“No.” He runs a hand down his tie. Says nothing more.
“Good.” I type in my passcode. “Are you with the dermatologists?” I navigate to the main menu, and when he doesn’t answer, I clear my throat and try again. “Do you have a reservation with us?”
“I do.” He says the words slowly, like he’s scanning them for errors.
I have no idea what his problem is. Men who wear suits like his usually sound a lot more confident. But then I look up, and I’m met with a very handsome, very chiseled, very tense-looking face. He’s about my age, and he’s strangely familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen this face before. It’s something about the nose. Maybe he’s an actor, although celebrity types don’t usually show up in suits and a fresh shave—or at least they didn’t used to.
“The name?”
His eyebrows rise at my question, like he’s surprised I’ve asked. Then I notice how dark his eyes are, black as a crow’s wing, and my stomach twists. His posture is flawless. My heart races, pounding in the pads of my fingers and balls of my feet. I search for the scar immediately. And there it is: below his lip on the left side of his chin, barely visible unless you know to look for it. I can’t believe I still know to look for it.
But I do.
I know this face.
I know his irises aren’t actually black—in the sunlight, they’re espresso brown.
I know how he got that scar.
Because even though I’ve tried to forget him, I know exactly who this man is.
2
June 14, Ten Years Ago
We only had five minutes to get to the station, and the streetcar was stalled. Whitney and I shoved our way from the back of the vehicle through the dense mass of bodies, mumbling half-hearted apologies before we stumbled out onto the sidewalk and took off.
“Hurry up, Whit,” I yelled over my shoulder.
Being late was not an option. There was one bus north that day, and while neither of us had said so, Whitney and her oversized suitcase needed to be on it. We’d spent three days together in my teensy apartment, and our friendship might not survive a fourth.
The sun crouched low in the sky, winking between buildings and glittering off glass towers, as we ran along Dundas Street, our sneakers pounding on the gum-pocked pavement. If you looked up, the glare was blinding, but at ground level, Toronto’s downtown core was cast in blue-gray morning shadow. The contrast was beautiful. The way the light bounced off the windows reminded me of home, a sunset shimmering on the lake.
I wanted to stop and point it out to Whitney. But we didn’t have a second to spare, and even if we had, I doubted she’d find anything magical about the sparkling skyline. I’d been trying to get her to see Toronto through my eyes for her entire trip, and I hadn’t succeeded yet.
We arrived at the coach terminal one minute late, but a long line of travelers stood beside the bus parked at Bay 9, looking various degrees of irritated. The driver was nowhere in sight.
“Thank god,” I breathed.
Whitney doubled over, hands on her knees. Strands of her thick chestnut hair had fallen from her ponytail and were stuck to her crimson cheeks. “I. Hate. Running.”
When she’d caught her breath, we checked that we had the right departure information and attached ourselves to the back of the queue. The station was essentially an oversized garage—a dark, dank armpit of Toronto. The air tasted of vending machine sandwiches, diesel fumes, and misery.
I checked the time on my phone. It was already after ten. I was going to be late for my shift at the coffee shop.
“You don’t have to wait,” Whitney said. “I can take it from here.”
Whitney and I had been best friends since grade school. She had a round face with hazel doe eyes and a tiny cherry of a nose that under most circumstances made her seem deceptively innocent. It was sweet that Whitney was trying to sound brave, but she was clutching her nylon purse to her middle as if it would be snatched away with any less vigilance.
At twenty-two, Whitney had never been alone in Toronto, not even for ten minutes, and while I knew she’d be safe, I wasn’t about to ditch her in one of the city’s dingiest crannies.
“It’s fine. I want to see you off,” I told her.
“Just think,” she said, bouncing on her toes. “Soon I won’t have to come all this way for us to see each other.”
It wasn’t a long drive—two and a half picturesque hours—but whatever.
I stuck on a smile. “I can’t wait.”
“I know you like it here.” She peered over her shoulder. “But sometimes I don’t get it.”
A sarcastic reply stood waiting on my tongue.
How seldom Whitney visited me during university was a sore spot. I wasn’t sure whether it was because our relationship hadn’t found solid footing since our big fight over my “self-destructive behavior” in senior year, or simply because she didn’t like the city. But each trip, it was clear she’d rather be in Huntsville. She didn’t say no to my suggestions, but she wasn’t overly enthusiastic, either. It wasn’t like her. Whitney was the ultimate yes and person—for her, any possibility for antics and adventure was good news.
“Honestly, I’d be happy eating bread and hanging out in your apartment for the next two days,” she’d said when she arrived this week.
Frankly, it pissed me off. My time in Toronto was running out, and there were so many things I still wanted to do. Whitney was supposed to be my wing woman. Instead, I felt like I was dragging her around.
“What’s not to get?” I said now, gesturing around the station with mock grandeur as a man horked on the concrete the next bay over.
Whitney cringed, then glanced down at her phone. “Jamie’s texting me. He wants me to give you a kiss for him.” Her nose wrinkled as she read his messages. “Kiss Fernie goodbye for me. Tongue allowed. Encouraged. Send photo. Winky face.”
I shook my head, fighting the upward curve of my mouth. Jamie was like a human Labradoodle—a happy-go-lucky, pleasure-seeking mop of golden curls. Hearing his name made me feel a little lighter. “My boyfriend said that? I’m shocked.”
“He’s dying to get you up there. We all are.”
I swallowed, then with relief spotted a man in a telltale navy uniform ambling toward the bus.
“Take your time,” one of the passengers yelled at him. “It’s not like we’re behind schedule.”
“I’m so excited we’ll be in the same place again,” Whitney went on.
I nodded, pushing the words out. “Me too.”
Four years of living apart from my best friend and my boyfriend: I should have been counting the seconds until we were reunited. I hadn’t seen Jamie since his surprise trip on Valentine’s Day. During the winter, he worked as a snowboarding instructor in Banff, but he’d been back at the resort since the May long weekend. I’d finished my final year of university—I should have been there with him. I should have packed my bags after my last exam in April. Instead, I talked Mom into letting me stay until the end of June so I could bum around the city until convocation, which was now a week away. I played on her sympathies as a business owner, telling her my boss was having trouble finding a barista to replace me.
The bus rumbled to life, and then the driver began tossing luggage into its underbelly. As passengers shuffled forward and the line dwindled, Whitney and I gave each other a long squeeze.
“Love you, Baby,” she said.
Growing up at a Dirty Dancing–style resort came with a Dirty Dancing–style nickname. “Baby.” I hated it. It didn’t even make sense—Baby was a guest.
I stood on my tiptoes and pulled her hood up, yanking on the strings to cinch it around her face. “Love you, too,” I told her. At least that wasn’t a lie.
Once Whitney had found a seat, I blew her a kiss and took my headphones from my canvas tote bag. I pressed play, letting Talking Heads drown out the bus engine and the ticking countdown that grew louder with each passing moment.
Nine more days until I had to go home.
* * *