Three days passed in the blink of an eye.
Ikaris preferred to pretend nothing had happened.
It was considerably easier that way.
Unfortunately, his friend—and he used the word with tremendous generosity, considering he could count the number of verbal exchanges they had shared over two years of being classmates—seemed determined to make that impossible.
Their peculiar relationship was further complicated by the fact that he had spent an entire year getting her name wrong, and had only registered her as a distinct human being three days prior.
Still, by definition, Isabella Swan was a friend.
An inconvenient one.
Most days, Ikaris could feel her eyes following him like a hawk's. Once upon a time, she had merely glanced in his direction, much like everyone else, and pretended to be interested in something entirely different whenever he caught her looking.
She still did that.
Only now, her shyness was somewhat blunted by their shared insanity.
After all, one had found himself standing on the edge of a building, while the other—considerably weaker and apparently possessing no understanding of basic physics—had decided to pull him off it.
Had he resisted, they might both have fallen.
Her clumsiness is one thing, he mused. She also has the survival instincts of a rock.
A particularly determined rock.
So he pretended not to notice.
And Isabella continued watching him as though he might suddenly take his pencil during class and drive it through his eye socket to achieve peace from some unbearable internal suffering.
There was plenty of internal suffering, admittedly.
But his dreams, if anything, were euphoric.
That was the truly unfortunate part.
The waking world was filled with disappointments, medication, uncomfortable silences, and people who insisted on discussing his feelings.
His dreams were filled with stars.
With magnificent cities whose towers pierced clouds of golden dust. With oceans that stretched beneath unfamiliar constellations. With voices calling him by names he did not remember learning.
Sometimes he woke with the impression that he had been loved.
Not by one person.
By thousands.
And the loss of that affection upon waking was so profound that he occasionally wondered whether his depression was simply homesickness for a place that had never existed.
A perfectly reasonable thought.
One he would never share with his therapist.
Recently, however, he had begun noticing other things.
Ordinary things.
Things he should have noticed years ago.
It was almost as though he had been sleepwalking through his own existence, which, given recent developments, was a possibility he could no longer comfortably dismiss.
For example, Isabella was not his only friend.
Apparently, he had two others.
This came as a considerable surprise.
The first was Keith.
A black-and-blond-haired boy with a fondness for dark clothing, black nail polish, and poetry concerning the inevitable decay of human existence.
Keith sat beside him every weekday in the cafeteria.
They exchanged exactly three poems.
Not two.
Not four.
Three.
It was their established method of communication, and according to the rest of the school, they were best friends.
Ikaris found this fascinating.
He had always assumed Keith was simply a particularly persistent stranger who enjoyed depressing literature.
Apparently, the distinction between friendship and tolerating someone's continued existence was considerably smaller than he had imagined.
Keith, meanwhile, seemed entirely satisfied with their arrangement.
He wrote poems about death.
Ikaris responded with poems about the stars.
Keith interpreted them as metaphors for existential isolation.
Ikaris had never bothered correcting him.
The second member of his newly discovered social orbit was Sarah.
Sarah had once been popular.
Exceptionally popular.
The sort of girl whose birthday parties required invitations, whose clothing attracted attention, and whose parents possessed enough money to convince her that consequences were unfortunate experiences reserved for poorer people.
Then something had happened.
Ikaris was familiar with the story.
He had, after all, helped write its opening chapter.
Years earlier, during one of his less memorable stays at an orphanage, Sarah had spat on him.
He remembered that.
Not because it had particularly hurt his feelings.
But because he disliked being wet.
Seven years later, when they encountered each other again at school, he had whispered something to a particularly jealous member of the football team.
A phone was stolen.
Private photographs were leaked.
Sarah's reputation collapsed.
He had not anticipated every consequence.
He had also done very little to prevent them.
It was one of those memories he preferred not to examine too closely, because the more he considered it, the less amusing his revenge became.
For a time, Sarah had been miserable.
Dangerously so.
Eventually, however, she began imitating him.
His indifference.
His isolation.
His peculiar ability to exist among other people without appearing to need them.
She had mistaken his emotional distance for strength.
And, for reasons he had never entirely understood, decided that becoming more like him might make her suffering bearable.
During his recent period of introspection, Ikaris had been forced to acknowledge something uncomfortable.
Sarah was, in a manner of speaking, an orphan.
Perhaps the worse kind.
The kind whose parents were still alive.
At least Ikaris possessed the dignity of not knowing his biological parents. His foster arrangements had been temporary enough that remembering names seemed an unnecessary investment.
Sarah had parents.
She simply had no one who behaved like one.
Money, apparently, was a remarkably poor substitute for affection.
Though it did purchase considerably better lunches.
"You're coming, right?"
Ikaris blinked.
The cafeteria returned around him.
Keith sat beside him, examining a sheet of paper covered in handwriting that resembled the final confession of a nineteenth-century murderer.
Across from them, Sarah was dividing her lunch into increasingly precise sections according to the visual appeal of its ingredients.
Her parents sponsored enough school activities that her meals were always more balanced, more colorful, and considerably more expensive than everyone else's.
She was currently arranging green beans by length.
"Why do you always ask?" Sarah sighed, flicking a particularly offensive bean aside. "You know he never comes to bowling night."
"Where?" Ikaris asked.
Silence.
Keith stopped moving.
Sarah's fork remained suspended halfway to her mouth.
They looked at each other.
Then at him.
Then at each other again.
Ikaris frowned.
He had apparently committed some extraordinary social violation.
"What?" Keith asked.
Ikaris regarded him with renewed concern.
Perhaps the poetry has finally damaged his brain.
"Where," he repeated slowly, "is bowling night?"
Sarah made a noise.
It began as a squeal, rose dangerously in pitch, then died somewhere in her throat as she remembered that excitement was an emotion best concealed in public.
"East Calloway and Recton," she answered quickly. "The bowling alley on the corner. Friday evenings. Usually around seven."
Ikaris considered this.
Friday.
Seven.
An establishment dedicated to knocking objects over with heavier objects.
He could think of worse ways to spend an evening.
He hummed.
Keith leaned backward.
Sarah stared.
"Was that a yes?" she asked.
Another hum.
Keith placed his poem on the table with extraordinary care.
"I knew it," Sarah whispered.
She was practically vibrating.
"I knew it would happen eventually."
Ikaris wondered what, precisely, had happened.
"After all this time," she continued, apparently addressing some invisible audience, "he's finally coming."
Keith remained unconvinced.
"You're coming?" he asked. "As in, physically? You'll actually show up? Not just write something depressing about bowling and leave it in my locker?"
Ikaris glanced at him.
Keith immediately recognized the expression.
He was fluent in Ikaris.
He had to be.
Most of their communication consisted of poetry, silence, and the occasional threatening glance whenever Keith requested a fourth poem.
"Right," Keith muttered. "Stupid question."
Ikaris returned his attention to the table.
Then another thought occurred to him.
"Can I bring someone?"
Sarah froze.
Keith brightened immediately.
"Of course! Bring as many people as you want."
"Just one."
"Who?" Sarah demanded.
Ikaris hesitated.
For reasons he did not understand, he remembered a pair of frightened brown eyes.
A trembling voice.
Two arms wrapped around his waist with a strength that had very little to do with muscle.
"Isabella Swan."
Sarah's mouth fell open.
Keith blinked.
Then smiled.
A slow, delighted smile.
"Oh," he said.
Ikaris frowned.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Sarah looked positively scandalized.
"Isabella Swan?"
"Yes."
"The quiet girl?"
"Yes."
"The girl who sits behind you?"
"Sometimes beside me."
Keith covered his mouth.
Ikaris narrowed his eyes.
"What is wrong with both of you?"
"Absolutely nothing," Sarah replied.
She looked at Keith.
Keith looked at Sarah.
They shared an expression that suggested an entire conversation had occurred without Ikaris's permission.
He decided he disliked friendship.
It involved far too many people knowing things he didn't.
…
Isabella Swan's bedroom was, by most reasonable standards, perfectly ordinary.
Which suited her.
It was a modest room in her mother's house in Phoenix, furnished with the sort of mismatched practicality that came from having a parent who loved decorating but possessed a limited attention span for finishing what she started.
The walls were pale, interrupted by a few photographs, a small collection of books, and decorations that had survived several of Renée's spontaneous attempts at improving the atmosphere.
Her bed was neatly made.
Mostly.
A pile of clothes rested on a chair, awaiting the moment Bella decided whether they were clean enough to wear again.
A small desk stood near the window, overlooking a sunlit neighborhood that offered very little in the way of interesting scenery.
Phoenix was relentlessly bright.
Bella had never understood why people considered that an advantage.
There was only so much sunshine a person could appreciate before it became an inconvenience.
On the desk sat several notebooks.
Most were school-related.
One was not.
Bella leaned over the latter, pen hovering above the page.
She had written three pages.
Three.
About a boy.
It was humiliating.
She stared at the most recent paragraph, wondering whether there was a reasonable explanation for the fact that she had spent the better part of an afternoon documenting another person's peculiarities.
There probably wasn't.
He looked normal today.
She considered the sentence.
Then crossed it out.
Normal was a ridiculous word to associate with Ikaris.
He was quiet, occasionally rude, and possessed the unsettling habit of looking directly through people as though their existence required more attention than he was willing to provide.
He was also remarkably handsome.
Bella disliked how frequently that particular observation appeared in her notes.
She turned backward through the notebook.
Twenty pages.
Twenty pages from the previous year.
She stared at them in disbelief.
Had she really been that interested?
Apparently.
There were observations about his handwriting, his peculiar timing, the way he never seemed to notice when someone entered a room, and the strange poems he exchanged with Keith.
There were also several descriptions of his eyes.
She shut the notebook.
Wonderful.
Apparently, she had been conducting an anthropological study of a boy she barely knew.
An extremely embarrassing anthropological study.
She had stopped writing about him months earlier.
Mostly because she had developed a crush on Arthur Vancent.
That had been an unfortunate chapter in her personal history.
Arthur was intelligent, confident, and reasonably attractive.
He was also apparently convinced that Bella's primary purpose in life was to complete assignments on his behalf.
He would drop newspapers onto her desk, gesture vaguely toward whatever research he needed, and disappear with the expectation that everything would be finished when he returned.
And she had done it.
Every single time.
Bella buried her face in her hands.
How had I been that stupid?
It wasn't even as though Arthur had asked particularly nicely.
She had simply been too embarrassed to refuse.
Eventually, she moved her seat closer to Ikaris.
That solved the problem.
Arthur stopped approaching her.
Her homework returned to being exclusively her own.
And the crush died a quiet, thoroughly deserved death.
Ikaris, meanwhile, had barely acknowledged her existence.
She had considered that an improvement.
At least until three days ago.
Bella opened her notebook again.
Her pen hovered.
He thanked me.
She stared at the words.
He had thanked her twice.
Not casually.
Not with the detached politeness he occasionally employed when someone handed him something.
He had looked directly at her.
And thanked her as though she had done something extraordinary.
Which, technically, she had.
Bella's stomach tightened.
She remembered the rooftop.
The wind.
The empty space beneath his feet. How frighteningly calm he had seemed. She remembered thinking that if he moved even slightly, she might not be able to hold him.
She remembered pulling him anyway.
The memory made her hands tremble.
She set the pen down.
For three days, she had watched him.
Not because she wanted to embarrass him.
Not entirely because she liked looking at him, either, though she was unwilling to examine that possibility too closely.
She watched because she was frightened.
Because she had seen him standing somewhere no one should have been standing, with an expression that suggested he hadn't understood how he had arrived there.
And because, when she thought about what might have happened if she had been even a minute later, her chest became uncomfortably tight.
She wanted to ask him about it.
She also knew he didn't want to talk.
So she watched.
It was the only thing she could think to do.
The doorbell rang.
Bella glanced toward her bedroom door.
She heard her mother's footsteps downstairs.
Then the door opening.
A pause.
"Oh!"
Bella closed her eyes.
That particular exclamation was never a good sign.
Renée Dwyer possessed an extraordinary talent for transforming ordinary encounters into events of personal significance.
She was affectionate, impulsive, relentlessly optimistic, and frequently required Bella to behave like the responsible adult in their household.
Bella loved her.
Deeply.
But there were moments when she wished her mother possessed a slightly less enthusiastic imagination.
"Well, hello!" Renée exclaimed downstairs. "Can I help you?"
A low voice answered.
Bella couldn't make out the words.
Then—
"Bella!"
Her mother's voice rose with alarming excitement.
"Bella, honey! Someone's here to see you!"
Bella frowned.
Someone?
That was unusual.
People rarely visited her.
And when they did, they generally called first.
"Coming!"
She shut the notebook, then hesitated.
She opened it again, checked that the pages concerning Ikaris were safely concealed, and closed it with considerably more force than necessary.
Her reflection in the mirror caught her attention.
Brown hair.
Pale skin.
An expression that suggested she had recently been informed of an approaching natural disaster.
She attempted to smooth her hair.
It made no noticeable difference.
It's probably nothing.
She stepped into the hallway.
Then nearly tripped on the first stair.
Naturally.
By the time she reached the bottom, Renée was standing beside the open front door with an expression of poorly concealed delight.
And there, on the doorstep, stood Ikaris.
Bella stopped.
Her brain, which had been functioning reasonably well only seconds earlier, abruptly abandoned its responsibilities.
Oh.
He was wearing ordinary clothes.
Nothing particularly remarkable.
Yet somehow, standing in the warm Phoenix sunlight, he looked as though he belonged to a completely different world.
Which was ridiculous.
He was a boy from school.
A boy who had spent nearly a year calling her by the wrong name.
A boy who had stood on a rooftop three days earlier and frightened her more than she cared to admit.
A boy who was now standing at her front door.
Looking at her.
Bella became acutely aware of her hands.
She had no idea what to do with them.
"Hi," she managed.
Ikaris regarded her.
"Bowling night."
Silence.
Bella blinked.
Of all the things she had expected him to say, that had not been one of them.
"Sorry?"
"Bowling night," he repeated.
He seemed to consider this a perfectly adequate explanation.
Renée looked between them.
Her smile widened.
Bella felt something warm and thoroughly inconvenient unfold in her chest.
He had come to her house.
Not because he needed answers.
Not because a teacher had assigned them as partners.
Not because he had accidentally wandered into the wrong building.
He had come to invite her somewhere.
Oh, that's bad.
Very bad.
She could practically feel the embarrassing teenage happiness spreading through her, and she had absolutely no intention of allowing it to reach her face.
Unfortunately, her face had never been particularly cooperative.
"Bowling?" she repeated.
"Yes."
"With you?"
He frowned.
"Presumably."
Renée made a delighted little sound.
Bella wished the floor would open beneath her.
"Ikaris," her mother said brightly, "that's very sweet of you!"
He looked at her.
Then at Bella.
As though attempting to identify which part of his statement had qualified as sweet.
Bella understood the confusion.
She also found it strangely endearing.
Which was another problem.
"Mom," she muttered.
"What? I'm just saying it's nice that your friends are inviting you out."
Friends.
Plural.
Bella almost laughed.
Renée turned toward Ikaris again.
"I'm Renée, by the way. Bella's mother."
"Ikaris."
"Oh, I know! Bella's mentioned you."
Bella's soul briefly departed her body.
"Mom."
"Only a little," Renée added.
This was somehow worse.
Ikaris looked at Bella.
She could feel herself turning red.
He seemed to examine her embarrassment with mild curiosity.
Then, mercifully, he returned to the original subject.
"Friday. Seven. East Calloway and Recton."
Bella nodded.
"Okay."
A pause.
"Okay?" he repeated.
"Yes."
"Good."
He turned to leave.
Bella stared.
That was it?
He had apparently traveled all the way to her house, delivered an invitation consisting of approximately eleven words, and decided his social obligations had been fulfilled.
It was so perfectly Ikaris that she almost smiled.
"Wait."
He stopped.
She immediately regretted speaking.
"Are you going to be there?"
He turned slightly.
"Yes."
"I mean…" She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're actually going bowling?"
"That is generally the purpose of bowling night."
Bella looked down.
"Right. Obviously."
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly, he added, "Keith and Sarah will be there."
She nodded.
She knew them.
Mostly by sight.
"And you," he continued.
Bella looked up.
For some reason, those two words affected her more than they had any right to.
And you.
As though her presence had already been accounted for.
As though she belonged somewhere in his plans.
"Right," she said softly.
Ikaris regarded her for another moment.
Then nodded.
"See you Friday, Isabella Swan."
He said her name correctly.
Every syllable.
Bella smiled before she could stop herself.
"See you Friday, Ikaris."
He walked away.
She watched until he disappeared beyond the front path.
Then she closed the door.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Renée remained beside her.
Smiling.
Bella refused to look.
"Don't," she warned.
"I didn't say anything."
"You're thinking something."
"Well, he is handsome."
"Mom."
"And polite. In a slightly unusual way."
Bella covered her face.
Renée laughed.
"Oh, honey."
"Please stop."
"I just think it's nice."
Bella lowered her hands.
Her mother was still smiling.
Not teasing now.
Simply happy.
And Bella understood, with some embarrassment, that Renée had probably been worried about her too.
About how little she went out.
How rarely she invited anyone over.
How easily she made herself invisible.
"He's just a friend," Bella said.
Renée nodded with exaggerated seriousness.
"Of course."
Bella escaped upstairs before the conversation could become any worse.
She entered her bedroom.
Closed the door.
And stood there for several seconds.
Then she crossed to her desk.
Opened the notebook.
Turned to the fourth page of her newest entry.
And wrote:
Today, Ikaris came to my house.
She paused.
Then added:
He invited me bowling.
Another pause.
He remembered my name.
Bella stared at the sentence.
It was an absurd thing to be happy about.
A boy remembering her name should not have felt like an accomplishment.
Especially when he had spent the previous year calling her something else entirely.
And yet—
She smiled.
A small, private smile.
The kind she would have been mortified to let anyone see.
Then she wrote one final sentence.
I think I might be in trouble.
And, after considering it for a moment, she underlined trouble twice.