A young boy pitches from the queue to hug a tree on the sidewalk. His parents raise their voices, motioning for him to get back in line, but he refuses, tightening his grasp around the trunk. The mom and dad take turns cajoling the boy as the line moves up. By the time they are three people from the front, they give up and join their kid on the sidewalk. A joyful whoop bursts from the boy, then he tears across the street. His parents follow at a grumbling distance while I high-five him on his way inside. I wish I had done more of that growing up—held my boundaries and waited them all out: my parents, Angela, our friends and teachers who categorized and made assumptions about me as soon as they saw my mirror double.

Other people take notice of the boy’s quick escape. Several heads turn my way from beside the ticket booth, including a set of gelled curls that looks like a riptide of Corsican chocolate. Seb and I lock eyes. He makes his way across the street while my stomach knots remembering our last moments together. The memory of the heady scent of his cologne returns well before he stops a foot away from me.

“Hello, Shayna.” He speaks to my feet, as awkward as I feel. The short-sleeved white button-up he wears strains at his chest.

“Hi.” I shift my weight to my other foot. It’s been two days and at least a half dozen apologetic texts and calls from him. I haven’t replied to any of them; what is there to say?

“I was just—um.” Seb gestures behind him, back to the catacombs kiosk. “I was wanting to . . . Were you thinking about—?” He points downward.

“Oh no. Definitely not. I was . . .” My voice trails off, imagining the words said out loud: I was just following your exact suggestion to retrace Angela’s steps today. This is my second stop. He did have a good idea, but I can’t allow Seb to think we might partner up again or let him know where to find me—even if we’re so in sync we end up at the same place at the same time. “I was just people watching.”

Seb sinks deep into a nod, puckering full lips. “I see.”

A moment passes in which we both look around, at the patio chairs, at the catacombs queue, at the clear sky, rather than at each other.

“Well. I have sent you a few messages, but let me say this in person,” he begins. “I am sorry for what happened between us, Shayna.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’d rather . . . We’re not . . . There’s no need to talk about it,” I babble.