Saturday morning came. I slept in.

And when I finally admitted to myself that trying to doze off one more time was a lost cause, guess what?

I was still finished with Michael.

I stretched but didn’t get up.

I’d poured a ridiculous amount of time, energy, and expertise into him . . . and what had he given me in return?

Nothing. Not even a few bucks for gas money.

Just a lot of trouble topped with attitude.

I will admit it: I was reluctant to close the book on him completely. There was one last piece of information I wanted. I wanted to know what happened after I dropped him at his house Saturday night, but I wasn’t about to ask. I knew Michael would try to apologize to me at some point, and when he did, I’d extract the information and dismiss him for good.

I’d keep an eye open for him at school on Monday, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to find him.

Why should I?

I’d tried to help Michael and he screwed it all up.

Actually, considering the size of the battle and the stupidity of my subject, I felt like I’d done an admirable job.

And when you think about it, I was fairly successful. Because of me, Michael’s life was far better than it had been, both at school and probably at home.

Michael was no longer at the bottom of the food chain. He wasn’t anywhere near the top (like me), but he’d definitely come up from the bottom of the ocean. Michael got considerably less shit from the general public than he ever had. In fact, more than a few people thought he was a badass.

And he’d finally seen his father again. Granted, it hadn’t gone as well as I’d anticipated, but still, at least he’d been up to see him.

And Wanda! If you could believe Michael’s version of “The Parking Lot,” Wanda might actually want to see him again.

(Which reminded me, I still needed to have a talk with her about ditching me.)

And that whole “grifter” thing? I think Michael’s full of shit. If I’m such a con artist, then what the hell did I get out of our “friendship”?

So it was settled: With the exception of a few minutes to hear his apology, no more Michael. He was officially dismissed, and the dismissal felt good.

But even I had to admit, while he was a massive pain in the ass, he’d temporarily helped to alleviate some of the monotony of school. Now that he was gone, I would need another distraction.

I suppose that’s why I started thinking about Chrissy.

Or maybe I wanted to prove Michael wrong and show everyone (once again) what a helpful young man I am.

I don’t really know, but whatever the reason, she kept coming up that morning as I started thinking about a new distraction. And when she did, it was almost always the comment her father had dropped—the one about her not having a date or a boyfriend or whatever he’d said. Don’t ask me why. After all, I’m sure she’d heard far worse when he was hammered.

Even though Michael had been a huge expenditure of time and effort, I was now rolling out of bed and into the shower, on the verge of making my second trip to Baltimore in less than twenty-four hours.

Getting the car again wasn’t a problem. When I came downstairs, Mom’s car was in the garage, although she was nowhere to be found (not that I made much of an effort to find her).

Who knew where Dad was.

Driving up to Baltimore, I hoped that Michael’s father was working on a nice hangover. I figured persuading him to let Chrissy out of his sight for two minutes would be much easier if his brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

It was kind of nice going up in the middle of the day: sunny, and not much traffic. And even if they were out, or he wouldn’t let me see her, at least it felt like I was doing something to counter the unpleasant aftertaste of “The Michael Affair.”

I hadn’t bothered to pull up the directions. I was in a hurry and figured I could probably remember them—the last visit was still pretty fresh. Coasting down their street, I looked hard for the line. Once again, however, I missed it. I got distracted by a weird-looking bug on the dashboard, and when I was finally able to shoo it out the passenger-side window, I had already crossed.

My memory is always pretty reliable, and in no time I was pulling up in front of their apartment. I was halfway to the door when I remembered I should be parking on a side street. It took some of the spring out of my step, but it didn’t take long to find a better spot and resume my approach. I was almost to the building when another bothersome thought cropped up. The security door.

Although it hadn’t been a problem on our last two visits, I wondered if Dad would be a little less inclined to let people in this morning. Oh well. I’m here. Might as well try.

I pushed the button.

Nothing.

Great.

I tried the door, then leaned in closer, wondering if anyone was on the other side. I couldn’t see much. The hallway was dark and the glass was filthy. I almost had a heart attack when the door suddenly flew open.

A skinny little guy stopped, gave me a quick look up and down, and held the door open for me.

“Forget your key?” he said.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“I hate this fucking door,” he said.

“You’re not the only one,” I said, disappearing inside.

So much for security.

They might not be home, but at least I’d know for sure. But just as I rounded the first landing, I stopped in my tracks.

Something occurred to me.

What if they were home but couldn’t hear the buzzer? What if Dad was having a few beverages and listening to some tunes?

I closed my eyes, groaned, and dragged my legs up the rest of the steps. No time for self-pity. I needed to plan. What would I do if Dad was drunk? Listen to the beginning of the music lecture, then bolt for the door? And what about Chrissy? Would she know I tried to see her, or would she have locked herself in the bedroom?

I made it to the third floor and headed down the hall with my head cocked to one side. Music came through some of the doors, but it was low and cautious, as if it knew someone had a hangover. I heard some TVs and a few voices, but a lot of the apartments felt empty.

I stopped in front of Michael’s father’s door and put an ear to the wood.

No music, but that didn’t mean I was in the clear. A picture came to me, of Michael’s father standing eagerly on the other side of the door, records in hand, just waiting for me to knock.

I chased the image away and tapped on the wood.

No one answered, but I knew I needed to give it a real try. I stepped forward with my arm in the air, but before I could knock, the door swung in. I let Michael’s father stare at my arm for a few seconds before I realized I wouldn’t need its services.

“How’d you get in?” he asked.

“They know me here.”

His eyebrows bunched up, but he didn’t say anything.

“So, how’s it going?” I asked casually.

He was in a dirty white robe and hadn’t brushed his hair. He looked like he’d seen better days.

“Is Michael with you?” he asked, out into the hall.

“Nope.”

His father nodded but kept his eyes away from mine.

“Kind of quiet in there,” I said. “No music today?”

Definitely the wrong thing to say, but I hadn’t given myself enough prep time.

“Yeah, Chrissy told me you guys were here,” he said tightly.

“She told you?” I said.

“Memory problems,” he said, tapping his temple and giving me a grimace.

I nodded.

“Did I . . .?” he started, but couldn’t finish.

“You mean last night?”

He nodded.

“You were all right,” I said. “You just talked a lot about music.”

He shook his head from side to side.

“You tried to give us some of your albums.”

“I did?”

It was like talking to one of my friends: “Dude, I was completely wasted last night. Did I do anything stupid?”

“No, you were all right. Don’t worry, everyone throws up in their driveway, then somersaults through it.”

“Did Michael . . . I mean, was Michael upset?”

“A little. But he’ll get over it.”

Michael’s father closed his eyes and sighed. “You don’t know what it feels like—what it did to me to see him again,” he said.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said, but only because I wanted him to stop. Then I saw my chance. “I’m pretty sure he’ll be back,” I said. “But you were kind of mean to Chrissy.”

“How?” he demanded.

“You said something about how you were glad she wouldn’t ever have a date. You didn’t say it to her face, but she was listening.”

“So that’s why she’s so mad,” he said, as if I’d solved a gigantic mystery for him.

“That’s why I’m here,” I announced. “I’m going to take her out.”

He took his time digesting the words.

“What do you mean?”

I tried to look behind him. No Chrissy, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t around.

“Not a real date,” I said, quietly. “Just out for a while.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t even know you,” he said. “I’m not going to let my daughter go out with some kid I don’t even know.”

“How is that different than some guy from her school taking her out?”

“For one thing, you’re older than she is,” he said. “And why the hell are you doing this anyway?”

“I’m not that much older,” I said.

It was pretty lame, I realize, but what do you want? I was improvising.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No way.”

“Why not?”

“I just told you.”

“So you’re just going to keep her locked up forever?”

“Maybe. It’s none of your business what I do,” he said, getting pissy.

I had to tone it down or he’d shut that door for good.

“Sorry,” I said. “Look, I know it’s not my business, but what are you worried about? You don’t think I’m going to try something, do you?”

He kind of snorted and grimaced at the same time.

“We’ll just go to the aquarium for a while—she likes sea horses, right?” I said, remembering the poster. “And people are always getting hysterical about how great the aquarium is here.”

“So I’m just supposed to give you a few bucks and tell you kids to have a good time?”

“I’ve got money,” I said, even though I knew that wasn’t the point.

“Look, I already said no, so I don’t know why we’re still talking about this.”

The door was about to close.

That’s when I suddenly imagined Michael standing beside me. He put a hand on my shoulder and nodded encouragingly. The image was going to make me either laugh or vomit all over Dad.

“Something funny?” his father asked.

“Sorry. Just thinking about something Michael said.”

“About me?”

“No, no . . . something we were talking about the other day.”

He stared at me and said, “Well, anyway, I’m sorry you drove all the way up here.”

It only took a second to decide. I knew what would get me in, and although it wasn’t something I intended to submit for end-of-day announcements at school, if there was ever a time to play the card, this was it. Besides, who cared if Michael’s drunk father knew? After all, he’d probably flush the new information out during the next good bender.

“Look, you don’t need to worry about me . . . about me trying anything. I think I might be gay.”

I watched his father’s face. He definitely wasn’t expecting the information he’d just received.

“What do you mean?” he finally asked.

“I think I prefer boys instead of girls.”

“I know what it means,” he said, uncomfortably.

I didn’t point out that he was the one who’d asked.

“You don’t . . . have anything, do you?” his father asked.

“What?” Have anything? What’s he asking for? Beer? Meth?

“Nothing. Never mind,” he said.

He looked me over again. There was something about the way he did it that reminded me of Michael—the way he’d looked into me just before he let go and told me about his dreams.

So I let him. I figured I had nothing to lose. I didn’t have much left to try anyway—just a push-him-down-and-run-into-Chrissy’s-room plan, and I wasn’t big on that one.

“So where did you say you wanted to go?” he asked.

And that was that.

As soon as I stepped into the apartment, Chrissy’s door suddenly closed.

“Must be windy in here,” I said, hustling down the hall before he could change his mind.

“Yeah,” he said, watching me go.

I knocked on her door.

“What?”

“Hi, Chrissy. It’s Matthew.”

Three seconds.

“Who?”

“Matthew. Michael’s friend?”

Two seconds.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” I said. “Can I come in?”

“I guess so.”

She was sitting on the bed, trying to look as if she hadn’t been listening.

“What’s up?” I said, sitting down next to her.

“Nothing.”

She was a little red and wouldn’t look at me.

“You look guilty,” I said. “You hiding some guy in here?”

“No,” she almost shouted. She was smiling now.

“You probably have plans today, huh?”

Five seconds. “What?”

“You’re probably busy today, huh? Probably doing something with one of your boyfriends?”

“I don’t have boyfriends,” she said. It was the loud denial of an elementary school girl, secretly pleased that someone thought she was grown-up enough to have a boyfriend.

“Yeah, right. You might be able to fool your dad, but I know better.”

She gave me a look. “Well, I don’t,” she said.

I studied the walls for a minute.

“Well, anyway, I was going to the aquarium today,” I said. “I thought maybe you might want to come with me. If you’re not doing anything.”

She smiled down at her hands.

“Is my dad going?”

“I think he has a few things he wants to do. Is it okay if it’s just you and me?”

Five seconds.

“How are we going to get there?”

“I brought my car,” I said.

“You can drive?”

“Sort of.”

She was quiet.

“Have you ever been there?” I asked.

She nodded.

“What do you like best?”

“The seahorses.”

“They have seahorses there?” I pretended.

She stood up and launched into a dissertation on the seahorse: the different types, their preferred environment, their dietary needs, and a measured opinion of the cutest. I did my best to say, “Really?” and “Wow!” and “No way!”

(Did you know that the male seahorse carries the eggs in his pouch? I didn’t.)

She sat down in front of her girly mirror to brush her hair, still talking. I looked over and saw her father in the doorway.

“She really likes seahorses,” I said.

“Who knew?” he said, heading back to the living room.

The only break in her monologue occurred while she was putting on make-up—I watched her apply lipstick and use a little brush on her cheeks. I wondered where in the world she’d learned those tricks—probably not from Dad. I felt a little uncomfortable sitting and gawking at her, so I stood up and wandered toward the living room.

She was out before her father and I needed to make awkward conversation. I found myself caught up in her face for a moment and began to understand why he was all cramped-up about her going out with strange guys.

“So, what time would you like us back, sir?” I said, trying to sound like a nice young man.

Chrissy was standing a few feet away staring at the closed front door.

“How about three?”

“Four?”

His face got all frowny.

“Okay, three it is,” I said. “You ready, Chrissy?”

Her face got red and she dropped her eyes, staring down at the floor. Not only did she look angry, she looked like Michael.

I tried to figure out if I’d said anything to upset her, but then her father saw his opportunity and ran with it.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, honey,” he said, quickly.

“We could probably go another time, maybe,” I added, making sure the possibility seemed remote at best.

Chrissy was silent.

“It’s a little too much for her right now,” her father said to me, reaching for his daughter’s hand. “Come on, hon, you can stay here with me.”

She let him take her hand, but when he tried to lead her from the door, she shook herself loose.

“I’m going,” she said, looking up at him.

“Are you sure, hon? Because you don’t need to feel like—”

“Dad!”

“Okay, okay,” he said, raising his hands in defeat.

Her face was flushed like Michael’s, and her eyes had the same look he got when I pushed him too hard.

“Come on,” she said, tugging me out the door.

“Back at three!” her father called after us.

“Four?” I tried, again.

“Three!”

Chrissy marched down the hallway without looking back. I followed her down the stairs and around the landings. She pushed her way through the doors and finally came to a stop when she realized her feet were on the sidewalk.

She was breathing hard. I hung back for a minute. If someone had come along at that moment, I’m sure they would have thought we’d had a fight and I was trying to get my girlfriend to come back inside.

I pulled up next to her.

“We don’t have to go,” I said. “I just thought you might like to get out for a while . . . you know, without your dad.”

“I’m not scared,” she said.

“I know you’re not.”

“And I’m not stupid,” she said, turning on me. “You think I’m stupid.”

“No I don’t.”

She turned away.

“I don’t hang out with stupid people,” I said. “Well, except for Michael.”

I was hoping for a smile but didn’t get one. I got this instead: “I’m not going to have sex with you.”

“I don’t . . . Why do you—? . . . I’m not . . .”

“I know a lot more than you think,” she said.

“I’m sure you do.”

She folded her arms and looked down at the sidewalk.

“Why did you come up here?” she asked.

“I just thought you might want to hang out. With someone your own age, I mean.”

Why do I sound like a parent?

“You’re older than me,” she said.

“Not as old as your dad, though.”

She nodded at the sidewalk.

“I have friends,” she said. “At school.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“I’m not some retard just because I go to a different school.”

“I know that.”

“And I don’t want to go if it’s just one time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to go if you’re not coming back.”

I felt a little stab in my chest and quickly shoved it into the smelly little bathroom in my head.

“I’ll come back if you want me to,” I said, weakly.

She studied my face, just like her father had, just like Michael had. I guess she was okay with what she found, because she suddenly turned back into a shy little girl.

“Where’s your car?” she asked.

“It’s right over there,” I said, pointing to a parked police car across the street.

“You’re not a cop,” she said.

“Don’t make me arrest you,” I said, leading her around the corner and down the side street.

“Why aren’t we going in your police car?” she said, smiling.

“I’m undercover,” I said, unlocking the doors. “They need my help at the aquarium. Some kind of mystery.”

“No they don’t.”

“I have a talking dog and a van,” I said.

“No you don’t.”

She told me she knew the way.

“Sounds good,” I said, wishing my phone wasn’t in the glove compartment.

Looking at the clock, I realized it was lunchtime and I was starting to get hungry. Not a good thing. I get kind of pissy when I get hungry, so I was going to have to watch myself.

“They have a dolphin,” she said, opening her window just a bit, then closing it again.

“Oh yeah?” I said, the same way I’d answer a little kid who told me she lived on an anthill.

“They do,” she said, glaring.

Oops . . . I’m going to have to be careful.

“You mean like a stuffed dolphin or something?” I said.

“No. A real dolphin, in a swimming pool.”

“Oh . . . Can you ride it?”

It took her a few seconds to process.

“What?”

“Why is it in a pool?” I said. “So people can ride it?”

Five seconds.

“You don’t ride dolphins,” she said.

“Do you eat them?”

“No!”

“I like swordfish,” I said. “Is there a restaurant in the aquarium?”

She crossed her arms and glared out the window.

“Sorry,” I said. “Just a little hungry. How many seahorses do they have?” I asked.

No response.

“I remember seeing something on the news about their seahorse collection,” I said.

Five seconds.

“It’s the biggest in the world,” she said, still looking out the window.

“Not in the world,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, a little louder.

“So how many?”

“A hundred and eighty.”

“No way!”

“Well, they’re not all seahorses,” she said, warming up a little. “They have sea dragons, too.”

She was fine after that. I’d explain to you the difference between a seahorse and a sea dragon, but I stopped listening once I realized a sea dragon is about the same size as a seahorse. Anyway, I just wanted her in a good mood. Who wants to drag a pouty girl around all afternoon?

Eventually, we saw a few signs for the aquarium and followed them. I didn’t want to pay a hundred dollars to park in the aquarium lot, so I was pretty happy when I found a spot nearby. Ten minutes after that and we were closing in on the harbor, on our way to the aquarium just like any other couple. I kind of liked the cover. I felt like shaking someone’s hand.

Hello there, I’m Matthew, heterosexual male. This is my girlfriend, Chrissy.

She chattered about seahorses while I played tourist.

I perked up a little when I noticed the guys with silver food carts.

“Want a hot dog?” I said.

“No thanks,” she said, slipping right back into her lecture.

I don’t know what I was thinking. I really should have gotten some food, either at my house or on the way up. Even the gasoline/dead fish smell coming from the water was somewhat appetizing. But all too soon, we were taking a little footbridge over a slice of water that dropped us about fifty yards from the aquarium.

The building itself, unlike the others scattered nearby, was certainly . . . unique. At first glance, it looked as if the builders had accidentally collapsed the whole thing just as they were finishing up, then shoved the whole mess together before the boss could see. As we got closer, I decided the contractors involved in the waterfront renovation had used the site of the future aquarium as a junkyard. Then, once they were wrapping things up, someone realized they’d probably need to do something with all the extras—either slap them together or haul them out.

The solution: Bring in a giant crane, hire someone with very little time or patience, then slide, stack, and shove everything closer together and call it a building.

Standing in line for tickets, I stared up at a couple of glass triangles, several slabs of cement about the size and shape of a submarine, and a deflated trapezoid glued to the front for good measure.

Unique.

The line to buy tickets wasn’t long, and we were inside before I had time to make a side trip to the nearest food cart. We talked a little, mostly about fish, but occasionally I was able to steer her toward something else. Like school.

“Do you like school?” I asked.

It was such a dumb question I almost punched myself in the face. Was I some random adult trying to have an uncomfortable conversation with a teenager?

“Yeah,” she said, “it’s okay.”

“What do you like about it?” I asked, again immediately disgusted with myself.

“I don’t know.”

“Are the kids nice?”

“Some.”

“Are the teachers nice?”

“Yeah.”

Okay, I was done, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to throw out, “What’s your favorite subject?”

“I haven’t been held in over a year,” she said.

“Oh yeah?”

What does that mean?

“Some kids get held every day,” she added.

I guessed that being “held” wasn’t like getting a hug.

“I don’t get like that anymore,” she said.

I wanted to pursue the holding thing, though it was a little unsettling, but I could tell she was done.

We spent some time outside, looking at the water. I liked it outside, near the open water, but Chrissy was anxious to get to the seahorse exhibit and we were back inside after ten minutes.

Considering her obsession with seahorses, I figured we’d be staring at them for the next three hours, but I was wrong. We started at a pretty good pace, and didn’t stay long near any of the tanks.

Chrissy talked as she moved down the row of tanks, eyes pressed close. She talked, but she wasn’t talking to me anymore. She was like an employee making her rounds. Actually, she was pretty good company. Sometimes she directed a comment to me, but most of the time, she seemed to be lecturing an imaginary group of tourists. And even when she was talking to me, it didn’t seem to matter much if I responded or not.

After a while, my thoughts started to wander.

Chrissy had agreed to come on the condition that I’d make at least one follow-up visit. I started to plan. Should I take her to the aquarium again, or someplace different? Like Gut, Dad needed a little work, but I’d have to be careful; Dad would probably be a bit more challenging. He was definitely touchy, and touchy people are like an unfamiliar dog: ears cocked, blocking your way, just looking for a good reason to latch onto your forearm.

Lost in thought, and only half-listening, I trailed behind her.

“Why do they have you two together?” she said, leaning forward to examine a tank.

I glanced over but wasn’t sure what she meant. A big chunk of reddish-pink coral accounted for almost every inch of space. I leaned forward but couldn’t see anything.

“You don’t like it in there.”

Something in her voice tugged at my sleeve. It wasn’t the words—it was the tone. There was something dangerous there, like a sliver of flame jumping to life near a baby’s crib.

Chrissy was close to a tank, her index finger pressed against the glass, staring intently at something. I stepped up beside her.

“You don’t like it in there,” she repeated.

A very small seahorse clung to a thin branch of coral. Since the occupant didn’t seem terribly upset, I searched the tank, looking for an explanation. Coral, gravel, seahorse—just like all the other tanks. What was the problem? Was the tank too small?

“Why doesn’t he like it in there?” I asked.

“She.”

I sighed. “Okay, why doesn’t she like it?”

Five seconds. No answer.

“Lonely?” I guessed.

Nothing.

“Hungry?”

I was thinking about hot dogs again when Chrissy stabbed the glass with a finger, hard, like she meant to break through it if she could.

“That one! That’s why!”

I scanned the room. A few faces turned toward us. A guard at one end was suddenly interested. I looked at Chrissy, then back at the tank. Her finger was still jammed up against the side, the tip white from the pressure.

“What are you . . . What’s wrong?” I asked.

“She shouldn’t be in there with that one!” She punctuated the words shouldn’t, in, and that with additional stabs at the glass.

More faces now, and a guard headed our way. I scanned the tank again, desperate for something, anything.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What . . .?”

And then I saw it: another, bigger seahorse just above the little one. Exactly the same color as the coral. Turned sideways, tail around a branch, and one chameleon eye pointed down at the little one. Sizing up its roommate.

“Everything okay over here?” the guard asked.

I began to answer, but Chrissy broke in: “That little one shouldn’t be in there with him.”

The guard looked at Chrissy, paused, and bent forward, staring into the tank. “Hmm . . . I think you might be right,” he said. “I’ll let someone know, okay?”

“Thank you,” I said, as if he and I both understood how difficult children could be.

The guard frowned at me, then turned back to Chrissy. “One of the biologists should be in soon. I’ll make sure she takes a look as soon as she gets in, okay?”

Chrissy nodded, but her eyes never left the tank.

“Okay, well, thanks for your help,” I said. “We’ll try to keep our fingers off the glass. Right, Chrissy?”

No response. I smiled ruefully at the guard. He frowned.

“So. . .” I tried. “Maybe we should go see the . . . other stuff?”

I reached over, thinking I might take her elbow.

Didn’t work.

She twisted away and continued her inspection, picking up right where she had left off. I followed at a safe distance, watching for any sudden movements. I’m not sure what I would have done if she had suddenly decided to sprint back to the other tank and free the threatened seahorse herself, but I sure as hell wasn’t thinking about food anymore.

It seemed to take forever, but eventually, we found ourselves at the end of the exhibit.

“So,” I said, “any more seahorses we need to . . . check on?”

She shook her head.

I looked at my watch, but I don’t actually wear one, so I ended up looking at my wrist. “Your father wanted us back at two, right?” I said.

“Three.”

Well, at least she’s talking now.

“Anything else we have to . . . we should see?”

She shook her head again.

“So I guess . . . Should we . . .?”

We did—out the front doors, back across the cement, and past the silver carts one more time. As hungry as I was, I decided to wait. The desire to drop her off was much stronger than the need for food.

On the ride back, Chrissy looked out the window and I played with the stereo. I had plenty of time to wonder if spending additional time and energy on another member of Michael’s family was such good idea. Eventually, we turned down her street and passed her building. I hooked a U-turn and rolled to a stop not too far from the front door.

“You don’t need to walk me up,” she said, just as I was reaching for my seat belt.

“You’re just trying to avoid a goodnight kiss, aren’t you?” I said.

Horrible joke. I realize that now, but these things happen when I’m nervous.

Five seconds.

“You can kiss me if you want.”

My turn to be caught in the five-second delay—that is, until I saw a hand over her mouth, trying to cover the edges of a smile.

“Hey . . . that’s mean!” I said, so relieved I almost did a little dance.

She smiled at her window. I gave her shoulder a little push. And just for a second, as I watched her laugh, kissing her didn’t seem so funny anymore. For just a moment, Chrissy was pretty enough to break anybody’s heart.

“Remember,” she said, still smiling.

She unbuckled her seat belt.

“Remember what?”

“Remember that you’re coming to see me again.”

“Oh . . . yeah, of course.”

Her eyes held me in place—a velvet touch tighter than a hand against my cheek. She smiled and opened her door.

“Next Saturday,” she said.

“Next Saturday? Well, actually, I don’t know if . . .”

But she was already closing the car door over my excuse.

“Hey . . . wait,” I said. “Won’t your dad be pissed if I let you walk up alone?”

She leaned back in through the open window. “I’ll take care of my dad,” she said.

I watched her walk down the sidewalk toward the front door. I made sure she was in before I started to pull out. I could just see her inside the little entryway, pulling her keys out of the second door, then slipping inside and out of sight.

I drifted through town, headed back toward the highway, and twisted around the ramp and into the familiar sludge of traffic. Thinking about it on the way home, I tried to decide whether I had actually agreed to see her next Saturday.

The results were inconclusive.

However, just in case I did end up in Baltimore again, I reluctantly decided to do some planning while I had the time.

Now, what does Chrissy need?

Time away from Dad—that was a given. But what else?

I didn’t get very far, though—my mind kept looping back to replay parts of our first “date.” Eventually, two images beat out the others. The first: her profile as she poked the tank. The second: her face as she looked back into my car.

“I’ll take care of my dad.”

I tried to brush them off and wave them away, but they were persistent. I pulled up song after song, trying to block out the images, but I couldn’t settle on anything else.

Planning for Michael had been relatively easy. The only real difficulty had been the occasional distraction of an Astronomy lecture.

But Chrissy . . .

I realized her little incident with the fish tank was preventing any real thought. I killed the radio with a poke that would have made Chrissy proud.

What the hell was I whining about, anyway? Even though her “aggressive sightseeing” was a bit of a surprise, as a client, Chrissy was perfect. Well, maybe not perfect, but she would be far less trouble than Michael.

Michael was far too obstinate. He seemed intent on doing “the right thing” in most situations. I wouldn’t have that problem with Chrissy (or if I did, I knew I could get around it pretty quickly). She was much more malleable than Michael—just look at her progress after only one session. Okay, so I’d have to deal with some poking when she got cranky. So what? I could just take her by the pet shop when got mad and let her go to town on the aquariums.

There was nothing to worry about. I had at least a week to plan for our next visit. More if I decided to blow her off.

I knew Chrissy would listen to me, unlike Michael. It was obvious that she already had a thing for me, which could be an insurmountable advantage if played correctly. Between her and Dad, it was the perfect summer project—guaranteed not to bore.

Crossing back into Virginia and back on familiar ground, I started to feel more like myself again. I set the possibility of a Saturday visit in the corner, telling myself I’d address it just as soon as I had the time.

Or maybe I’d just slap something together on the ride up.

It didn’t really matter, did it?