“Did you get my voicemail?” he asked, but then glanced over my shoulder, obviously spotting Allyn. “Oh, hey. Alan, right?” He extended his hand automatically, but then chuckled at himself when he seemed to suddenly remember the work gloves covering his fingers.
“It’s pronounced Al-lean,” I corrected.
“Oh, sorry.” Leo seemed to be apologizing for both his inability to shake her hand and mispronouncing her name.
“That’s okay. You can call me Al if you like. And I can wave,” she offered cheerfully, coming to stand fully beside me. “I can also salute, but that might be weird.”
Her comment made Leo laugh, and he gave her another look, his eyes narrowing slightly as they moved down and then up. “I guess we’re saluting,” he said, smiling, saluting, his eyes still suspiciously squinty.
I say suspiciously because they were sparkly as well as squinty, and I knew that face: Leo had decided she was worth a second look. Allyn and Leo had met just once, separated by many people and meters, and very briefly, at my graduation from undergrad almost three years ago. It had been so short, I don’t think he even heard her name correctly and had called her “Alan.” Before I could correct his error then, he was pulled elsewhere, and Allyn had disappeared into the crowd.
Presently, they were still smiling at each other, almost like I wasn’t there, and the exchange was exponential levels of cute. Under normal circumstances, it would’ve initiated my innate scheming proclivities (arranging an accidental half-naked interaction, planning their wedding, sending out save-the-date cards, and prepping for her bachelorette party) because who wouldn’t want a best friend to marry an awesome sibling? But I was still perplexed by his presence and the sense of being suddenly and inexplicably on edge.
I also saluted and stepped in front of Allyn once again. “Hey, what’s going on? Why are you here?”
“I called you and left a message. I invited a few—” A gust of wind filled the small structure, pushing Leo forward such that he had to use his free hand to brace himself against the door.
Just before he righted himself, I noticed movement behind him. Another man—a big one by the looks of him—was walking toward us along the path. My stomach tensed. A shivery—yet hot—spike of awareness shot up my spine to my neck. And my heart . . . my heart.
I licked my lips, my eyes wide on my brother. “Leo. Is there—is there someone here with you?”
“Why don’t you come inside? I’ll explain everything.”
I grabbed his arm. “Explain now.” Why is my heart beating so hard?
It was like that moment in the sensory deprivation chamber, I was hot and cold and clammy everywhere.
Leo shook his head, giving me a look of mild exasperation. “Mona, it’s freezing and you’re doing that whispering thing. I can barely hear you. Let’s go.”
He easily pulled out of my grip, turning for the house and lowering the shovel, and I reached for him again. But before I could grab my brother, the new person emerged from the dark and snow, and entered the little halo spilling from the funicular structure’s overhead lights.
I stopped.
I think even my heart stopped.
I know my forebrain stopped, or was—at the very least—broken.
It was . . .