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Best suquet de peix you’ll ever have, says Larry’s voice in my head.

I look up, suddenly paying attention to the passengers disembarking a nearby plane. There are some in business suits. Others in sundresses. And a family with two little kids who are pretending they can’t see—because their eyes are covered with bright cardboard glasses.

I open a new browser on my phone and type the question my heart already knows the answer to.

When is the next solar eclipse?

That day on the sidewalk, Larry wanted to go to Spain, and I rolled my eyes at the idea, thinking it would never happen.

As the answer loads on my screen, I begin to laugh hard and loud. My back shakes, and my face turns what I’m certain is a bright red, given the looks I’m getting from passing travelers.

Okay, Larry. You win.

I click, and then my details and credit card are autofilled. Within minutes, I’m booked and heading for the airport taxi stand.

“Where to, miss?” says the driver as I slide into the back seat.

“Peñíscola, por favor.” I’ve got an eclipse to catch.

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Peñíscola looks like it popped straight out of a fairy tale or at least the glossy pages of a travel magazine. The city feels like it’s in denial that it’s mainland, jutting out as far as it can into the Mediterranean Sea. Its big stone walls protect it from the crashing waves, giving it the vibe of a medieval fortress, but the whitewashed buildings and cobblestone roads soften its edges, making it feel warm and inviting.

My driver blares some techno mashup that is a little too heavy on the air horns as we navigate the narrow streets and tourists already donning brightly colored paper eclipse glasses. Whether it’s his driving or the Spanish heat, or the day, I’m feeling a little queasy as we pull up in front of a tiny whitewashed restaurant with a big awning with the word Restaurante on the front.

I get out of the car and wait as my driver pops open the trunk and retrieves my bags, setting them down in front of me.

“You have a nice vacation, miss,” he says. “Remember not to look at the sun.” He gets back in his car and drives off with a friendly toot toot of his horn as I make a slow three-sixty turn to take in my surroundings.

The plan I concocted less than an hour ago had two items on the itinerary. Get to hotel. Watch eclipse. But there is a big black hole for the hours in between.

I pull out my phone and recheck my booking confirmation, which says to check in inside the restaurant with a man named Pedro. I pick up my luggage and step onto the restaurant’s patio, but my search for Pedro stops at the sight of a man sitting at one of the tables.

Mackenzie?

I don’t actually say his name out loud. I think part of me is worried that if I do, he will turn, and then it won’t be him, and this beautiful illusion I’ve built up in my head will burst because it can’t be him. It’s simply not possible.

A solar eclipse in your own backyard. It’s a time for spiritual awakening.

Again, I hear Larry’s voice so clearly in my head.

Let the universe take you down a path. Trust it to guide you where you need to go.

“Those were some very literal directions there, Larry,” I whisper, glancing down at the cobblestone walkway leading right to his table.

“Mack—” I start to say his name, but stop. Right now, I can pretend that the love of my life is sitting at the table in front of me, that some sort of universal magic has brought him here, and I am a mere ten feet away from telling him every single thought that has run through my head these last few hours—no, these last few months—starting with I miss him and I love him and I was stupid to think what he and I had was something I could tuck away and forget like it hadn’t fundamentally changed who I was forever.

He lifts his head, and I know this is the last moment that I can hold on to this beautiful illusion.

Please be him. Please be him.

Not because I need to believe in some universal force—that doesn’t matter anymore. Because I can’t stomach the idea of still having an entire night and a nine-hour plane ride before I see him again.

He turns, as if he can sense that I’m behind him, and as he does a lock of hair falls onto his forehead, and my heart throbs so badly it hurts.

“Annalise?” He stands as he meets my eyes, the quickness of his movements knocking his chair down with a metallic clank.

He ignores it.