William was standing outside the café when I arrived. The way he stood—hands in his pockets, watching me approach as if no one else existed—gave me a sudden case of butterflies. He had a quality that made it seem as if he didn’t belong in the world. I half-expected him to tell me he’d been raised by monks in an isolated mountain monastery. Or by animals in a jungle somewhere.

His smile was subtle, his mouth only turning up slightly. But his eyes gleamed. It made me feel like he wouldn’t be happier to see anyone but me.

“Good afternoon, Ivy.”

“Hi, William.” I brushed my hair back from my face and tucked it behind my ear. I’d worn it down, which I didn’t often do.

He opened the door for me and once we found a table, he pulled out my chair. “Can I order for you, or would you like to?”

I had to give it to him, aside from the whole stalking thing, his manners were impeccable. “Oh, you can, thank you. But I didn’t expect you to pay.”

“I’d like to.”

He went to the counter and ordered our coffees, then came back and sat across from me.

“Your hair looks pretty today,” he said.

My cheeks warmed, and I fidgeted in my seat. “Thank you. Um… how was your morning?”

“It was fine,” he said.

“Did you have to work?” I asked. “You’ve never really told me what you do for a living.”

“No, I didn’t have to work. But here,” he said, pulling out his phone. He tapped the screen a few times, then passed it to me. “This is what I do.”

I stared at his phone. It was a picture of him, but it was more than a photo. It was an ad for what looked like expensive cologne, although the text was in Italian.

“You’re a model?”

“Kind of, yeah,” he said. “There’s more if you swipe. James sent them to me.”

I flicked through more ads, all for the same brand. All of them featured close-ups of William’s face. Those mesmerizing blue eyes. “Is this a billboard? Where is this?”

“Italy,” he said. “I don’t think they use my pictures over here.”

It probably shouldn’t have surprised me that William was a model. He certainly looked like one. “Wow, this is impressive.”

“Thanks.” He took back his phone, but I got the feeling he didn’t think his profession was anything remarkable.

“Do you model in fashion shows, too?” I asked.

His brow furrowed a little. “No. I just do photo shoots with James.”

“Can I ask who James is?”

“Yes,” he said. “He’s my friend. And he’s a photographer.”

“Okay,” I said. Why did it feel like he was willing to tell me anything, and yet it was like playing twenty questions to get real answers? “So, you work as a model, but just with James?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have an agent or a manager?”

“No, just James.”

“Then how did you start working with James?” I asked. “Did you just bump into him and he said you’d make a good model?”

“Yes.”

It occurred to me that I needed to ask him open-ended questions if I wanted more than yes or no answers. “How did you meet him?”

“It was like you said, although I didn’t actually bump into him. I was at a park. He walked by and asked if he could take my picture. I said yes. I ran into him again a few days later and he asked if I’d pose for more pictures for him. So I did.”

“And that’s how you became a full-time model?” I asked. “It was that simple?”

He shrugged. “I guess so. James sold the pictures to a designer in Italy. And they always want more.”

I wondered if this James guy was a decent person, or if he was taking advantage of William. “And James is your friend now?”

“Yes,” he said. “I hope you’ll get to meet him sometime.”

The barista called William’s name before I had a chance to answer. He got up to get our coffees, then came back and took his seat.

“You said last night that you’d tell me why you’ve been following me,” I said.

He wrapped his fingers around his mug and nodded slowly. “Like I told you, it’s hard to explain. This is going to sound strange at first.”

“Okay.”

“I was sent to save you.”

I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. “That’s… okay. That does sound strange. Do you mean save me from harm, or save me in the spiritual sense?”

“From harm,” he said, his voice completely serious.

I had so many questions, I didn’t know where to begin. I took a sip of coffee to give myself a second. “Okay… Who sent you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are you supposed to save me from?”

“I’m not sure.”

I sighed. “Could you at least come up with a story that sounds plausible?”

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me at first,” he said. “That’s all right.”

“Well, you’re not giving me very much,” I said. “Why do you think you were sent to save me?”

He met my eyes and held them captive. His irises were like crystals of blue ice sparkling in sunlight. He leaned closer, resting his forearms on the table. I couldn’t have broken his gaze if I’d tried.

“Because everything inside of me knows this is true,” he said, his voice soft. “I’ve always known. Your voice is the music that plays constantly in my mind. Your name is the first thing I think of every morning, and the last thing I think of every night. There isn’t much that I’m sure of in this world, but I’m sure of this. You are why I’m here.”

I stared at him, my lips parted. He’d struck me completely speechless.

“I’m sorry for following you,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. But I had to find out if it was really you. I couldn’t believe I’d finally found you.”

“What do you mean, found me?”

“I didn’t know who you were at first,” he said. “I had to put the clues together. But they led me to you, just like I knew they would. I had a feeling it was you that day, when I saw you for the first time. And then I heard your name.”

“So, you didn’t know who I was, but you knew my name?”

“Yes,” he said. “I knew your name, and I knew enough to find you.”

“Is that why you keep saying it’s because I’m Ivy?” I asked.

“Yes. I’ve had your name on my lips for a long time. But it wasn’t just your name. If I’d met someone else named Ivy, I would have known she wasn’t you.”

“How?”

“I know your voice.”

I stared into my coffee cup for a moment. What he was telling me didn’t make an ounce of sense. He couldn’t have been sent to save me. Things like that didn’t happen in the real world. Besides, what made me so special?

But a part of me wanted to believe him, although I didn’t understand why.

“I don’t know what to say. You realize this is all impossible?”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because people aren’t sent to save other people by mysterious unknown forces for reasons they don’t understand,” I said.

“How do you know that?”

“I… well, because I do. Everyone knows that. Some things are real, and some things aren’t. That’s the way the world is.”

“No one understands all the mysteries of the world,” he said. “Humans have been trying to make sense of reality for as long as we’ve had brains large enough to tackle those big questions. But there are still things we don’t comprehend.”

“Yes, but we’re not talking about the nature of the time-space continuum. Obviously there are scientific realities that are beyond our understanding. But this is more like magic, or some strange spiritual phenomenon. Those don’t exist.”

“How do you know?” he asked again.

“Because some things are demonstrably not real,” I said. “I can objectively say that magic does not exist.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “I never said anything about magic.”

I let out a sigh. “No, but I don’t know how you expect me to believe you.”

“I have proof.”

“What proof?”

His eyes went all intense again, with that sparkle that drew me in so deep I couldn’t get free. “You grew up with more adults for friends than kids. You spent afternoons in your dad’s office with grad students and stacks of books. He took you to the library to keep you busy while he worked.”

A chill ran down my spine and I stared at him.

“The house you grew up in had a big tree in the backyard. Your father built a swing that hung from one of the branches. When you moved, that tree was what you missed the most.”

I gave him a feeble nod.

“You love teaching literature because you believe in the power of language,” he said. “And you’re afraid there are too many adults in the world who don’t appreciate how beautiful words can be.”

“How are you doing this?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“I know you,” he said. “My mind is full of you. Not just your name and your voice, but who you are. I know that you love the sound of rain. That you read The Great Gatsby at least once a year. That it wasn’t your idea to get Edgar, but you loved him as soon as you brought him home. That you once thought you might marry someone named Julian, but when he was gone, you didn’t miss him. And I know the thing you fear most is being left alone in the world.”

Tears stung my eyes. Everything he said was completely true. How could he possibly know?

“William, you’re scaring me,” I said. “How do you know these things?”

“Please don’t be afraid of me.” He placed his hand gently over mine. I didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry, I know this is overwhelming. I swear to you, Ivy, I’m not here to hurt you. Quite the opposite.”

“I really don’t know what to do with this,” I said. “I don’t understand how you know things about me. Personal things. How did you find out? How did you know about the tree… and Julian… and my childhood?”

His expression was so understanding. So open and vulnerable. I searched his face for the lie. For the trace of manipulation. But I couldn’t find it.

“I think some of them were things I needed to know to find you,” he said. “The rest… I don’t know. I wish I had better answers for you, I really do. I’ve been trying to make sense of it all, too. Until I met you, I wondered if I was ever going to figure it out. But then, there you were. And the parts that didn’t make sense didn’t matter as much anymore. Because I know they will someday.”

“But how do you know these things?” I asked. “You can’t just know something. It has to come from somewhere.”

“Everything I know about you, it’s just here.” He touched his temple. His other hand was still resting on mine, and I still didn’t pull away. Strange as it was, his touch felt like the only thing grounding me to reality. “Think of it like this: How do you know what to call the color red, or that a doorknob turns to open, or how to count to ten?”

“I suppose my dad taught me those things when I was little,” I said.

“But do you remember that?” he asked. “Do you remember being taught? Or does it feel like you might as well have always known?”

“I guess… no, I don’t remember being taught.”

“That’s what this feels like to me,” he said. “All these things about you, they’re just here. Like someone taught me and I don’t remember the teaching part anymore, just the knowledge.”

“But… you can’t have been taught things about me so long ago that you don’t remember it.”

“No, that’s true,” he said. “I don’t mean it as a literal comparison. But that’s the best way I can think to explain it, because that’s what it feels like.”

“And you know other things?”

He nodded and opened his mouth to say something.

“Wait, I don’t think I can hear more right now,” I said.

He squeezed my hand. God, why did that feel so good? Why was it making me feel better?

I sat for a few minutes, staring at the table, trying to figure this out.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked. The hope in his voice nearly brought tears to my eyes. I could feel how much he wanted me to say no.

“No,” I said. We were basically holding hands at this point, and I didn’t know what to do with that either. But it felt too right to let go. “No, I just need to think.”

I didn’t believe in the paranormal. I hadn’t even believed in things like Santa Claus when I was a kid. William might as well have just told me he’d traveled through time, or come from a different planet.

But how did he know those things?

“Stranger than fiction,” I said, more to myself than to him. Mark Twain had said that. A literary genius. And a man who’d believed in the unexplainable. “Oh my god, the metal coffin.”

“What?” William asked.

“Mark Twain,” I said. “When he was a young man working on a steamboat, he had a terrible dream. He saw a metal coffin supported by two chairs. His brother, Henry, was inside the coffin with roses laid on his chest—white, with a single red one. It was so vivid, when he woke up, he was convinced it was real. But his sister told him it couldn’t be, because only rich people were buried in metal coffins, and they weren’t rich. Not long after, his brother was in a steamboat accident and he died of his injuries. When Twain went to see him, he was in a metal coffin supported by two chairs. One of the nurses who’d cared for him brought roses and laid on them on his chest—white, and one red.”

“That’s spooky,” he said.

“It is. Of course, there are people who dispute the accuracy of the story. But…” I trailed off, but William didn’t fill the silence. He stroked his thumb across the back of my wrist, a slow gentle movement that seemed to keep my heart from beating too fast. Mark Twain’s supposed prophetic dream wasn’t proof that William had been sent to save me. But I did have to admit that some things were outside the realm of the explainable.

Maybe there was an explanation for all this. I didn’t think it was some form of divine intervention in my life. William was a man, not an angel. But the things he’d said had been right. And there would have been no simple way of finding those things out. I didn’t think even Jessica knew about the tree in my backyard. I’d never had a reason to talk about it.

“What is it you want?” I asked.

“Well…” He paused, meeting my eyes. “I guess right now I just want to be your friend. I want to be in your life.”

There was heat in his gaze that hinted at something else—made my core tingle in a way that had a blush creeping up my neck and across my cheeks.

I swallowed hard, still feeling the warmth of his hand on mine, the soft caress of his thumb against my wrist. “Friends?”

He nodded.

“Okay,” I said. “We can be friends.”

That smile again. It warmed me from the inside and I found myself smiling back.

And a part of me knew that it was going to be very hard to remain just friends with William Cole.