“It’s a lost asset,” Luiza retorts.
I’m about to say that it sounds like an excuse to come along … but a stewardess comes by to ask us about drinks, and I drop the subject. If she and Erin are too stupid to see what’s right in front of them, that’s none of my business.
Once we leave the chaotic Munich airport, Sawyer stalks off to find us a cab. As soon as we get to the hostel—we find a small problem. Just like Luiza predicted, the place is already booked up. Between the four of us, we only have three beds.
I’m about to just be the one to do it and suggest Erin and Luiza share, but I swear Erin reads my mind before I do and insists she and I share instead.
Sawyers eyes flicker over to me, and I have no choice but to accept.
It’s Erin’s loss. I’m the one who flails in her sleep.
It’s really no matter. Now that we’re here, we’re going to spend very little time actually asleep. It’s Oktoberfest in Germany, after all. We throw our bags into the lockers, ma
king special care to make sure our weapons are properly locked away and concealed, and head back out towards the festival.
All the weariness and fatigue I accrued on the train, plane, and cab rides melt away as I spot the fairgrounds. Huge tents fill the space, with vendor carts scattered around. As a group, we stop into a store selling cheap Bavarian costumes, and once we’re all decked out in our dirndl and lederhosen, we enter the festival proper.
All my efforts not to get stuck with Sawyer alone are for naught as Erin and Luiza almost immediately slip into the crows and disappear. For a minute, Sawyer and I stand alone in the throng of people. I watch as two women in dirndl dance gleefully on a bench, each holding a stein and singing loudly at the top of their lungs. He turns back to me with a grin, and I have to admit he looks strangely handsome in lederhosen, the traditional men’s costume.
“Want a beer, mein liebling?” he asks with a shy smile.
I laugh. “Ja, but we should get some food, too. How about I check out one of these vendors and you see if any of the beer tents have tables? We’ll meet back up here.”
“Sounds good,” he says, and disappears. I attach myself to a long line for what looks like giant pretzels.
Once I’m next in line, I spot Sawyer again, carrying two souvenir steins. The next time I glance back, he isn’t alone … and I recognize who he’s with. It’s Piers. I crane my neck to try and get a better look at them through the crowd, but I’m far enough away that I can’t even read their lips to see what they’re saying. I know they’ve been closer ever since last year, which did not earn Sawyer any points with me, but I can’t help but think every time I see them together that they must be planning something.
Like they did last year, with Aurora.
But today Piers seems sad and distant, not defiant or sneaky like someone hatching a plan. He just shrugs at Sawyer, shakes his head, and then slumps off. Sawyer looks a little sad too. He shuffles awkwardly, looking around for me until our eyes meet. He makes no sign that he realized he was just spotted fraternizing with the enemy.
Then, I remember … only I know Piers is still the enemy. Well, maybe me and Erin. As far as anyone else is concerned, we’re supposed to have made up. Why then, does Piers look so dejected?
Here too, of all places. It isn’t easy to be in a bad mood surrounded by cheery accordion playing and literally millions of gallons of beer. Those are the reasons, at least, that I keep making for my increasingly dropping inhibitions.
I get to the front of the line and buy two giant pretzels and two sausages half the length of my arm before joining back up with Sawyer. “Got us some snacks!” I say brightly, handing him one of the sausages.
He perks up. “And I got the booze!” He holds up the steins. “Let’s find a bench that isn’t being danced on, shall we?”
“Any beer tents with open tables?” I ask as we head toward an empty bench.
“Not in the one I checked, but I figure once we’ve eaten and stuff, we can look around.”
We sit down and eat, and I’m famished. I decide not to ask about Piers. That conversation can only end poorly, with one or both of us lying to some degree. We watch the people milling about us for a while before deciding to go on the hunt for more beer.
We find a beer tent with a table for two people and stay there for another hour, drinking copious amounts of hearty German beer and keeping an eye out for any sign of Erin or Luiza. We leave absolutely drunk and pick up more beer anyway.
And I thought my inhibitions were lowering earlier.
“The Ferris wheel!” I yell, pointing up at the giant, colorful wheel rising over the tops of the tents.
“The Ferris wheel!” Sawyer bellows in agreement, raising his stein. Around us, the crowd cheers and raises their own steins—though whether they know or care what we’re yelling about, I can’t tell.
We push through the crowd to the ride, pausing only for me to jump onto a bench with a local woman and loudly sing with her in broken German. The line is long enough that we’ve finished our beers by the time we’re allowed to stumble into a gondola.
The festival is a flash of bright colors, loud music, and glimpses of my own impressive cleavage just under my nose thanks to my own costume. Moments later, after a breath-taking sweep up from the safety of solid ground, I’m no longer at the festival. Instead, I’m flying high above it.
The view from the top of the Ferris wheel is breathtaking, and would be even if I was sober.