Prologue
Greer
When I first see him there, I think I must still be dreaming.
I’d woken up at three-thirteen 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 about him, 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.
A man who also happens to be my best friend Kit’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 just watched.
Watching. My speciality. 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 that I’m not directly facing the door, arranging my book in a way that makes it possible for me to seem like I’m reading, though I’m still one hundred 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 fall open 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’d made it in my dream. He’s actually beautiful—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 a little crooked. Clear, bright green eyes that you can see across a room, framed with long, black lashes that leave a shadow on his skin when he 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. It hurts when he smiles like that.
He moves down the counter to wait for his coffee and I swivel again in my seat, curving my shoulders and looking 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 as Where 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, since 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, hope I’ve somehow developed actual powers of invisibility, rather than just your 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, 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 throwing my panties at him.
It feels like a good two and a half minutes of me simply blinking at 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’s a 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 says, sinking 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 a normal person.
“Sort of,” he says, and 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 to lower my eyes.
But Kit—Kit must be so disappointed.
“I got called in for a job,” he says, and it could be true. Alex shoots for The New York Times, for the AP, once, even, for National Geographic, photographs that Zoe and I ooh-ed and aah-ed over when Kit had shown them to us last year. But because I’m good—I’m so, so good at seeing every single thing, at watching—I notice it. I notice the way the corner of his mouth, right there on the left side, twitches. Barely a split second of movement, a pull of his lips that’d be entirely hidden from the casual observer.
“You’re lying.” I stare right into those eyes, those sea-glass eyes I’d avoided looking at last night, and I hope mine are burning right into his. I hope I’ve put into them all the accusation I mean to level at him. Kit’s heart is probably broken—all her plans for him this weekend, all the things she meant to show him about her new home. All the time she’s been waiting for him to come.
I remember: I can do more than just watch. When it comes to the people I love, I can do anything. “You can’t do this to her,” I say. “You can’t leave.”
The look he gives me—it’s nothing like what I saw in his face last night, nothing like the gentle, indulgent smiles he gave to Kit, nothing like the low, laughing surprise he’d had for Zoe’s bold sense of humor. Nothing even like the open curiosity in his eyes when he’d seen me for the first time.
It looks like anger.
“I can,” he says, and his voice is forceful. Unapologetic. So, so confident.
There’s a thick silence between us, the sounds of the café tinkling and vague. But I hear his voice like an echo.
I can.
It sounds so—it sounds so true. There isn’t anything stopping Alex—he’s healthy, he’s successful, he’s made his own way in the world. Someone—his sister, me, anyone, probably—may tell him you can’t, but he doesn’t have to listen.
He could get up and leave right now. He could pick up his rucksack and take his coffee with him, walk out this coffee shop’s doors. There’ll be a trail of women’s undergarments in his wake.
Instead he shifts in his seat, puts his elbows on the table, and holds his to-go cup between his hands. The movement puts him closer to me, the steam from his coffee wafting between us, warming the space between our bodies. For a split second I’m back in that dream, and I drop my eyes to the table. There’s a stray penny, tail-side up, beside his right forearm.
“Out there,” he says, nodding toward the door, his voice softer now, a still-rough texture to it that now doesn’t sound quite so unapologetic. “Out there is the thing I waited for my whole life.”
I press my lips together, roll them inward, a habit I seem to have picked up since I started my college classes. Trying not to over-participate, trying not to get a reputation as the eager adult degree student while the slackers in the back roll their eyes at me, hoping for an early release from class.
Alex’s eyes dip to my mouth, and suddenly I don’t care so much about seeming eager. I use a fingernail to tap out the curiosity I feel building in my shoulders, my elbows, my wrists. I hear the plink, plink of it against the ceramic. “What’s that?” I ask, my voice hardly above a whisper.
And then he smiles. He smiles like he—like he somehow knows, like he heard me make that wish six months ago, the night Kit and Zoe and I had all joked about our possible lottery win, a win that became a shocking, I’m-still-not-over-it reality. The night I’d told my friends that all I’d want was an education.
“Freedom,” he says, and he could not have cut me deeper if he’d held a hot knife against my body.
My secret wish, the one I’d made silently that same night our numbers came up, the one I’m working so hard to make come true—with my winnings, with my college classes, with every small effort I make to be stronger, healthier, more independent.
Without ever leaving the sixty-five square miles of this city.
I lean back in my seat, lengthening the distance between us. I let the moment stretch a beat too long, my eyes on my mug, my book, the penny. Strangely, even though we don’t know each other well—at all, really—I can feel him waiting for me to argue, to push back. And when I finally meet his eyes, that’s what I see there.
Expectation. Anticipation.
Maybe not quite what I saw in my dream, but maybe not all that different, either.
But Alex isn’t who I thought he was, not if he’ll leave Kit this way. And his freedom isn’t the same as mine, not if it looks like this—a beat-up bag, a faraway look, no limitations, no attachments, no debts, no thought to who or what you leave behind.
I let go of that electric, curious heat he makes me feel. I replace it with all the disappointment I feel on behalf of my friend. I pull my book closer to me.
“I’d better get back to studying,” I say, keeping my gaze level, uninterested, aloof—the corollary gift of my shyness for moments like these.
He doesn’t wait long. Maybe a few seconds of taut silence before he stands again and hoists his bag over one shoulder, his cup of coffee still steaming in his hand. Oblivious, clearly, to the way so many eyes in the café are newly drawn to him.
“Greer,” he says, tipping his chin down in some old-fashioned gesture of acknowledgment that—despite my new opinion of him—feels like a brand on my skin. His smile is different now: smaller, sadder. “Maybe I’ll meet you again sometime.”
And then he’s gone, ducking out the same door he came in, and I don’t see him again. Not for almost two whole years.
Not even in my dreams.