Page 26

I wake in the morning to no sign of Mackenzie but another note.

Left you the last piece. I’ll tell you when you’re done.

I eat every last crumb and even lick the lid of the container before I wash it.

My MRI feels like a lifetime ago. I haven’t had a single vision since the weird watermelon festival and have almost, almost, convinced myself I imagined the whole thing. And since Mackenzie and I have been on opposite schedules, I haven’t even seen the jacket in weeks, so there has been no temptation to test my theory—that is, until I’m walking home from Liberty Village at eight-thirty on a Saturday night. I happen to cross the street so I can window-shop my favorite painted pink bookstore when I pass the Gladstone with its big street-facing windows.

The jacket is just sitting there, slung over the back of a chair next to the stage.

I know it’s the jacket.

Not to mention Mackenzie’s guitar case is propped up next to it.

He is nowhere to be found. In fact, the entire stage is empty. The bar isn’t busy. There are a few occupied tables: a small group of twentysomething guys with pitchers of beer and an older couple that look to be on a date. Without thinking, I slip inside, avoid eye contact with the bartender, and make my way over to the jacket.

I stop just short of the chair and stare, realizing I have no actual plan. It’s not like I’m going to slip it on right here. It’s one thing to test my wild theories in the safety of my own living room, but in a downtown public bar? No thank you.

What else can I do? Steal it? That would be ludicrous. Almost as ludicrous as standing here staring and—

“Annalise?”

I haven’t heard his voice in days, but I know without a doubt it’s Mackenzie behind me.

“Hey…” I pivot slowly to face him. “There you are. I was just thinking, that looks like your jacket.”

I point. He nods, a smile breaking across his face.

“I’m so glad you finally made it out.”

“Oh, I—”

“Zee!” he calls to someone behind me. “Come meet my roommate, Annalise.”

I shake my head, but Mackenzie is high-fiving some guy in a tan-colored toque. He is tall and broad-backed, and his very tight, slightly transparent shirt shows off a set of muscles that have obviously seen ample gym time. He’s clean shaven with a strong jaw, and out of nowhere I am struck with the sudden sense that I know him somehow.

I blink twice, but can’t place his face. Nor can I imagine where our paths might have crossed before. Bars are definitely not my usual scene, and although the academic crowd comes in all shapes and forms, they don’t typically look like him.

Larry would have called this moment a glimmer and told me that this stranger and I must have crossed paths in a past life. He’d say something like the familiarity I am experiencing is simply my soul recognizing his energy. I would have rolled my eyes, yet I can’t deny the rush of déjà vu as he pulls me into a hard hug, squashing my cheek against his collarbone.

“Ah, Annalise!” he says. “Glad you could make it out. I’m Zee. Mackie,” he barks, “get this woman a beer!”

Again, I shake my head, but it’s ignored because Zee has released me and is steering me toward a high-top table. “We reserve this one for our groupies,” Zee says, pulling out one of the chairs with a wink.

“Which is why it usually remains empty,” says a different guy with a British accent and a very long beard. He carries a bass guitar and also wears a T-shirt that’s lacking in thread count.

I sit, mainly because I don’t see another way out other than to pretend that I am actually here to see the band play.

Zee jumps up onto the stage, picks up one of the guitars, and strums it, sending an electric twang through the entire bar.

Someone toward the back of the bar lets out a whoop, and people begin to pour in from other rooms.

The bearded man jumps up onto the stage just as a tall blond bartender sets a Diet Coke in front of me.

“Just so you know, I don’t do table service unless you have a face like this one.” She turns to Mackenzie, who has appeared behind her, and cups her hand around his cheek, giving it a light smack as he flashes her a grin. “But if you need a refill in a bit”—she turns to me—“come see me at the bar.”

“Thanks, Jodi.” Mackenzie lifts his glass, giving her an air cheers, then when she turns to go, he clinks my Diet Coke still on the table with his water glass.

“Thank you for this,” I say.