“Luca.”

I gave my sister my eyes. “Hmm?”

“You’re distracted.” She hovered by the inglenook, her stare teasing.

“Pardon me. What were you saying?”

“What’s the last thing you heard?” Dominika set her hands on her hips.

Pressing my index and middle finger to the space between my eyebrows, I struggled to locate my concentration; it had gone missing on Monday—the first day of summer session—and had further deteriorated on Wednesday, when Anna I. Harris had neglected to show up for my lecture.

Forcing myself into the present, I searched my memory. “You were discussing budgets.”

My sister examined me, her eyes growing brighter. “I should know better than to speak of numbers. They’re like an off switch for your brain.”

I dropped my hand to my lap. “I apologize. Please, thrill me with your impressive numbers.”

“It’s too late, you lost your chance. Now you’ll never know what I plan to spend on staples for the family’s new offices downtown, or how much it costs to purchase ten desk chairs.”

I curled my fingers into a fist. “Damn.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’ll come crying to me when you get that huge State Department grant and need help sorting the budget.”

Dismissing her statement, I shook my head again to clear it. “Tell me about your budget, I promise to listen.”

“No. It’s too late, I’ve moved on from that. The last thing I said was that you better shave, the reservation is at six.” Dominika gestured vaguely to my jaw. “But never mind about that, we can be late. Tell me why you’re distracted.”

A memory manifested as hesitation. Unable to redirect my thoughts, I recalled the colors of her eyes. Again.

A ring of dark russet, a ring of malachite and jade, a starburst of gold and sienna.

We’d been standing close, too close, and her words—the palpable enthusiasm and erudition—had been equally distracting. Our conversation from Monday, truncated though it was, repeated ceaselessly in my mind, a reprise that hadn’t yet grown weary or tiresome. Instead, the memory now seemed familiar.

A favorite melody.

An unruly disruption.

But then, Anna had been absent on Wednesday.

Strolling to me, Dominika’s stare widened. “Is there something wrong? With your book? Or work? Or has Dad been making life difficult?”

“No.” I considered the matter of our father, capitulating to the urge to frown and amending my answer, “Not more than usual.”

“Has he been meddling?”

“He always meddles.” My relationship with Sergey Kroft was a complicated one, and one which I would never wish on another person.

“I know you enjoy your status as a brooding enigma, but talking to someone you trust—i.e. your impressive older sister—can be helpful.”

I met her gaze, saying nothing. Calling me an enigma was more teasing. She’d always accused me of being a terrible liar and unable to veil my thoughts, especially when I most wished to keep them concealed.

“Fine. Twenty questions it is. Is it a person, place, or thing?”

“Dominika.”

“Did you find a weird shaped mole? Do you need me to look at it?”

I exhaled a laugh.

“Do you have questions about bees? Or birds? Or—”

“I—”

“—sexual intercourse?”

She wasn’t going to stop, which led me to abruptly confess, “Fine. I met someone.”

“Oh?” My sister tried to keep her tone light, but I could guess her thoughts. She’d never liked the women I chose. “Do tell,” she requested on a sigh, without enthusiasm.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Inspecting me, she dropped to the couch, as though gravity had suddenly rendered her unable to stand. “I assume she’s like the rest.”

“The rest.”

Dominika waved her hand in the air, then let it fall to the back of the sofa. “Your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Come off it, Luca.” She shoved my shoulder. “You know you do.”

“Enlighten me.”

“You know, overly educated and . . . delicate.” Dominika studied her nails. “Dad loves your broken birds. It’s the only thing you and he have in common.”

I ignored her comment about our father’s taste in women. “Delicate?”

“Yeah, like Sonja. Fragile. Cries a lot. Quivering lips and wobbly chins.”

Instinct demanded that I argue with my sister’s assessment, but I couldn’t. Sonja had been fragile. And needy. And insecure. And had cried a lot. But she’d also been brilliant.

“You like to rescue, Luca. You always have. You never chase. You watch and wait until the weakest is separated from the pack, then you swoop in.” Again, she used her hand for emphasis, pushing her stiff fingers through the air as though to mimic a bird or an airplane. My sister glanced to me and promptly tilted her head to the side, rolling her eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’ve just accused me of having a type, and that type is the weakest link. If my expression distresses you, I have no plans to apologize.”

“They’re not weak, they’re. . .” She directed her eyes to the ceiling, not finishing her thought.

“Fragile?”

“Yes.”

My glare intensified. “Fragile is a synonym for weak.”

Her grin was impertinent. “It’s also a synonym for delicate.”

“Dominika—”

“And refined!” She sat forward. “Delicate and refined, that’s your type. Women with good manners and excellent taste in throw pillows, who never raise their voices, and cry into handkerchiefs. So tell me about this new woman who has you so preoccupied. Talking about her frail nerves will help.”

Continuing to glare at my sister, I considered it, mostly because she was so entirely wrong about Anna. And perhaps discussing it would disperse the tension and break the repetition of my thoughts.

She shoved my shoulder again, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but—”

“‘I scarce ever heard or saw the introductory words, “Without vanity, I may say,” etc., but some vain thing immediately followed.’”

Dominika’s eyelids lowered slowly. “Why are you quoting Benjamin Franklin to me?”

“If you’re moved to preface your thoughts with a disclaimer, the words that follow will always be of the exact nature you seek to avoid. So if you tell me, ‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ invariably, it is something that I will take the wrong way.”

She gave me a grunt of irritation. “You are a grouch.”

“And you don’t want me to take that the wrong way?”

“No. Take that the wrong way—you are a grouch—I meant it the wrong way. But what I was going to say—which you should not take the wrong way—is that, before you get too serious about this one, maybe ask yourself the question: why do I seek out women who are the human equivalent of a wet blanket?”

“Because I’m a grouch?”

She blinked at me twice, very, very slowly. “Never mind. You’re right. You deserve to sleep next to a wet, chilly blanket. You have my blessing to pursue whatever limp, delicate flower has caught your interest now.”

Dominika’s theatrics caused me to speak without thinking, wanting to defend Anna without understanding the urge. “Anna isn’t like that.”

“Which part? The limp part or the delicate flower part?”

“Neither.”

“Oh yeah? What’s she like?”

I opened my mouth to respond, to tell my sister that Anna was full of vibrancy, that she’d surprised me with her honesty, soul, and intellect. And passion.

When we’d met in February, my stare had lingered against my will. As though compelled, I’d memorized the shape of her lips, the graceful line of her jaw and neck, the warm mahogany of her curly hair. She’d captivated me.

And then she left after I confessed the truth.

“To use your analogy,” I hedged, picking my words carefully, “she’s not a wet blanket, at all.”

“Really?” My sister sounded unconvinced. “What is she then? A damp blanket? Moist, maybe?”

“An electric blanket.”

Dominika frowned suddenly, her eyes now sharp and interested, and she leaned forward slowly. “You mean she smells faintly of burnt hair?”

“No.” I focused on the arm of my couch, on a red mark I’d inadvertently made while grading papers last year. “She smells like wildflowers and quiet libraries, redolent of peace and exuberance.”

I looked to my sister and found her expression sober.

“Dad wouldn’t like that.”

“No. I don’t imagine he and Anna would get along at all.” I smirked at the thought. She was far too independent, of both mind and spirit. He’d never countenance her individuality.

“Tell me more.”

“It matters not at all.” Looking back to the red mark, I clenched my teeth. “She’s my student.”

In my peripheral vision, I saw Dominika’s jaw drop. She pushed herself to the edge of the sofa. “Oh my God, are you serious?”

I nodded, glaring over my sister’s head to the shelves of books lining the wall. “She’s in my summer session.”

“Luca.” Dominika’s mouth remained agape, clearly struggling to speak. “How much younger is she?”

“Ten years.” I’d researched Anna after our abbreviated meeting in February, after experiencing a great deal of difficulty putting her from my mind. It was her email, I’d decided, that made dismissing her abandonment of me impossible.

Thus, I decided to wait before contacting her again. According to her transcript—which was impeccable—she had another eighteen months as a student. If my thoughts continued to drift toward her after she graduated, the plan was to reach out to her then.

“That’s not too bad. But you can’t date a student. You can’t. You know how you are.”

“I know.”

“I mean, professors can date students. It’s discouraged, but allowed. But, don’t. Don’t do it.” My sister grabbed my arm, forcing me to meet her eyes. “You fall so hard. My lovely, lonely boy. You’re all heart and soul. You crush yourself.”

She didn’t need to tell me this; I was fully aware of my faults and history. Yet her words merely served to demonstrate how woefully she misunderstood my nature.

Perhaps others, cut from different cloth, could pick and choose their conquests. Live their lives as patient fishermen, searching with intermittent success within a vast sea full of alluring fish. If the circumstances of one catch proved inconvenient, these fictional fishermen need only toss back the lure and wait for another.

Not so for me.

I vehemently rejected this belief that our souls could thrive with any number of partners, a good-enough rodstvennaya dusha.

One.

One half of one soul.

It is popular to say that one must find love within oneself before knowing how to love another. I rejected this statement outright, as both imbecilic in theory and impossible in practice.

Thus, I’d searched where I thought my rodstvennaya dusha would most likely be, becoming entangled several times, but never so much that the thorns of the hedgerow ensnared me beyond reason, beyond ability to rejoin my previous path.

I hadn’t found her, or anything close. And that—the disappointment, the continued vacancy, not the thorny hedgerow— had left me crushed.

However, I understood Dominika’s worry. In her eyes I would always be the younger brother she’d had to raise and protect, crying for his mother.

“I assume she’s a literature major? Think of what it would be like for her, the power imbalance. She’d be looking at you with stars in her eyes, hero worship, and not your normal hero worship from these wet fragile blankets you’ve chosen in the past—you know what I mean. Think about it from her perspective. That kind of dynamic wouldn’t be good for either of you. And it wouldn’t last. You need to protect yourself, and her.”

“I know.”

I didn’t correct her assumption that Anna’s major was literature; in the scheme of this conversation, that detail was minor in comparison to the behemoth difference in our—as Dominika labeled it—power dynamic.

I was her professor, her teacher. I took this charge seriously, a sacred trust, never to be tarnished by selfish interest. This alone placed her well beyond my reach.

And yet . . .

Interest remained. Steadfast, undeniably selfish, and—recently, since Monday—unmanageable. Burdensome in a way that felt like a punishment.

“What are you going to do?” Her fingers flexed on my arm.

I covered her hand with mine, knowing I should reassure her, but resigned to my inability to lie.

Thus, I settled for the truth. “Nothing, Dominika. I’m going to do nothing.”