"Don't look!" Rolly said, yanking him back in. "God!"

Owen looked down at his sleeve, which Rolly was clutching. Rolly moved his hand.

"Okay," he said quietly. "She's standing by the door. In the red."

I watched as Owen leaned out of the booth again, took a quick glance behind me, then sat back straight again. "Yep, that's her," he reported. "Now what?"

"My point exactly," Rolly said. "I need an in."

By this point, I had to admit that the suspense was killing me. "I'm just going to do a quick over-the-shoulder survey of the room," I said to Rolly. "Okay?"

He nodded, and Owen shot him a look. "She's a girl," Rolly explained. "They can look without looking."

When I first turned around, all I could see was a heavyset guy in a Metallica shirt. But then he moved slightly, and I saw that there was a girl behind him. She had shiny black hair and was wearing little retro glasses, a red sweater and jeans, a beaded bag pulled across her. But I didn't need to see any of these things, really; I knew her with one glance.

"Wait," I said, turning back to Rolly. "The girl… it's Clarke?"

For a moment, Rolly just looked at me. Then he leaned across the table so quickly that I drew back, startled, bumping my head on the booth behind me. "Is that her name?" he asked. His face was now inches from mine. "Clarke?"

I nodded, carefully. "Um… yeah."

After staring at me for another second he moved back, slowly, until he was sitting upright. "She has a name. And it is Clarke. Clarke…" He trailed off, looking at me again.

"Reynolds," I said.

"Clarke Reynolds," he repeated. "Wow." He looked like he was in a trance. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened, and he snapped his fingers. "That's it! That's my in. You."

"Me?"

He nodded vigorously. "You know her."

"No," I said quickly. "I don't."

"You knew her name," he pointed out.

"We were friends once. It was—"

"You're friends with her?" he asked. "This is perfect!"

"It's really not," I said, shaking my head.

"You go up and talk to her, and then I'll walk by and you can introduce me. It's organic. It's ideal!"

"Rolly, seriously," I said. "I'm not the person to get you close to Clarke."

"Annabel." He leaned across the table again, sliding his hands out to mine. "Annabel, Annabel, Annabel Greene."

Shhh, Annabel. It's just me. I felt a chill run up my neck.

"Please," Rolly said. "Just hear me out."

I looked at Owen, who just shook his head. When I moved my right hand forward, Rolly instantly grabbed it.

"This girl," he said solemnly, his palm hot, "is my destiny."

"Okay," Owen said, "now you're officially freaking her out."

"Rolly," I said. "This thing is—"

"Please, Annabel," he said. He put his other hand on mine, so my fingers were completely enclosed. "Please just introduce me. That's all I'm asking. One shot. One chance. Please."

I knew I should tell him the real reason he did not want me to be his in, or any part of whatever happened, or didn't, between him and Clarke. Not just because he deserved to know it, but also because up until now I had been truthful with Owen—and all things having to do with Owen—and holding this back would mean that for the second time that night, I wasn't being the honest girl he thought I was. If I ever had been.

At the same time, looking at Rolly's hopeful face, I could feel myself wavering. On a night when what I'd done, or not done, was suddenly looming large, this seemed like a tiny way to somehow, in some distant way, make up for it. I couldn't fix the past, or change what had happened to Emily, but with this, maybe, I could help someone else's future.

"All right," I said. "But I'm just warning you: It might not work."

Rolly beamed, then hurriedly motioned for Owen to get out of the booth before sliding out himself. "I'll just go over by the bar," he said, "and wait until you've made contact. Then I'll casually happen by, and you can introduce us. Okay?"

I nodded. Already I was regretting agreeing to this, which Rolly most likely sensed, as he bolted out of there, fast, so I couldn't change my mind.

"You sure you want to do this?" Owen asked me as I got to my feet.

"No." I glanced over at Clarke, who was now sitting with a group of people at a table. "I'll be back in a second."

As I turned away, I felt his hand on my arm. "Hey," he said. "Are you okay?"

"What?" I asked. "Why?"

"I don't know." He dropped his hand, then looked at me. "You just seem… I don't know. Not yourself, or something. Everything all right?"

And here I'd thought I was hiding it. But like the difference between the picture on Mallory's wall and my face in the picture he took, this contrast—between who I'd been and who I felt myself becoming, again, with each step I took or was forced to take backwards—was obvious. To both of us. Which was why this time, I didn't hesitate and try to be honest, instead just going with what came naturally.

"I'm fine," I told him, but I could feel him watching me as I walked away.