Page 18 of The Seven Year Slip

I cocked my head, the quote familiar. “Anthony Bourdain?”

The right side of his mouth quirked up into a charmingly crooked smile. If it had been any other time, any other place, it might have melted me then and there. “I’ll see you around.”

“Probably not,” I replied.

“Probably not,” he agreed with a self-conscious laugh, and saluted goodbye with his toothbrush, and it was adorable.

I lowered my gaze, and it settled on the calendar on the coffee table.Seven years.

He started for the door.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“The apartment always drew us together when we were at a crossroads,” my aunt had said of her and Vera. So it must’ve drawn this man and me together, too. I really didn’t care about whatever crossroads I was at—I found myself enchanted by the memory of my aunt on my parents’ front doorstep seven years ago, asking me on an adventure, as if time in and of itself was infinite. As if she knew, with that gleam in her eyes, that something was about to happen.

Or, perhaps, it was because of what she’d once told me.

How sometimes time pinched in on itself. How sometimes it bled together like the watercolors I used to paint with.

He lived in a world where my aunt still existed, and if I could stay in that world—however long... Even if it was just in this apartment. Even if it was only this once. Even if the next time I left, the apartment sent me back to my time—

In this apartment, she was still alive somewhere, out in the world.

This kind of magic is heartache, I warned myself, but it didn’t matter, because a soft, almost dead part of my heart that had bloomed every summer with adventure and wonder whispered back,What do you have to lose?

Whatever it was, I spun on my heels and told him just as he reached the door to leave, “You can stay.”

He let go of the front doorknob and turned back to me, a curious look in his bright and pale eyes. They reminded me a bit of the shade of clouds just before a plane ascended above them. “You sure?” he asked in that soft Southern lilt.

“Yeah, but—I have to stay here, too, right now,” I said, folding his napkin up and sticking it in my back pocket. If I remembered my aunt’s stories about Vera, I’d be sent back to my time eventually. “My apartment is kind of”—I paused, wracking my brain for a good lie—“out of commission. It—um. Got infested. With—um.” I glanced at the windowsill. Mother and Fucker were huddled on the AC, preening each other after their harrowing morning. “Pigeons.”

His eyes widened. “Oh. I didn’t realize it could get that bad.”

“Oh, yeah. They’re called the rats of the skies for a reason.” God, I was a terrible liar, but he seemed to buy it with a serious nod.Seriously?What were the pigeons like wherehe’sfrom? “So... while my aunt’s gone, she told me to look after her apartment, and I figured I could stay here a few days while that got sorted out.” I finally dragged my eyes back to him. “I’m sorry if I was a bit mean at first. You just surprised me. But if my aunt told you that you could stay...”

“Thank you, thank you!” He pressed his hands against each other in prayer. “I swear, you won’t even know I’m here.”

I highly doubted that, since he was almost impossible to ignore. He justlookedlike a loud kind of person, but he was also mesmerizing to watch. He moved through the world with this air of nonchalance—like he didn’t care what anyone else thought. It was infectious. I shifted on my feet uncomfortably, because it was finally beginning to sink in that this was real, and my aunt’s storywas true. It was exactly what I had wished for for years—opening her apartment, holding my breath, waiting to be whisked away—

Only for it to happennow, after my aunt was gone, after I no longer had a heart for impossible things.

Why couldn’t I have had an encounter with someone less...enthusiastic? This man felt like he could exist anywhere and call it home, too much like my aunt, too much like the person I had wanted to be.

“To make up for getting off on the wrong foot,” he said, and cocked his head in a boyish way, “can I cook us dinner?”

Us.That surprised me. I felt my chest tighten like a rubber band. I quickly looked away. “Um, sure. I think there’s some spaghetti sauce in the pantry?”

“Oh, that’s sweet, but I’ve something else in mind.” His grin turned into a smile, and it was bright and crooked and, oh,no, so charming, like he had a hundred secrets he couldn’t wait to tell me tucked into the corners of his lips. “One of my favorite recipes. I’m Iwan, by the way.” He outstretched his hand. He hadn’t even taken off his duffel bag yet.

I took a deep breath and accepted his hand. His fingertips were hard and calloused, scars across his fingers, burns on his hands. They were also warm, and his grip was solid, and it melted all the nerves I had had a moment before. This might not be so bad. “Clementine,” I replied.

“Oh, like—”

I squeezed his hand a little tighter and deadpanned, “If you sing that song, I might have to kill you.”

He laughed. “I’d never dream of it.”

I let go of his hand, and he finally slid off his duffel bag, dropping it by the couch, and hurried into the kitchen. I followed him wearily. He pushed up his already short sleeves and grabbed acutting board from the counter, then spun it around by its handle with a flourish.

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