Third floor, right side. She was blurry—of course she was blurry—but the sky was bright blue behind her, and the blurriness seemed as much about her movement as it was about his eyes. Arms waving in front of her, her long, straight ponytail a light brown rope that swung forward over a shoulder covered with a bright white T-shirt. The balcony slats prevented him from seeing anything of her lower half, but he knew it when she jumped up and down—saw her ponytail swing again, heard her feet thud on the wood beneath her feet.

“Get, get!” she yelled, and he almost took a step back, feeling his breath leave his body in shock and disappointment at having been so . . . dismissed. By her, specifically. But when he saw two brown, furry shapes—bushy, curving tails trailing behind—leap from the balcony and onto a power line that crossed the yard, scurrying away, he realized, with relief and happiness, that she hadn’t been yelling at him at all.

She’d been yelling at—

“Squirrels, Nonna!” she called over her shoulder, toward the smudgy black rectangle behind her, and he wrinkled his brow, curious at that second word, one he’d never heard before. He took another cautious step forward. He narrowed his eyes, saw that her face was like an oval. Saw her set her hands to her hips, saw her turn her body toward the retreating squirrels, as though to ensure they were really leaving. If his heart stutter-stopped before, now it took on a quick, desperate rhythm.

It wasn’t how he felt when he saw Caitlin; it wasn’t how he felt when he saw any of the many crushes he’d had over the last couple of years. Something felt so different. Different in his head and in his heart.

She made a noise of frustration, a gusty sigh-groan, dropping her hands from her hips and bending forward to look at something. For the first time, Will paid attention to what surrounded her on her balcony, more indistinct greenery peeking out between the slats and above the top railing. He lost sight of her behind it all, cursed it as well as his vision. Would he even know if she looked down toward him? Was it possible she could see him now, through all that wood and all those plants? He should absolutely think of something to say to her. Should he bring up the squirrels? Should he ask her what nonna meant? Could he think of anything that didn’t make him sound like a backyard creeper, which is probably exactly what he was at the moment?

He cleared his throat softly, insurance against any rogue voice cracks, right at the moment she straightened herself again.

Maybe if he just said hello. That wouldn’t be creepy, would it?