Avery’s eyes remain locked on me. “Sorry. I don’t mean to stare, but it’s…striking.”

“What is?”

“How much you look like Eli.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” I’m used to being identified as Eli Killgore’s little sister first, and only later as an individual in my own right. And I don’t mind much.

“Yeah. You look like him, but also…”

“But also, not at all like him?”

“Yeah. It’s uncanny.”

I give her my standard response. “It’s the curly black hair. And the blue eyes.” Truthfully, it’s much more than that. Eli and I have the same chin, sharp canines, legs too long for our torsos. We have strong eyebrows, Cupid’s bows, and the infamous Killgore nose, roman-shaped and narrow-bridged. The main character of our faces. “An important, proud nose,” Dad used to say, and I would shake my head and google makeup tutorials on how to smoke and mirror my way into a cute little button, or calculate how long I’d have to save up for plastic surgery. When we were thirteen, Jade offered to hit me with a hockey stick to see if it would “redistribute stuff, maybe?” Hard pass.

Then, one day, I woke up and decided that my face was fine the way it was. Dad would be so happy that I’ve come to embrace, no, flaunt the Killgore genes.

“I love it, the family resemblance.” Avery laughs, sheepish. “I’ll stop talking about it. It’s just, you’re really pretty, and he’s…” She scowls, as if realizing where her sentence is heading.

“No, no, I get it.” I wave her worry away, because I know what it is that trips her up: That Eli and I are made of the same exact parts, but the resulting collages give starkly different impressions. That the same features can be handsome on someone and pretty on another. It doesn’t help that he’s traditionally masculine, while my personal style is as cutesy as they come.

“You know,” she says, “I think you and I are going to get along great.”

I swallow thickly. At her kindness. At the idea of having a relationship with this woman who…

“Go?” the driver asks, interrupting us. He’s older. Round. Doesn’t appear to speak enough English to follow the conversation between Avery and me, but boy, he’s bonded hard with Tiny. “Go,” he repeats more forcefully, pointing at the exit.

“Yes, please,” Avery says.

I nod, too. Relieved.

He points at my suitcase with a quizzical offer. When I shake my head he winks, grabs Avery’s luggage, and together we head into the bright Sicilian heat.

Chapter 2

I first moved to Europe when I was nearly seventeen, after finishing high school early, driven by the unquenchable urge to get the fuck out of Austin! Out of Texas! Out of the States! Right now!

Get me. The fuck. Out.

It wasn’t the most carefully deliberated decision. I didn’t enroll at the University of Edinburgh because I wanted a prestigious research institution that would provide a rigorous academic environment—even though, stroke of luck, it did. My choice of college came down to three criteria: Did it offer me a spot with financial aid? Was the coursework in English? And: Was its location far enough from the black hole of my worst memories? Scotland simply happened to be the first to meet all of them, and I started packing my bags the second I received my acceptance.