Aria smiled back. “Iceland.”
His eyes brightened. “I once spent a few nights in Reykjavík on my way to Amsterdam. There was this huge, awesome party in the harbor.”
Aria cupped her hands around her pint glass. “Yeah,” she said, smiling, “they have the best parties there.”
“Were you there for the northern lights?”
“Of course,” Aria replied. “And the midnight sun. We had these awesome raves in the summer…with the best music.” She looked at his glass. “What are you drinking?”
“Scotch,” he said, already signaling to the bartender. “Want one?”
She nodded. The guy moved three stools down next to her. He had nice hands with long fingers and slightly ragged fingernails. He wore a small button on his corduroy jacket that said, SMART WOMEN VOTE!
“So you lived in Iceland?” He smiled again. “Like for a junior year abroad?”
“Well, no,” Aria said. The bartender set the Scotch down in front of her. She took a big, beer-size gulp. Her throat and chest immediately sizzled. “I was in Iceland because…”
She stopped herself. “Yeah, it was my, uh, year abroad.” Let him think what he wanted.
“Cool.” He nodded. “Where were you before that?”
She shrugged. “Um…back here in Rosewood.” She smiled and quickly added, “But I liked it over there so much better.”
He nodded. “I was really depressed to come back to the States after Amsterdam.”
“I cried the whole way home,” Aria admitted, feeling like herself—her new, improved Icelandic Aria self—for the first time since she’d been back. Not only was she talking to a cute, smart guy about Europe, but this might be the only guy in Rosewood who didn’t know her as Rosewood Aria—the weirdo friend of the pretty girl who vanished. “So, do you go to school here?” she asked.
“Just graduated.” He wiped his mouth off with a napkin and lit a Camel. He offered her one from the pack, but she shook her head. “I’m gonna do some teaching.”
Aria took another sip of the Scotch and realized she’d finished it. Wow. “I’d like to teach, I think. Once I finish school. Either that or write plays.”
“Yeah? Plays? What’s your major?”
“Um, English?” The bartender set another Scotch in front of her.
“That’s what I’m teaching!” the guy said. As he said it, he put his hand on Aria’s knee. Aria was so surprised she flinched and nearly knocked over her drink. He pulled his hand away. She blushed.
“Sorry,” he said, a little sheepishly. “I’m Ezra, by the way.”
“Aria.” Suddenly her name sounded hilarious. She giggled, off balance.
“Whoa.” Ezra grabbed her arm to steady her.
Three Scotches later, Aria and Ezra had established that they’d both met the same old sailor bartender at the Borg bar in Reykjavík, loved the way bathing in the mineral-rich blue lagoon hot springs made them feel sleepy, and actually liked the rotten-egg sulfur smell of the geothermal hot spring water. Ezra’s eyes were getting bluer by the second. Aria wanted to ask if he had a girlfriend. She felt warm inside, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t just from the Scotch.
“I kind of have to go to the bathroom,” Aria said woozily.
Ezra smiled. “Can I come?”
Well, that answered the girlfriend question.
“I mean, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Was that too forward of me?” he asked, looking up from under his knitted eyebrows.
Her brain buzzed. Hooking up with strangers wasn’t really her thing, at least not in America. But hadn’t she said she wanted to be Icelandic Aria?
She stood up and took his hand. They stared at each other the whole way to Snookers’ women’s bathroom. There was toilet paper all over the floor and it smelled even worse than the rest of the bar, but Aria didn’t care. As Ezra hoisted her onto the sink and she wrapped her legs around his waist, all she could smell was his scent—a combination of Scotch, cinnamon, and sweat—and nothing had ever smelled sweeter.
As they said in Finland or wherever, ja.
3
HANNA’S FIRST TOGGLE
“And apparently they were having sex in Bethany’s parents’ bedroom!”