With a grin, she slides her thumb across the screen and says, “Hey, Kevin. I’m here with Flynn.”

The fact that she didn’t need to introduce me says she’s already told him about me. That has to be a good sign. I sit a little taller. She shows me the phone, and I say hello to her brother, a baby-faced blond with a straight nose and kind eyes.

“Hey, Flynn. Nice to finally meet you.”

“Good to meet you. Sabrina has told me a lot about you,” I say. “She thinks you’re the cat’s meow.”

Kevin meows. “And the pajamas too. Also, thank you. I’m glad to hear she said good things to you.”

Sabrina peers at the screen. “Hey, can I call you later when I finish this interview?”

“Sure.” Kevin scratches his head. “You’re doing another one?”

Her answer comes at the speed of light. “Yes.”

“How often do you guys do interviews? Hasn’t this kind of been going on for forever?”

Sabrina glances at me over the top of the phone, a guilty-as-charged look in her eyes before she returns her focus to her brother. “Kevin, stop saying things you shouldn’t be saying right now. I love you, and I’ll talk to you later.”

When she clicks end, I cluck my tongue. “We don’t really need to talk this much for the story. Do we?”

Sabrina shakes her head. “I don’t think we do. I kind of have everything I need already.”

“Really?” Perhaps she can hear the disappointment in my voice. If she can’t, she should have her hearing checked.

“Well,” she says, tapping her chin, “I suppose there are a couple more things I wanted to ask you.”

“I guess we should talk again tomorrow?”

“Definitely.”

We make plans for the next day.

20

Sabrina

Since I’ve had so many interviews with other people, it’s only natural that I need to talk to Flynn after I speak with the others.

To check for his reaction.

To glean his response.

Or, really, to spend more time with him.

Flynn is a pattern I want to make over and over. He’s a word I never tire of using. He’s a song I can blast in my earbuds all night long.

All day too.

With Flynn, it’s like we have an endless well of topics for conversation. Dip a hand in it, pick another item, and chat, chat, chat.

The next evening, when we leave the café where we’ve been talking, we wander past a store window display that catches my eye.

A zombie mask. A gangster suit. A cheerleader. Dorothy, complete with her blue gingham dress and ruby-red slippers.

I point to the glittery shoes. “I want the slippers. I’ll click my heels.”

“Where will you go?”

“I would go back to the costume party.”

His eyes lock with mine. His aren’t green now. Longing is their shade, and I want to capture the way he looks. He stares at me like I’m worth everything. Like I’m emeralds and rubies. God, how I want that. How I wish I could have it with him—everything in his eyes.