His brain . . . it couldn't concentrate. Just like old times, he thought bitterly as he dazed off while Professor Barnaby discussed . . . something with the class. Something he'd read about over the weekend but still needed to rehash before the next quiz. Something he probably should have been paying attention to. But he couldn't.

He kept picturing it over and over again in his mind: seeing her, thinking it couldn't possibly be her but knowing it was. He'd never felt so fucking floored in his life.

"Michael?"

He looked up, momentarily snapping himself out of his stupor. His professor was staring at him expectantly.

"Do you know the answer?"

He didn't. For the first time since he'd started college, he actually felt like that same idiot he'd been in all his high school classrooms, the kid who hadn't even known the question. "No," he replied.

Professor Barnaby wrinkled his face in surprise, but he didn't linger too long. "How about someone over here?" he said, scanning the left side of the lecture hall. "Anyone?"

No one knew the answer. Either that or no one felt like raising their hands.

The day was long, and Michael spent the majority of it not focusing. He spaced out during his other classes, he spaced out at work, and he spaced out on calling his mom when he got home. He did remember to make the macaroni and cheese he'd promised Sarah would be waiting for her when she got home, though. Except he hadn't been paying attention, and he'd accidentally added too much milk, so it was more like macaroni and cheese soup, but . . . oh, well. It still tasted good enough.

It was starting to thicken up by the time Sarah got home, but it was also still cooling off. She didn't act disappointed that it was a failure of a dinner; instead, she just told him it looked good and started setting out plates for the two of them at the table.

"Sorry, I messed it up," he apologized again, standing before the stove, stirring it halfheartedly.

"No, it'll be fine," she assured him, pouring herself a glass of milk. She held up the half empty carton, giving him a look to ask if he wanted some, and he shook his head. He wasn't a big milk drinker. Besides, he'd get enough of it in this fucking macaroni . . .

"You okay?" she asked him, brushing past him to put the milk back in the fridge.

"Yeah," he replied. "It was just a long day."

"Tell me about it," she groaned. "My study session was endless. Ivy—the girl I was helping—she has, like, no clue what chemistry even is. She should not be in the class."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. At one point, she even had to ask me what asymmetric induction was. Can you believe that?"

"No," he played along. "Everyone knows that." Hell if he knew.

"Exactly." She leaned against the refrigerator, giving him a look. "Oh, whatever, don't act like you know what that means."

"Well, you don't know what dromophobia means," he countered.

"Fear of crossing streets. You told me once."

"Oh." He scratched his eyebrow. "Damn." If he kept telling her what all these different kinds of phobias were, he was going to have no leverage over her academically. Except his GPA. Although, if he kept having distracted days in the classroom like this one, she'd probably surpass him soon enough.

It was distracting him even now, and he hated that. He just wanted to be there with her, and for the night to be normal. But that dull ache in his back kept reminding him that it wasn't. The adrenaline had worn off, and he was sore. And tired. And not sure what to tell her about everything that had happened to him today.

"Hey, speaking of . . . dromophobia," he segued awkwardly, ". . . I might actually have that now."

"Okay," she said, laughing as she took the spoon from him and started stirring the runny noodles. "Why?"

"Well, I kinda . . . got hit by a car today."

She made a face. "What?"

"Yeah."

"You did not."

He'd show her the bruises on his knees and back if he had to, but that would probably freak her out. "I actually did," he said calmly. "I just wasn't looking where I was going and . . ."

Her eyes widened in horror, and her mouth slowly dropped open in shock. "Oh . . . my god," she breathed, dropping the spoon back into the bowl. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

She was immediately holding his shoulders, touching him as if to make sure he was okay. "You got hit by a car?"

"Yeah, this morning, on my way to class."

She started feeling his chest and stomach, and he wasn't sure why. Wasn't like he had any broken ribs or anything. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just rolled up on the hood and-"

"You rolled up on the hood?"

Hmm. Maybe he shouldn't have told her that. "Yeah, and then I just rolled right back off again." It sounded a lot worse than it really had been.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she pressed, lifting up his shirt a bit. She gasped when she saw the bruises on his side. They had been red at first. Now they were more of a purple. "I need to take you to the doctor," she said. "You're hurt."

"No, I'm just sore," he insisted. "I'm not hurt. Promise."

"What if you are hurt?" She stroked his bruised flesh gently, concerned. She was trying to blink them back, but he saw tears in her gorgeous eyes.

"I'm fine." He lifted her hand in his, squeezing it reassuringly. "Hey . . . it wasn't a big deal."

"You got hit by a car, Michael. Of course it was a big deal. I mean, what were you even doing that made you so distracted?"

He tensed for a second, flashing back to the same image that had clouded his mind all day. Maria DeLuca casually strolling across his college campus, not noticing him but somehow making it impossible for him to not notice her. "iPod," he blurted, remembering how she'd been so entranced with that, so absorbed that she probably hadn't even heard the car crash. "I was messing with my iPod, and . . ."

"Oh god, Michael . . ." She cringed. "You have to be more careful than that."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I'm just glad you're okay." She slipped her arms around his torso and hugged him, resting her head against his chest. "It could've been really bad."

He stroked her hair and traced his hands up and down her spine, mumbling, "Yeah, it could've," in agreement. He felt bad for not telling her everything, but he didn't want to make her feel even worse. He'd already given her enough reason to be worried about him; there was no need to multiply it.

...

Kyle was struggling. But then again, that wasn't anything new. Even though he was slowing down and looked exhausted, he kept walking, though. He seemed too blown away by the news Michael had just shared with him to care about going back home.

"Pretty hard to believe, right?" Michael said, walking backwards in front of Kyle, guiding him onto the bleachers.

"Uh, yeah, I'd say so." Kyle shook his head in dismay. "I can't believe she's pregnant. Remember when she used to have a crush on me?"

"Yeah." Michael smiled, remembering the way Tina used to get all excited whenever Kyle would come over. She used to try on five different outfits to try to impress him. He wished she still had a crush on Kyle, or anyone, really. Just a crush. Not a sex life.

"You think she's gonna be okay?" Kyle asked.

"I have no idea," he admitted, still hoping that she'd come to her senses and give the baby up for adoption. But she probably wouldn't. She was way too young and naïve.

"I bet you wanted to kill her boyfriend," Kyle said, hesitantly glancing out at the practice field as they rounded the side of the bleachers and started in towards the stands.

"I just about did."

"He's in high school?"

"Ninth grade." Michael rolled his eyes. Wasn't like Nicholas was any more prepared to have a baby than Tina was. And given the fact that guys matured more slowly than girls did, he was probably even less prepared. That wasn't exactly a comforting thought.

"Crazy," Kyle summarized. "I never would've imagined . . ."

"I know." A lot of things had happened in the past few years that he never would have imagined, some of them good, some of them bad. This was one of the bad ones, one of the unexpected ones, just like Kyle's career-ending injury had been.

All of a sudden, Kyle stopped, as if he refused to go any further, and he just sat down on the bottom bleacher, staring out at the football field. The Aggies team was just heading out onto the field for practice. "Did we have to come here?" he complained.

"Yep." He had to confront all of this; he couldn't just hide from it forever. American culture was saturated in football. He needed to be able to see it and maybe even enjoy it without feeling like shit.

"You know, you could be out there," Kyle pointed out. "I bet you're better than all their receivers."

Michael shrugged. "Maybe." It didn't matter, though. He wasn't playing football without Kyle. He didn't want to.

"I'm never gonna play football again," Kyle mumbled sadly. "Now Tina's never gonna . . . be a kid again."

I don't think she's been a kid for a long time, Michael thought. That depressed the hell out of him.

"Do you think she'll graduate?" Kyle asked.

"I don't know." He wanted to hope for the best, but it was so damn hard.

"Maria didn't," Kyle pointed out.

Michael tensed. He lowered his head, trying not to think about yesterday. All day, he'd been trying to put it out of his mind, put her out of his mind and just forget that he'd ever seen her, maybe even convince himself it hadn't been her at all. But all Kyle had to do was say her name, and it all came rushing back.

"Hey, so speaking of . . ." He trailed off, his lips poised on the M sound. But he didn't say her name, because when he looked at Kyle, he saw that he was completely fixated on the team out there on the field. His body didn't move, but his mind was clearly racing. Flooding with memories, regrets, dreams that would never come true now.

"Kyle?"

Even then, it took Kyle a good three or four seconds to break out of his trance and return his attention to Michael. "Sorry," he said. "What were you sayin'?"

Shit, I can't talk to him about this, Michael thought. There had been a day when Kyle had been his closest confidante, when he could have told him anything. But things were different now. Kyle was no longer that person in his life who could listen to every single issue he had and tell him how to solve it. He had his own problems to deal with.

"Nothin'," Michael replied dismissively. "It's not important." It was, but . . . oh, well. He wasn't a kid anymore. He could figure things out himself.

...

It was raining. Hard. The kind of weather where you just wanted to stay inside, curl up in bed with your girlfriend, and sleep. Kiss a while. Sleep some more. Screw, maybe.

Michael was plenty tired, but he sure as hell wasn't curled up with Sarah. Even after his only class of the day was done, he stayed out, never venturing too far from the spot where he'd seen Maria yesterday. There was a bus stop on that sidewalk, so he sat there, sheltered from the rain while he watched people walk by.

He knew it was a long shot that she'd walk by again, but that didn't deter him from watching. Intently. Every time he saw a girl with blonde hair, he peered a little closer. But it was never her.

That's okay, he told himself. That's good, actually.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there. Probably too long. But when he finally saw a bus slowly coming down the street, splashing the rain water collecting in the street all over the sidewalks, he got up, swung his backpack over his shoulders, and walked away. It was time to go home. Back to his apartment. The good life.

The rain continued into the evening and started to morph into a full-fledged storm. Sarah closed all the blinds and curtains because bad weather made her nervous. She cuddled with him on the couch and watched TV, her head on his shoulder, hands on his arm. Every time there was thunder, she scooted in a little closer.

"I hate storms," she grumbled.

"It's just rain," he reminded her.

"And lightning."

"So?"

"It's electricity shooting down from the sky. I don't like it."

He smiled, freeing his arm from her worried grasp so that he could wrap it around her shoulders and pull her against his side. "Nothing to be afraid of," he assured her, kissing her forehead.

"I know," she mumbled. "I just wish there was something good on TV to distract me from it."

Well, she was out of luck there. A hundred and fifty channels, and not one of them was showing anything remotely fucking decent.

"Or . . ." She tilted her head back to gaze up at him. "Maybe my boyfriend could distract me."

He was so out of it, he didn't even realize what she was suggesting at first. But it wasn't like she was being subtle or anything. "Oh. Sex?"

"Yeah. Or are you too tired?"

"I'm tired," he admitted. "I'm not too tired."

"No?" She pushed herself up straighter and swung her leg over his lap, straddling him. She put her hands on his hips and swung her head to the side so all her hair spilled over one shoulder. "You've been awfully quiet tonight," she remarked, bending forward to kiss the side of his neck.

He threaded one hand through her hair, squeezing her backside with his free one. "I've been thinking."

"About what?" she asked, lips against his ear.

There was no way he could tell her he'd spent an hour today sitting at a bus stop, waiting for his ex-girlfriend to walk by. No possible way. "It's nothing," he dismissed.

"No, I can tell your mind's just racing," she said, sitting back a bit, looping her arms over his shoulders. "You can't stop thinking about her, can you?"

He tensed momentarily. "What?" Was he that obvious? Or did she just know him that well? Crap.

"Tina," she then clarified, much to his relief. "She's on your mind."

He breathed an internal sigh of relief. "Yeah." She was, in truth, and up until yesterday, she'd been about the only thing on his mind. But now . . .

"I know you're worried about her," she said. "I am, too."

"I'm really worried." For her, it was storms she didn't like. For him, it was . . . all this other shit, which, in its own metaphorical way, was quite stormy.

"Maybe I should . . . clear your mind," she proposed, moving her hips against his suggestively.

Outside, even with the blinds closed, he saw a flash of lightning, followed shortly thereafter by a roar of thunder. She shuddered, grabbing onto his shirt, pulling him closer.

"Maybe you should," he agreed, sliding his hands up her back to slip underneath her shirt and smooth over her spine. If there was one thing that could make him forget about everything else, surely it was being with her.

He lay on top of her, buried deep inside her that evening while the rain continued to pour outside. She held onto his shoulders and wrapped her legs around him as he rolled his hips forward at a steady pace. He kissed her and made love to her as insistently as he could, and even though his mind wasn't completely cleared, when he was with her like this, it wasn't so stormy anymore.

...

Even as the pleasure of sleep started to wear off come morning, Michael didn't open his eyes. He didn't want to. He just wanted to lie there with his girlfriend and waste time in bed all day, the way they had back in their early days as a couple. Those had been some of the most stress-free, relaxing days of his life.

...

Sarah's laugh was contagious. Whenever Michael heard it, it made him laugh, too. It didn't even matter if anything was funny or not. He just liked seeing that happy look on her face.

"Okay, favorite ice cream flavor," she prompted, curling up against his side. They were once again crammed onto that tiny twin bed of hers. Thank God honors housing had private bedrooms, because his crappy dorm room had a crappy roommate to go along with it, and there was no way to get any privacy there.

"Pistachio," he answered without hesitation.

She made a face of disgust. "Ew, why?"

"Why not? It's good."

"No, it's not," she argued. "Chocolate's better."

"Chocolate's boring," he claimed. "I'm not boring."

"Hey now, chocolate's my favorite flavor."

He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her in closer. "I can forgive you for that. You're not boring, either."

"Gee, thanks." She drummed her fingers atop his chest, rubbing her legs against his beneath the sheets leisurely.

"Favorite movie?" he asked.

"Oh, god. You're gonna think I'm such a girl," she cautioned.

"I already know you're a girl," he assured her. "I've seen your girl parts."

She cringed, then revealed, "The Notebook."

"Ugh." It was way too early on in the relationship to confess to her that that movie made him cry like a damn baby every time he saw it, so for now, he had to act like he hated it.

"Not a fan?" she assumed.

"No, I'm more of a Rambo or Rocky kind of guy. Pretty much anything with Sylvester Stallone in it."

"One of the great actors of our time," she quipped sarcastically.

"He's pretty good." It really didn't matter if you couldn't understand half the words he was saying. The guy was intense enough to get the point across. Plus, the characters he portrayed could always kick some major ass.

"You know, most people probably have these conversations before they start sleeping together," she pointed out, tracing lazy circles on his chest now.

"Well, we're not most people." Truth be told, there were dozens of girls in the chronicles of his sexual history whose names he couldn't even remember, so a conversation at any point in the relationship was an accomplishment.

"Okay, I got another one," he announced, smirking. "Favorite sexual position."

"Uh, no fair!" she yelped, rolling over onto her back again. "I've only tried, like, five of them."

"Ah, we hit the major ones." Surely he'd given her enough experience this past week to choose one of them.

She sighed, pondering it. "Oh, I don't know. You're pretty good at all of 'em."

"I know." No need to be modest. He had skills.

"I guess I kinda like it best when you're on top, though," she revealed. " 'cause then all I have to do is lay there."

"On top, huh? Like this?" Grinning, he pushed himself up onto his forearms and swung his leg over her, enveloping her smaller body with his.

"Mmm, just like that," she purred, rubbing his sides. Already it seemed like it was just instinct for her to spread her legs wider so that he could settle in between them.

He just watched her for a moment, appreciating the way the corners of her mouth turned upward into a smile, the way her eyes gleamed, the way her hair fanned out behind her on the pillowcase. How had he gotten so lucky to meet this girl? She was amazing, and being with her . . . it was helping him. He hadn't felt so sad lately. It was as if nothing, not even his dad's death, could depress him right now, because she was just so excited about being with him.

Suddenly, her expression became serious, and she shocked the hell out of him when she blurted out, "I love you, Michael."

His brain shut off for a moment. When it clicked back on again, all he could say was, "What?"

"I'm sorry," she apologized quickly. "I don't mean to freak you out. Maybe it's too soon to say it, but . . . I feel it." She smiled hopefully and repeated herself. "I love you."

He stared down at her in amazement. So brave, he thought. She was so brave and so honest. It had been so long since anyone who wasn't a friend or family member had said that to him; he'd almost forgotten how good it felt to hear it.

"I love you, too," he replied, surprising even himself when he managed to say the words. But how could he not love her? Sure, he'd only known her for a few weeks, but he knew she was kind and smart and beautiful. And she wasn't going anywhere.

He cupped her cheek and kissed her deeply to further express the truth of his words. She giggled again, but this time, the giddy sound was stifled by his mouth. But even though he couldn't hear it this time, he felt it. He felt it in every touch, every breath she took. He felt how happy she was when she was with him. Here was this incredible girl . . . and he made her happy.

She made him happy, too.

...

Michael forced his eyes open, because he knew he had to get up. He had class at 9:15. Social Psychology with Professor Barnaby. His favorite.

It wasn't hard to motivate himself to go to that class; it was hard, however, to motivate himself to leave that bed. Sarah was curled up beside him, sleeping a little later than she usually did, even though it was her day off. Her body was warm and the blankets were warm, and he didn't want to move.

But he did. He got up, showered, ate a quick bacon, egg, and cheese Hot Pocket for breakfast, and kissed his girlfriend's cheek before he left for class.

"I love you," he whispered, eliciting a content murmur from her. It had been almost two years now, and that feeling hadn't changed. It hadn't changed at all.

Outside, the ground was still wet, and the storm from last night hadn't quite passed yet. The sky was still cloudy, and it was lightly misting. Michael took his sweet time on his trek, paying more attention than usual to everyone who passed him by. Nobody stood out.

Monk was coming out of the engineering building, looking frazzled when Michael passed by. Or as frazzled as Monk could possibly look. The guy had zero facial expressions.

"What's wrong?" Michael asked him.

"I think I flunked my research assignment," Monk relayed in his usual even tone. "I finished it at last minute last night because I was up until 3:00 chatting online."

"Oh, no." Michael cringed. "Big Cedar again?"

"No, Big Cedar's cousin. Little Redwood."

"Little Redwood." Michael nodded skeptically. "Is she actually a girl this time?"

Monk shrugged flippantly. "Who the hell knows? I'll take my chances. Actually, she was really . . ."

Michael tried to listen to his friend, but his attention totally diverted when he looked across the street. He caught sight of her instantly. Her.

There she was again, Maria DeLuca. She was even closer this time, but just like last time, she was completely oblivious to him. She was talking on her cell phone this time. She had sunglasses on again. Her hair was blowing all around her in the breeze.

Holy shit, he thought, immediately fixated on her. How was this happening again? How was it that he just happened to be walking across campus at the exact same time as her? Why was she on campus anyway? Where was she going?

"Anyway," Monk was saying, "if she's a dude, I might just try it once and see if I like it."

"Yeah, that's great," Michael said, not really paying attention. "Hey, listen, man, I gotta go."

"Alright. See ya later."

Michael stepped down off the sidewalk, making sure to look both ways this time before darting across the street. He stayed a good distance behind Maria, not far enough to let her out of his sight, but far enough that she wouldn't notice him following her.

God, he was following her? Great, now he was a stalker.

She definitely wasn't just out for a leisurely stroll. She actually seemed like she was in a hurry, and it was even hard for him to keep up with her. He lost her for a few seconds in a crowd of people near one of the parking lots, but he spotted her again, heading back towards the buildings he never ventured into because it was for all the fine arts crap. He almost lost sight of her for a moment, but then he spotted that wave of blonde hair gliding into Lecuona Hall. He ran towards the building and hurried up the front steps, not willing to lose track of her now. He got inside just in time to see her walking up some steps at the end of a long hallway. He hustled forward and went up after her.

At the top of the stairs, there were two different lecture halls on either side. He chanced it with the lecture hall on the right and headed on in, making sure to keep his head down and walk behind a few other people so he wouldn't be seen. As it turned out, that wouldn't be a problem. It was a big lecture hall, bigger than the one he sat in for Social Psychology. There was a balcony at the top with a staircase that wound down to theater style seats.

Michael carefully glanced over the all the students who were finding their seats as he found his way to his own. He was starting to think she'd gone into the other lecture hall when he saw her up at the front, putting her cell phone back in her purse as she sat down. He quickly plopped down in the back row, purposefully sitting behind a really big guy. Big in terms of height and width. Sort of like Bubba from high school, only he was actually managing to keep his eyes open for class.

What the fucking hell am I doing here? he wondered, slouching down in his seat to be as hidden as possible. This wasn't right. It wasn't normal. Two years ago, it wouldn't have been such a big deal, but now it was, because he'd gotten used to being right and being normal and he didn't want to screw it up.

But still . . . he couldn't force himself to leave that lecture hall.

By the time the professor strolled in, it was too late. He would have drawn more attention to himself if he tried to leave. So he just sat there, sneaking a peek at Maria here and there, while the professor told them all about a concert he had attended last night, then proceeded to play some orchestral piano piece off his iPhone and a small speaker. "Sit back and listen," the professor said, closing his eyes. "Enjoy. Appreciate." He motioned for his TA to turn down the lights, and that was exactly what happened. It got dark in the lecture hall, and there was just the music, and about a hundred students scattered around the room, some of them yawning, others closing their eyes and swaying back and forth to the music just like this hippie of a professor was.

Completely unused to this kind of class, Michael leaned forward and tapped the big guy in front of him on the shoulder. "Hey," he whispered. "What class is this?"

The big guy gave him a confused look, like he couldn't understand how a guy could be sitting in a class and have no idea what class it was. Made sense. "Music Appreciation," he replied quietly.

"Right." Of course Maria would be taking this kind of class. Of course.

Michael sat back in his chair and smiled, appreciating the music, as sappy and lethargic as it was. He didn't close his eyes, but when he peered around the sequoia tree of a man in front of him, he noticed that Maria DeLuca's eyes were shut, and she was soaking it all in.

He didn't even notice when the song stopped playing.

...

Luckily Michael had already made a good impression on his cooperating counselor, because his second impression wasn't going to be so good. He showed up to Pound Elementary around lunchtime, half an hour later than he was scheduled to be there. Music Appreciation class had gone a little long, longer than his Social Psychology class normally lasted. And he'd had to stop by Professor Barnaby's office after to see if there was anything he'd missed that day.

"Hi, Ms. Whitaker," he greeted as he slipped into her office. Remembering that she preferred he call her by her first name like any other colleague, he corrected himself. "Vanessa. Sorry."

She was sorting through her filing cabinet, and she barely glanced up to look at him. When she did, she didn't look happy. "You're late."

"Yeah," he admitted sheepishly. "Sorry about that. My class ran a little late, and there was traffic . . ." He knew it sounded like he was making excuses—which he was—so he just stopped and apologized again. "I'm sorry."

She shut her cabinet and dropped a few file folders onto her desk. "I expect more, Michael," she informed him sternly. "I'm going out on a limb with you here, based on Brody's recommendation and the fact that you seem like a really nice, driven young man."

He chuckled inwardly. Nice and driven. Two words that hadn't ever applied to him until he'd started college.

"But it was never in my plan to sponsor a practicum student this semester," she informed him. "It's a lot of work for both of us. Now if you're willing to put in that work . . ."

"I am," he promised. "It won't happen again, I promise."

"Good," she said, "because I run a tight ship. I take my job seriously, and I don't have time for excuses. Understood?"

He nodded, feeling a bit intimidated by this woman. But . . . it was a respect thing, too. He had respect for her, because she was clearly good at her job. He wanted to learn from the best.

"Okay," she said, letting it go. "Do you want to see what we've got on the agenda for the afternoon?"

"Yeah, sure."

She picked up her planner and showed him the long list of events and to-do tasks she had jotted down there. "After lunch, we've got a webinar with other counselors in the district. Then at 1:00 we're gonna try to pull Rudy Moretz out of his art class to have a little hygiene talk. At 1:30 we have an IEP meeting. Are you familiar with what an IEP is?"

"Individualized Education Program," he recited. "It's what kids who qualify for special education services have."

"Very good," she said. "So we'll have one of those. I'll just have you sit in on that. Of course everything that's said there is confidential. And then at 2:30, we're meeting with the middle school counselor to discuss changing the homeroom curriculum. That should get done by 3:00, so then whatever small amount of time we have leftover, we need to start working on the Circle of Friends."

He made a face. "Circle of Friends?"

"For some of our students with autism or other severe disabilities," she explained. "We enlist a group of students to be their 'circle of friends,' and those students help them out with things. We have to find students who are kindhearted, compassionate, good leaders. And being smart never hurts."

"Huh. Sounds cool." Sounded like something he never would have been invited to be a part of, but still . . . cool for the kids who needed help interacting.

"So it's a busy day," she summarized, closing her planner. "Are you up for it?"

"Yeah, I am." He'd be exhausted by the time he got home, especially since he had to work tonight, too. But it was all good.

"Alright, let's go get some lunch then," she suggested. "We've got a whole whopping ten minutes to eat it."

"Great." He followed her out of her office, hoping he would get to know other staff members while he was here so he didn't just have to follow her around like a little lap dog. But for now, she was the only person in this school he knew.

Or maybe not.

He stopped at the entrance to the main office when he saw two little boys running over from the cafeteria. One of them looked like he was about to throw up. The other, the blonde one, was helping him get to the office in time.

The blonde one . . .

No way.

He knew that boy.

"Oh, okay, go back to the nurse," Vanessa said, stepping aside.

"Dylan," Michael whispered. He was taller now, maybe three and a half feet. His hair was a little darker shade of blonde. He was wearing a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt. It was him. He'd never forget that face.

Dylan let go of his friend and let him fend for himself when he saw Michael. His entire face lit up with excitement, and he exclaimed, "Daddy!" He immediately swooped in and wrapped his arms around Michael's legs, hugging him.

Oh my god, he thought, too stunned to hug him back or say anything. Was this really happening? Two years . . . it had been two years—more than that, even—and Dylan still remembered him. Instantly. He actually felt tears sting his eyes.

"Oops," Dylan said, pulling away unsurely. "I mean . . . Micho!"

Michael just looked down at the little boy in astonishment. He'd never thought he would hear his name pronounced that way ever again. For a long time, he'd hoped beyond hope for it.

Vanessa looked at the two of them, confused, and then spoke to Dylan. "It was nice of you to help your friend to the office," she said, "but the nurse will take care of him now. You go back to lunch, okay?"

No, don't go, Michael wanted to say. But his mouth felt dry.

"Go back to lunch," Vanessa urged again.

Dylan frowned, his shoulders slumping. "Okay," he said. "Bye, Micho!" He waved and scampered off, nearly tripping over his own feet on his way back to a lunch table swarming with all sorts of other boys his age, boys who were too busy comparing the covers of their lunch boxes to eat the actual food inside.

Dylan . . . He felt a knot in his stomach as he tried to tear his eyes away. It didn't matter how much time had passed. He looked at that kid, and all the memories came rushing back. All the fatherly feelings, too, the instinct to feel that that wasn't just any little boy out there, but that it was his little boy.

"Do you know Dylan?" Vanessa asked him.

Oh, if she had any idea what she was asking, she never would have asked it. Still . . . it was his first real day there, and he'd already made one mistake by being late. He wasn't about to unload his unconventional past on her right then and there. "No," he lied. It would be easier if he was just a counselor and Dylan was just a student. Nothing more.

Even as he was thinking it, though, he knew it wasn't possible. He felt like his past and his present were colliding, and he had no idea how to stop it. Or if he even wanted to.