“That’d be nice,” I said wistfully. “Though you’re overlooking two things. To start, I wouldn’t remember you.”
“I’d remember you, though, and it’d make me happy to see you happy, even if you didn’t recognize me. What’s the second thing?”
I smiled. “You’re assuming I’d be on the Nice list. I got scolded by a librarian today. I’ve clearly got potential for mischief.”
Twenty-three-year-old me stared up at the flickering screen that bathed my memory in entrancing light as the film played. Though I could only afford the cheapest ticket in the house—a spot on a wooden bench in the upper section—I felt like I had a seat in the finest balcony. A young man sat beside me. David Varot.
“Frost?” He leaned over.
I shushed him. “After,” I whispered.
When the happy ending faded to black, the house
