Chapter 3
I froze, my pencil hovering above my tablet, mouth agape.
“Can I get you anything else?” the blond-haired boy asked, glancing down at his phone. When I didn’t immediately answer, his attention moved over to me. I could have sworn his eyes narrowed, slightly, in recognition. But then his expression went blank, his features clear of emotion.
He couldn’t have recognized me anyway because I’d only seen him in a dream.
And unlike my dream, his hair wasn’t quite so bright, but a sandy, dark blond.
He had the same eyes, though, the same ones I had planned to draw.
And he was even more beautiful in person, so much so that I couldn’t keep eye contact for long.
I noticed his gaze linger over my iPad, which was displaying part of his face. One of his eyebrows rose marginally.
I locked my tablet and rested my arms on top of it, face burning. “No thanks, I’m fine.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. When he turned his head to glance over at the host, there it was, his slightly crooked nose.
His face needed it, this societally perceived imperfection roughening his edges, only making him better-looking.
His profile, while previously faded from my memory, was now imprinted in my mind, déjà vu encircling me.
This was not the first time I had seen this boy.
Not even the second, my body seemed to be telling me.
“Well, let me know if you need anything,” he finally said, walking purposefully toward the counter where another server was.
The boy was tall and broad-shouldered, and towered over the other server, a smaller middle-aged guy.
Though his back was to me, I could sense that whatever he was telling him was not welcome news.
“We’re short-staffed! You can’t take a break in the middle of your shift!” the older man exclaimed.
I couldn’t hear the boy’s reply, only his footsteps as he stormed off to the back of the diner, through a set of swinging double doors.
I checked the time and saw that I had been out for almost two hours.
Gathering my things into my tote bag, I threw my money for the bill down onto the table.
Once I left the diner, I imagined telling Nic—or Azar—that I suspected seeing the boy from my dream in real life.
They would tell me that I was letting my imagination get the better of me.
That I was going through a big change, and it was normal to have weirder dreams than usual.
That it was pure coincidence that he looked like the boy in my nightmare.
When I began getting my night terrors, I did some research. I discovered that our subconscious often registers small facts, faces, and details that our conscious brain doesn’t. Maybe I had seen this boy in the airport, or on the drive to our house, and didn’t realize it?
The diner almost made me forget about how particularly blinding the sun was.
Pulling myself together, I opened Google Maps and began my journey home.
As I walked, I started to recall the past twelve hours.
There was a reasonable explanation for most things.
The boy was someone I had seen before. The bruises on my wrist…
I probably squeezed them in my sleep due to the anxiety of the nightmares, of the move in general.
I convinced myself of this as I continued walking down the street, pausing at a bookshop called To the Lighthouse.
In the window was a book that had come out in the US but not yet in the UK.
I checked my phone, and while I really should have headed back before Dad spiraled, I found myself going inside.
A bell jingled above as I entered. The store had that fresh book smell that I loved—and I immediately felt more at ease.
The shop was pleasantly air-conditioned, the decor modern.
The shelves were painted different rainbow colors.
It didn’t quite resemble the secondhand bookshop I worked in back in Hull, with the dark bookcases and musty book smell, but I kind of preferred the openness of this space.
At the back of the store was a small arch with a sign saying Children’s Books, which led into another room.
To the right was another archway connecting to a small coffee shop.
And on a table in the middle of the room was a stack of the book I wanted.
I made a beeline for it. The cover was different from the UK version, with a more detailed illustration of the characters on the front.
The book was the latest from an Irish author who wrote heartbreaking love stories.
Each one had me sobbing by the end. Even though I had never had a relationship before, I loved the idea of love.
Of love that ran deep, despite the couple not being able to express their feelings or overcome their obstacles to be together.
It was like catnip to me, speaking to a part of my soul about a longing that I had never experienced but still somehow related to.
I went straight to the cash register, book in hand.
By the counter, there was a sign that said:
SUMMER BOOKSELLER WANTED
The cashier noticed me eyeing it. She seemed around my age, white with peach-colored hair and silver circular glasses. On each hand was a silver ring, one of them a skull.
“You’re hiring?” I asked.
“A lot of the college kids have gone back home,” she explained, in that same accent as Penny. “So we’re looking for a temp to cover their shifts over the summer. Are you interested?”
I hadn’t considered settling into anything in Denver, but some extra money for university would really help.
Either for London, which would be expensive to live in anyway, or if I ended up in Brighton so I could still travel over the weekends to hang out with Nic, wherever she ended up.
The possibility of being able to save, like I had planned to do in Hull, could put my summer plans back on track.
“I’m here for the next six weeks, so possibly…Do I need to send you a CV or something?”
She tilted her head to the side. “CV? Are you British?”
My cheeks went hot. I had a newfound understanding of how my parents felt when moving to England from Iran.
“Résumé?” I corrected myself. “And yeah, my family and I moved over here from the UK yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” The girl made a clucking sound. “Fresh off the plane.”
“Yep.”
“Do you have any experience in bookselling?”
“I worked at a bookshop back home for a year.” It was how I bought the clothes I wanted without asking my dad for money.
She nodded encouragingly. “Hold on a sec.” The girl turned to go to the back room but paused halfway. “I’m Cleo, by the way.”
“Roxana, though people call me Roxy.”
“I like Roxana,” she said with a smile. She left and came back moments later with an older woman. “This is the owner, and also my mom.”
The older woman had red curly hair that was unruly in a pleasing way.
She had a pencil behind her ear, her cheeks pink.
“Thanks for the intro, Cleo.” She gave me a warm smile.
“I’m Annie Harney, and as my daughter said I’m the owner of To the Lighthouse.
Cleo said you have experience bookselling—would you be willing to do a trial shift tomorrow? We’re looking for someone ASAP.”
This was all happening very quickly and very easily. Nic always told me that if things were meant to be they would be simple. This wisdom was no doubt sourced from TikTok, but still, I took the ease as a sign.
“Yes, sure!” I exclaimed, trying to keep my enthusiasm in check. I was always like this around adults, overeager. That and having a job would also be the perfect distraction; it would get me out of my head and, more importantly, make sure I couldn’t dwell on my strange dreams.
She shot me another smile, clasping her hands together. “Wonderful. See you tomorrow at one?”
I gave her my contact details and exited, with my new book in hand and a trial for a job. Seeing the blond-haired boy in real life felt like a distant memory.
Dad accosted me before I even managed to take my shoes off in the foyer. “There she is!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been calling you. Where have you been?”
“You have?” I asked, my voice far away. I retrieved my phone from my bag. I hadn’t noticed his missed calls. “I was just at the diner Penny mentioned.”
“Why didn’t you answer your phone? You’ve been gone for hours—can you imagine how worried I was?”
I sighed then shrugged my bag off my shoulder and placed my new plant on the floor before stepping farther into the hallway. I leaned my back against the stair’s banister. “My phone was in my bag. I didn’t see it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I have too much going on right now to deal with you being like this, Roxana. If you do something like this again, you’re grounded.”
My jaw tightened. I often had to hold myself back from saying what I really felt, but I was still so spent from the jet lag that I felt the words on the edge of my tongue.
Stop trying to control me. They were desperate to come out.
I had to press my lips together, breathe more steadily, do the techniques I had learned in order to deal with my father and his dramatics.
“Okay,” I finally forced out.
The fight dulled from his eyes, shoulders slackening. “You need to look after Ehsan for the rest of the day. I’ve got to go out for a bit.”
That’s why he’s annoyed.
“Where are you going?”
“The shipping depot. I was on hold for hours. I need to speak to an actual human being.” He walked past me and straight for the door. “Don’t go wandering again. I’ll bring some dinner on my way back.”
The door slammed shut. And with that, he was gone, not both-ering to ask me how my walk was, or what happened during it.
Taking another deep breath, I went into the kitchen. As I poured myself a glass of water, Ehsan bounded into the kitchen. “Where did you go?”
I gave him a despairing look. “Not you, too.”
“Dad went ape,” he said, wide-eyed, like he found this fact exciting, scandalous even. For a nine-year-old, he loved drama. It was lucky he was born into an Iranian family.
“I bet.”
“Do you want to watch Guardians of the Galaxy on Disney Plus? Penny gave us her log-in details.”
“Of course she did,” I said. “In an hour? I want to get a shower and sort some things out.”
Ehsan looked like he wanted to push it, but I normally said no to watching anything Marvel related so this in and of itself was a win for him. “I’ll get the TV set up!” he said.
Once in my bedroom, I placed my new plant on the windowsill—it was a start to my own little indoor garden.
The place looked better with it, but I couldn’t wait for our shipment to arrive to make this space more me.
Waiting for me were all my posters, including concert prints of Lorde and Charli XCX, and my sacred collection of Sonny Angel figures.
Giving in to my tiredness, I crumbled onto my bed.
I was exhausted. I mean, I was frequently exhausted, that wasn’t new, but my usual tiredness combined with jet lag meant my body physically ached.
My eyelids heavy. It was pleasantly warm in my room, the perfect temperature for a nap.
I thought I could close my eyes, for just a second, but that was foolish.
What happened next was my own fault for being so careless.
Hissssssss.
The snakes were in my ears, sharp, rattling my nerves. I tightened my eyes shut. I didn’t want to see them. Keeping my eyes closed only staved them off for so long, though, until I was dragged back to a place I knew well. Back into the depths of the flames.
I could never get used to the feeling of the heat engulfing me.
The clenching in my gut, knowing I would die, strapped to the stake with no way out.
My screams dull in my ears, throat raw. I had no reason to preserve my voice, because soon it would be gone anyway.
And I needed them to hear me, so my calls, my yells, would stay in the onlookers’ ears long after I had passed.
I turned to my left and saw the boy again. His eyes were pained, downcast, jaw strong, tight.
“I’m sorry,” he shouted, somehow audible over the roaring flames.
The words were like a balm for the terror. While I was in my body, it was also like I was watching a film unfold, my actions not my own.
My face was wet.
This boy was undoubtedly the one from the diner. He had the same nose, crooked and charming, his cheekbones sharp, with rose-colored lips that complemented the dark depths of his eyes.
“I’ll always love you,” he called, gazing into my eyes, into my soul. “In life, death, and beyond.”
And I felt it. His love rising within me, warming me, rushing through my body. This feeling overtook the fire that flickered, the smoke that stole my breath. His love. His light. The power of both.