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The spine cracked as Aria opened to the first page. She’d had this journal since the beginning of sixth grade; one of the first sketches she’d drawn was of Ali the day she’d marched out of Rosewood Day and announced that her brother had told her where a piece of the Time Capsule flag had been hidden. It was eerie how accurately Aria’s younger self had captured the curves of Ali’s heart-shaped face, the wry twist of her smile, the sparkle in her eyes. It was like Ali was staring back at her from the paper.
She turned past sketches of Ali, Spencer, Emily, and Hanna—she’d drawn them hundreds of times after they’d become friends. Then came pictures of Iceland—the cute row houses, a sleeping old man at a coffee shop, a quick sketch of Aria’s parents sitting together on the stone wall outside their house, looking totally in love, and a drawing of Hallbjorn, Aria’s first boyfriend in Iceland.
Aria flipped ahead, the journal opening naturally to a particular page. She drew in a sharp breath. It was a side profile of Ezra Fitz standing at the board in English class. Aria stared longingly at his small, slightly sticky-outy ears. That amazing broad chest she’d loved to run her fingers over. Those full lips she’d kissed countless times.
She flopped back on the pillow. Where was Ezra right now? Celebrating the holidays with his family? Taking a moonlit Christmas Eve walk with a new girlfriend? Tears welled in Aria’s eyes. Part of her wanted to check her email again to see if Ezra had written a Happy Holidays note, but why bother? There wouldn’t be one. Aria didn’t matter to him anymore.
The house let out a creak, followed by a loud thud. Aria sat up straighter and looked around. That didn’t sound like the wind.
Another thud came, and she shot to her feet. She crept out into the hall and peered out the large square window that overlooked the front yard. There were no cars parked at the curb, no figures poised on the street.
Then something started to rattle.
Aria leaned over the stairs and gasped. The doorknob at the front door was wiggling back and forth, like someone was trying to force their way in. “Hello?” she called in an eggshell-thin voice, grabbing a lacrosse stick from Mike’s room. Should she call the police? What if it was Ian, sprung from jail? At his arraignment, he’d whirled around and stared at Aria and her old friends, a look of sheer hatred in his eyes.
“Hello?” Aria cried out again, wielding the lacrosse stick in front of her like a sword as she tiptoed down the stairs. “Who’s there?”
From the foyer, she glanced at the side panel to the left of the front door, her heart in her throat. A shadow shifted on the porch. It was definitely a person.
Knock knock knock.
Aria grabbed the cordless phone in the hall. “I’m calling the police! You’d better get the hell out of here!”
The figure didn’t move. Aria pressed the TALK button on the phone. “I’m dialing!” She shakily hit the digits for 911. The ring tones bleated in her ear.
“Aria?” a muffled voice called from the porch.
Aria lowered the lacrosse stick an inch. The shape shifted in the window. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” a dispatcher’s voice asked on the other end of the phone line.
“Aria?” whoever was outside called again. Aria frowned. It was a familiar guy’s voice. And was that an Icelandic accent?
“Hello?” the 911 operator said, a little more impatiently now. “Is anyone there?”
Aria walked toward the window. Standing on the porch was a tall blond guy with broad shoulders and a square jaw, wearing a navy-blue anorak that said ICELANDIC SKI TEAM on a patch on the chest. She let out an incredulous laugh.
“ . . . Hallbjorn?”
“Yes!” the voice said. “Can you let me in? It’s freezing out here!”
Aria opened the door. A tall figure was standing on her porch, snow all over his head, shoulders, and face. She pressed the red OFF button on the phone. “Hallbjorn,” she whispered again. He was here . . . in Rosewood. At her house.
Aria wouldn’t have been more surprised if it had been Santa Claus.
Chapter 4
Icelandic Boys Are Hot
Hallbjorn stomped into the Montgomerys’ foyer and kicked his snowy boots. “I didn’t know it got this cold in Pennsylvania,” he said in the crisp, jaunty accent Aria had missed since she’d left Iceland. “This feels just like home!”
“W-what are you doing here?” Aria stammered, not having left her post by the door.
Hallbjorn pulled his bottom lip into his mouth playfully. “I missed you. I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“At ten o’clock at night on Christmas Eve?”
“My plane was rerouted here because of weather—I’m trying to get to New York, but there was a bad storm. Flights have already been canceled for tomorrow, too. I tried calling your house from the airport, but there was no answer, and I didn’t know your cell phone number. I thought I’d take a risk and just come.” He looked around. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I? Did I wake your family?”
Aria leaned against the wall, feeling dizzy. “They’re all out of town. It’s just me.”
There were a million questions she wanted to ask him, but her mouth couldn’t form the words. She hadn’t seen Hallbjorn in two years, but he looked even better than she remembered: His tall, reedy body now had a bit more muscle on its frame. His white-blond hair had grown to his chin. He still had the same handsome, angular face, but his eyes seemed even more piercingly blue than ever. And when he smiled, he had perfectly straight, white teeth, the kind that deserved their own Aquafresh commercial. Just looking at him made her heart flutter.
