stepped in front of me; I could both see and sense his change in demeanor. His posture radiated the numbness I’d been working so hard to dispel. The numbness was tangible, like an arctic explosion. I was chilled by it, by him.

“Why are you here?” He was no longer whispering.

I peeked at her around his shoulder, abruptly struck by his height, his size. He felt larger, threatening…hostile.

“It’s Sunday. I thought I’d say hi.” Her tone was friendly, perhaps even a little beseeching; I didn’t detect any malice or duplicity. The sentiment conveyed in this single sentence confirmed my earlier assessment—that she liked him and respected him.

“Go away.”

“Alex….”

“Agent Bell, don’t you think I’ve given you enough of my time?”

I shivered. He was positively glacial. I didn’t precisely like the woman—considering she’d “not threatened” me some weeks ago—but now I understood that she had good intentions. She was not malicious. She was not a bad person. She felt driven by a higher purpose.

Agent Bell lifted her chin higher. “After last week….” her voice trailed off. I guessed my presence might be inhibiting her willingness to speak freely; however, when I leaned to the other side and peered around him to catch a better glimpse of her features, her attention was arrested by Alex’s face.

I understood at once that he was communicating with her silently. Something in his expression—which I currently could not see—told her not to continue the thought.

Her eyes flickered to me, held mine briefly. She appeared almost apologetic, like she felt sorry for me.

Her attention moved back to his face. “I thought we could try to be friends.” I wondered what had happened last week, and why Alex had stopped her from speaking about it.

I would have been concerned, likely even jealous, if I’d detected anything resembling attraction on her side. I didn’t. Rather, she seemed to admire him and sincerely want some kind of interaction with him. It was one-sided hero worship.

I reminded myself of Agent Bell’s words from our second meeting—she’d known him since he was fifteen. Additionally, she was a bit older than I—maybe five or six years older. Her feelings for him were likely maternal, if not sisterly.

“That’s never going to happen.” He sounded bored. “Leave.”

I watched as she gathered a deep, steadying breath. A frown of obvious disappointment turned her mouth, but she didn’t look entirely surprised. “Fine.” Her eyes flickered to mine again; this time, while she looked at me, I got the impression she was silently communicating with him. “I’ll see you soon.”

He didn’t relax, not even when she was completely out of sight; not even a full minute later when we stood as still as statues; not even when I placed my hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” I whispered, because we were in a library. “Are you okay?”

His big shoulders lifted as he filled his lungs. Alex turned to me, his arms reaching for me. He pulled me tightly against him. The embrace was nearly suffocating, and I felt him swallow three times.

“I hate her.”

I tried to free my hands, but they were trapped between us. “She doesn’t seem so bad,” I murmured against his chest.

My words sounded strained. He must’ve detected the cause as his grip relaxed somewhat, but not substantively. Regardless, it was enough for me to wrap my arms around him.

“She has no honor,” he said.

I blinked at his choice of words and wondered when I’d last had a discussion with anyone about honor. This struck me as relevant and remarkable. As a society, we don’t speak of honor, not anymore.