“What do you mean? Why do you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like I should be afraid?”

“You should be. I keep telling you that.”

“Of what? You? Why?”

His mouth tightens in an expression I’m coming to know. It’s his stubborn look. He won’t answer.

“What else do you have in that bag of tricks?” he asks, looking at my backpack hopefully.

I want to push and poke and drag the answers out of him. Instead, I ask, “Why didn’t you get lunch in the caf? I feel kind of bad that you ditched Luka.”

“I didn’t. He ditched me. He had plans to work on chem with your friend.”

“My—” I shake my head. “Carly?” And she never said a word about it to me. I guess she figures it’s payback for me failing to share with her.

Jackson reaches for my bag. I let him take it and watch, half amused, half offended, as he unzips the pouch, rummages through, and pulls out a small container. He lifts it to eye level and shakes it.

“Almonds and dried cranberries,” I say.

Jackson dips his head and angles a glance at me through his lashes, sending my heart tripping. “I like this,” he murmurs.

“What do you like?” I’m breathless, just from the way he’s looking at me. “My lunch?”

“Our lunch,” he corrects with a grin, and I can breathe again. I can even smile. He’s so relaxed. So . . . normal. He shakes some cranberries and nuts into his hand, tips his head back, and tosses them in his mouth. Then he holds the container out toward me and asks, “You want some?”

“Sure. Thanks for offering me some of the lunch I packed.” My sarcasm seems to go right over his head.

“Miki,” he says after a couple of minutes, his expression suddenly serious, his voice very soft. “There are things I put in motion, things I did before—”

I wait, but he just stops and doesn’t pick up his train of thought. “Before what?”

Deliberately, he lowers his glasses. “I remember the first time I saw you,” he says.

“Lying flat on my back in the lobby, out cold?” But even as I say it, I remember his voice in my head all that afternoon. So he must have seen me before that . . . here at school?

I stare at him, the sun touching his hair, painting it bright and fair, the dark glasses hiding his eyes, his shadow stretching down the rows of seats, and suddenly I can smell the ocean, hear the waves. . . .

“You remember,” he says softly.

“No, I—” But I do. I remember something. I just can’t place—

“Last summer. You were up to your waist in the water, wearing a dark blue bathing suit. I could see the edge of your tattoo. . . .”

He reaches out and lays the tips of his fingers lightly on my chest, over my heart, over my eagle. I swallow and stare at him, waiting. . . .

“You weren’t wearing sunglasses,” he continues, letting his hand fall away. “You turned and looked at me. I saw your eyes. I knew you were like me. And then I looked for you until I found you.”

“What?”

Then a memory hits me. Mine? His? Both? I’m running on the sand toward the long pier, small in the distance. I veer toward the water, the waves lapping at my feet . . . my ankles . . . my knees. I throw myself in, swallowed by the surf, going under, coming up. I blink the salty sting from my eyes, and there’s a boy on the beach, his hair glinting gold, the sun casting his shadow long and lean. I think the corners of his mouth twitch in the hint of a smile. His eyes are shaded by dark glasses. But I know he’s looking at me.

And I look straight at him.

A wave takes me and when I come back up, he has his back to me and he’s walking away. He stops by my dad’s beach umbrella, his back still toward me, and I see my dad sit forward and tip his head back to look up at the boy, his mouth moving. I lose interest and turn away, diving into the next wave.

“Have you ever been to Atlantic Beach?” I ask. Silly to ask. I know the answer. That hint of a smile . . . I remember the first time I saw him in the lobby, the sense of déjà vu I felt when I saw that smile.

“Once,” he says.

“Last summer,” I whisper.

“Last summer,” he confirms, tipping his glasses back up.

“Why? I mean, why there? Why Atlantic Beach?” During the same week I was there. On the same stretch of beach where I was swimming.

“Why were you there?” he asks.

“We always go. We’ve been going to North Carolina since I was a baby. We rent a cottage every summer for a week.” I pause. “Your turn.”

He stares out at the empty baseball diamond and takes his time answering. “I’m not sure. I’d say that my parents suggested it, but I’m not certain they did.” He turns his face back toward me, his eyes shadowed, his expression troubled. But in usual Jackson fashion, he keeps whatever it is that’s bothering him to himself.

“So once you saw me, how did you find me again?”

“Your dad’s hat made it easy.”

Confused, I just stare at him. Then I remember Dad’s ball cap with the Rochester Bass Anglers logo on the front and his name stitched on the back.

“Wait . . . you looked for me . . . you came to Rochester because of me?” The possibility is overwhelming. “I don’t understand. I thought your dad was transferred here. I—” Nothing makes sense.