I peek at him, not wanting to stare outright. He’s calmer outside the bookstore, less calculating and hard. He’s still a storm, but it’s a muted one that promises only heavy rain instead of torrents of wind and destruction. It’s as if last night and the photos of Wally, Alex, and trees have floated away with the whales and we have been left new and unsure in their wake.

But this is all I am guaranteed. Who knows if he will even want to see me after today. So I force myself to break the silence. “Alex said you have a fort?”

Nolan snorts. “Fort.”

“Is it not a fort?”

Nolan Endsley doesn’t deign to reply. He begins to walk up the beach, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, his brown sweater making his frame look bulkier than he is. Wally trots obediently behind him and then sprints ahead, his impressive leg span reaching full gallop.

I half expect to walk behind Nolan the entire way, but he suddenly pauses to let me catch up. After, we walk side by side, our feet crunching in a sloppy tune.

I miss walking with Jenna this way, to classes or through rows of books at festivals and libraries and bookstores. She always said she preferred to browse alone, but she never argued when I insisted on linking arms with her. She would act annoyed, but she became very efficient at browsing and opening books one-handed. I did, too.

For a moment, I forget that I am walking beside N. E. Endsley, and he morphs back into the boy on the rug with the crappy cell phone. For a moment, I push away the voice insisting that I am too devastated, too pathetic, to be anyone’s friend, and I boldly push my hand into the crook of his elbow.

He stops and my heart catches. I’ve ruined it all before it had a chance to begin. This is too forward, and he doesn’t want to be touched, certainly not by me.

But he only says, “Amelia,” and it sounds less like a warning and more like a simple acknowledgment.

“Nolan?”

He looks down at our linked arms. “You’re short,” he says.

“That’s relative,” I say. We haven’t resumed walking, but he hasn’t dropped my arm yet, either, so I pretend I am brave enough to look him in the eye without blushing. My cheeks do not obey—I can feel my face flushing an unflattering red—but my eyes are steadfast. I can see the dark forest behind his eyes again, but there is a spark, a borrowed bit of magic from Orman glittering from the depths. It gives me hope.

“She warned me that you are persistent,” he says.