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Bryant.” She spells it for him. “Yeah, I’m on Facebook.”
    â€œI’ll find you. Do you have a cell phone? What’s your number?”
    Elizabeth pauses. Damn. “This is awful, but I don’t remember. And I left it at home.” She curses silently; a string of expletives runs through her head like subtitles in a foreign film.
    â€œYou don’t remember? Is that a hint?” Evan raises his eyebrows.
    â€œA hint? At what?” Elizabeth looks at him, bewildered.
    â€œThat you’d rather never hear from me again?” Evan winks at her mischievously.
    â€œHuh? Oh! No!” Elizabeth shakes her head furiously. “I’m just bad with numbers, and it’s a new one. I feel really stupid.”
    â€œFair explanation.” Evan grins. “We’ll see if you’ll accept my Facebook invitation.”
    â€œI will, I swear!”
    Evan tucks his phone back in his pocket. “Nice meeting you, Elizabeth.”
    â€œYou too. And thanks for the book.” Their eyes meet. Elizabeth notices his are an unusual green color, almost like a cat’s. Elizabeth smiles at him but turns quickly away. She doesn’t want Evan to see her blush again as she leaves the bookstore.

    . . .

    â€œI’m sorry, Liz.”
    Her mother is hovering near the door, worried, when she returns. She exhales loudly when she sees Elizabeth, clearly relieved. She’s in her pajamas now, pacing the black-and-white tiled hallway between two piles of empty boxes her dad hasn’t yet gotten around to flattening.
    â€œIt’s okay. You were right,” Elizabeth says softly, dropping her purse to the ground.
    â€œIt’s just that—wait. Did you just say I was right?”
    â€œMaybe.” Elizabeth walks toward the kitchen. “I’m starving.” She opens the pantry. There isn’t much, other than a box of cornflakes and a bag of pretzels. She opts for the pretzels, opening the bag with her teeth. She cuts her gums on the hard plastic and winces, running her tongue along the wound.
    â€œHold on, I want get to get that on tape.” Her mom follows her into the kitchen.
    â€œOn tape?” Leaning against the kitchen counter, Elizabeth rolls her eyes and bites into a pretzel. “I’m not even sure they make tapes anymore.”
    â€œThey do so.” Her mother fills a kettle with water and places it on the stove.
    â€œDon’t think so.” Elizabeth’s voice is muffled by a mouth full of pretzel.
    â€œI have a Dictaphone at work. It uses tapes. So there.” Her mother looks triumphant.
    â€œA Dictaphone?” Elizabeth looks bewildered.
    â€œIt’s like a miniature tape recorder.” Her mother takes out two mugs and places tea bags in each: peppermint, Elizabeth’s favorite.
    â€œI have no idea what you’re talking about. Did you have to order it special, like, from the Smithsonian?”
    â€œVery funny. What was I saying?” The kettle is whistling. Her mom pauses. She turns toward the stove and turns it off as the whistling grows louder and more insistent. Carefully, she pours the steaming water into each mug and hands one to her daughter.
    â€œThanks.” Elizabeth takes the mug and sips her tea. “You were nagging me about something, probably. Pretzel?” She offers her mother the bag.
    â€œNo, thanks. Anyway, I’m sorry about earlier.” She puts a hand on Liz’s shoulder. “I was being unfair. If my parents moved me across the country at fifteen, I’d have probably run away.”
    â€œIs that advice?”
    â€œDon’t even joke.” Her mother puts down her mug and gives her a tentative hug.
    â€œI’m sorry too, Mom.” Elizabeth hugs her back tightly. She can feel her clothes clinging to her back like they’ve been pasted on, still sticky with sweat from her walk.
    â€œSo you had a nice walk?” Her mother picks up her mug of tea