Prologue
Greer
When I first see him there, I think I must still be dreaming.
I’d woken up at 3:13 a.m.—unlucky, that—the sharp planes of his face still fresh in my mind, my skin still flushed, the sheets tangled around my legs, and I’d nearly gasped in embarrassment over it. Dreaming abouthim, of all people, a man I’d only met hours ago. A man so handsome I could barely look him in the eye without flushing. A man who wore all his vast experience in the rangy, confident movements of his body. A man whose friendly, innocent hug at the end of the night had felt like electricity to me, like being shocked awake after a long, unnatural slumber.
My best friend’s brother, Alex Averin.
Now he pauses as he steps across the threshold of Boneshaker’s, my favorite coffee shop not two blocks from Kit’s house, where he’s supposed to be staying for the weekend—where, I’ve decided, I’ll avoid until he leaves, since I’d basically gone acutely nonverbal in his presence. Between me and Zoe and Kit, my two closest friends, I’ve always been the quiet one, but last night I’d brought shyness to new heights, barely managing three full sentences over the course of dinner and dessert. I’d watched as Kit had beamed over him, proud of everything about her brother, and proud of everything that she was getting to show and tell him about her life here: her job, her newly purchased house, even her budding friendship with Ben Tucker, a guy who I could already tell was more than half in love with her. And I’d watched as Zoe—cool and funny and unflappable—had traded stories with Alex of travel to Europe, to South America, even to Australia, where they’d both, apparently, visited the same koala refuge.
I’d justwatched.
Watching. My specialty. For years, the only habit I was healthy enough to cultivate.
I return to that specialty now—so familiar, like I’m a wayward, crooked drawer that’s been pushed back into its track and now can slide easily into place, flush with its surroundings, barely noticeable. I turn my body in my chair slightly so I’m not directly facing the door, arranging my book in a way that makes it seem like I’m reading, though I’m still 100 percent tracking him. As he moves toward the counter, the heads of all three women at a table beside me turn to watch him, one of them actually letting her mouth fallopen a little.
I can’t say I blame her. He’s beautiful, that’s the thing—not just handsome, not just a strong jaw and a tall, fit leanness, broad shoulders and narrow hips, not just thick, jet-black hair that’s gorgeously messy, exactly as it was in my dream, exactly as I’dmadeit in my dream. He’s actuallybeautiful—smooth olive skin underneath his heavy stubble, and high, cut cheekbones that transform into something softer and kinder when he smiles. Full lips, white teeth, his right-side incisor slightly crooked. Clear, bright green eyes that you can see across a room, framed with long, black lashes that leave a shadow on his skin whenhe lowers them.
From where I sit I watch him order, watch his mouth move:coffee, black. He pays in cash, shoves a dollar in the tip jar, and the barista looks like she wants to propose marriage. He smiles at her, and I try to telegraph her a message:Oh, I know. Ithurtswhen he smiles like that.
He moves down the counter to wait for his coffee, and I curve my shoulders and look down to my book again, hoping he doesn’t see me. Without the cover of Kit and Zoe, my awkwardness will seem worse—either panicked silence or a blurting non sequitur, and I don’t think I could face his quizzical brow, his gentle smile of pitying encouragement, the same one he offered up last night across the table after I’d stumbled over answering a question as simple asWhere did you grow up?
In my dream, though…he looked at me with total concentration. With desire.
I shake my head, force my eyes to focus, training them back at the top of the page of my textbook so I can start reading all over again. I’m sure I’ve lost every bit of information I read over in the minutes before he walked in.
“Hey,” comes a quiet, deep, already familiar voice from above me, and for a second I keep my eyes down, hoping I’ve somehow developed actual powers of invisibility, rather than standard wallflower syndrome.
But I can feel him there watching me, those thick black brows probably arranging themselves into the most charming little furrow.This again,he’s probably thinking.
When I turn to face him, to look up to meet those sea-glass eyes, my elbow knocks my textbook from the table, and Alex reaches a hand out, catching it easily at the spine, not even disrupting the steaming coffee he’s holding in his left hand. I think I let out a small groan of frustration, or of exasperation—I’m sure at any moment, after seeing that display of his reflexes, either the barista or the open-mouthed latte drinker will just toss her panties across the room at him.
“Cultural Anthropology,” he says, looking down at the book he’s just rescued, his lips tipping up wryly in some ironic recognition. This renowned photojournalist who’s traveled the entire world, has seen it and so many of its cultures through his own eyes—who’s shaped, through his lens, the way other people see it—holding my little college textbook, my little lottery-induced dream of a college degree. It must seem—
“I always wanted to take a class like this,” he says, smiling down at me, and for a second I think about throwingmypanties at him.
It feels like a good two and a half minutes of me simplyblinkingat him, adjusting to the handsome glare his face gives off, but in actuality I’m pretty sure it’s only a few startled seconds before I manage a weak, “It’sa good class.”
He nods, gestures to the seat across from me. “Mind if I sit?”
“Oh,” I say, pulling my papers toward me, clearing space for him on the table. “Sure.” Inside my head there’s a tattoo of a thought:Don’t think about the dream.
“Thanks.” He sinks into his chair. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Don’t think about it,I tell myself again, hopelessly.
“Did you and Kit have a late night?” I feel ludicrously pleased at how normal and casual I’ve managed to sound. Now that the shock has worn off—or I guess now that my eyes have adjusted to his presence—I feel a bit more settled, ready to converse like anormal person.
“Sort of.” When he shifts in his seat I notice something for the first time. He has a bag with him—a sun-bleached canvas rucksack, one of its straps duct-taped, and as my eyes settle on it he reaches a hand down, tries to tuck it more tightly under the table.
“Are you—are you leaving already?” The disbelief in my voice—it seems to lash him like a whip. He snaps his head to the side to look out the window, inhaling sharply through his nose. “You’re supposed to stay for the whole weekend,” I add. Kit’s been preparing for Alex’s visit for days, ever since his quick, unexpected call to let her know he’d be in town—a call she’d greeted with such genuine excitement and hope that I’d immediately felt a prickle of unease. Never good luck, I’d thought, to look forward to something that much.
He looks back at me then, and I’m tempted tolower my eyes.
But Kit—Kit must be sodisappointed.
“I got called in for a job,” he says, and it could be true. Alex shoots for theNew York Times, for the AP, once, even, forNational Geographic, photographs that Zoe and I oohed and aahed over when Kit had shown them to us last year.
