Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

I DIDN’T SEE her all morning.

Not at breakfast.
Not near the piano room.
Not even on the deck where we’d bumped into each other.

It was like she’d vanished.
Like yesterday never happened.

And maybe that’s what scared me the most.

Because the memory of her voice, her laugh, that single loose strand of hair—I wasn’t ready for that to be all I had. Not again. Not this early.

So I waited.

Waited longer than I should’ve.
Read the same paragraph of a borrowed book twelve times.
Paced the length of the promenade until the waiters started recognizing my steps.

Nothing.

No Evelyn.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that I found her.

Library.
Of course it was the library.

Tucked between shelves of poetry and philosophy, legs crossed at the ankle, a notebook open in her lap and a pen twirling between her fingers.

She didn’t notice me at first.

She was mouthing the words to herself as she read, scribbling something in the margins. Her eyebrows furrowed just slightly when she concentrated. Like whatever she was reading wasn’t just interesting—it was urgent.

I watched her for a second too long.
I know I did.
But when someone looks like a memory you haven’t made yet, it’s hard not to stare.

Then she looked up.

And she smiled. No hesitation this time. No half-smirk.

Just a real, open smile. Like she’d been hoping I’d show up.

“Mr. Johnson,” she said, “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”

“Almost,” I said. “But I found my way.”

“To the library?”

“To you.”

She laughed again. This time with her head tilted back just slightly. It echoed between the shelves like music.

God, I was in trouble.

“I’m reading Whitman,” she said, tapping the book. “Do you like poetry?”

“I like the kind I understand,” I said. “Which, admittedly, isn’t much.”

“Honest. I’ll take that.”

She closed the book and looked at me. Really looked at me.

“You seem… out of place,” she said. “In a good way. Like you know something the rest of us don’t.”

I didn’t speak.
Because what do you say to that?

She smiled again, softer now.

“I hope you’ll come to the reading tonight,” she said. “I’m reciting something. In the lounge. Eight o’clock.”

I nodded, heart climbing into my throat.

“I’ll be there.”

“Good,” she said, standing. “Then maybe we’ll both understand something.”

And then she was gone again.