Page 3 of Problematic Summer Romance

Ah, yes. The exact person I hoped to avoid. Right in front of my eyes.

“Maya, right?” the woman asks, taking a few graceful steps in my direction. A wide smile carves a dimple on her left cheek. “I’m Avery.” I don’t sayI know, because it would come across as chilling, like I’m the kind of person who invests huge chunks of her time online-stalking her crush’s girlfriend to find out ultimately insignificant things about them.

It’sexactlythe kind of person I am, of course, but I will attempt to bring it to my grave. Jade is under strict instructions to wipe my devices the second I flatline.

“I’ve heard so much about you, Avery.” It’s the truest thing I can think of. I expect us to shake hands, but she pulls me into an affectionate hug, which has me begging my overtraveled pores to take a break from perspiring for just a second.

“It’s so cool to finally meet you. Can’t believe it hasn’t happened before.” She’s a little shorter than me, and we fit oddly together. Her nose against my shoulder. My frizzy hair in her mouth. When I pull back, I feel awkward and frumpy in my dog hair–speckled sweats and UT crop tee.

I should act distant. Icily polite. The problem is, Avery seems really nice, and I like nice people. “It’s so weird,” I say, “that we both live in Austin—”

“—but we’re meeting for the first time in Italy, Iknow. And after I’ve been hearing so much about Eli’s sister.”

“The rumors have been greatly exaggerated.”

Her head tilts. “Rumors of what?”

“Everything.”

She laughs, musical, a little husky. Shit, I think she might be sexy. “No, no—your brother and Minami are so proud of you. All those startups that were recruiting you, and that award you won, and the MIT stuff—everyone admires you so much. I was so sad to be the only one who hadn’t met you.”

“Yeah, well, that’s on me. You only began working at Harkness last summer, right? I spent most of last year in Switzerland. Only came back a few weeks ago.”

“Hard girl to track down, for sure.” Her shrug is as beautifuland put together as the rest of her, even just off a transatlantic flight. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable by gawking at her dewy skin and unpuffy eyes, so I force myself to glance around. Take in reunions, the babel of languages, hugs upon kisses upon hugs. Eli’s driver crouches in front of Tiny and pets his head—a willing new subject to our king.

Avery’s eyes remain locked on me. “Sorry. I don’t mean to stare, but it’s…striking.”

“What is?”

“How much you look like Eli.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” I’m used to being identified as Eli Killgore’s little sister first, and only later as an individual in my own right. And I don’t mind much.

“Yeah. You look like him, but also…”

“But also, not at all like him?”

“Yeah. It’s uncanny.”

I give her my standard response. “It’s the curly black hair. And the blue eyes.” Truthfully, it’s much more than that. Eli and I have the same chin, sharp canines, legs too long for our torsos. We have strong eyebrows, Cupid’s bows, and the infamous Killgore nose, roman-shaped and narrow-bridged. The main character of our faces. “An important, proud nose,” Dad used to say, and I would shake my head and google makeup tutorials on how to smoke and mirror my way into a cute little button, or calculate how long I’d have to save up for plastic surgery. When we were thirteen, Jade offered to hit me with a hockey stick to see if it would “redistribute stuff, maybe?” Hard pass.

Then, one day, I woke up and decided that my face was fine the way it was. Dad would be so happy that I’ve come to embrace, no,flauntthe Killgore genes.

“I love it, the family resemblance.” Avery laughs, sheepish. “I’ll stop talking about it. It’s just, you’re really pretty, and he’s…” She scowls, as if realizing where her sentence is heading.

“No, no, I get it.” I wave her worry away, because I know what it is that trips her up: That Eli and I are made of the same exact parts, but the resulting collages give starkly different impressions. That the same features can be handsome on someone and pretty on another. It doesn’t help that he’s traditionally masculine, while my personal style is as cutesy as they come.

“You know,” she says, “I think you and I are going to get along great.”

I swallow thickly. At her kindness. At the idea of having a relationship with this woman who…

“Go?” the driver asks, interrupting us. He’s older. Round. Doesn’t appear to speak enough English to follow the conversation between Avery and me, but boy, he’s bonded hard with Tiny. “Go,” he repeats more forcefully, pointing at the exit.

“Yes, please,” Avery says.

I nod, too. Relieved.

He points at my suitcase with a quizzical offer. When I shake my head he winks, grabs Avery’s luggage, and together we head into the bright Sicilian heat.

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