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transfixed, I watched him play with Reid. At ten, my brother was as burly as a middle schooler—precisely why all the coaches of peewee football were chasing him with the fervor of lovelorn NFL scouts.
    “Okay, Reidster,” said Jackson, drawing back his arm, “watch and weep as my fireball incinerates your temple.”
    “Not a chance, peon, because my arrow of destruction is going to obliterate your wimpy fireball,” shot back Reid as his hands lifted to catch the football.
    Just like that, I remembered my once-in-a-lifetime family biking trip in Italy, where I met and fell for Jackson. After a particularly long ride, Dad hibernated in the air-conditioned hotel room to catch up on work, but he wanted Reid to practice before football season started. That left Mom and me, which was a frightening prospect, since neither of us had ever touched pigskin. After watching our bumbling for a few moments, Jackson banished Mom and me from the hotel’s clipped lawn. Watching him toss the ball with Reid back then, I knew with absolute certainty it would be a hop, skip, and a jump from merely liking to being smitten and falling in love with Jackson.
    I flew down the carpeted stairs now, intending to spend as much time as I had left with him. Screw cleaning the cottage;Mom could be her own Cinderella. I burst out the back door and onto the porch, where I stopped short.
    The crying that haunted me yesterday restarted, building in pitch and intensity. I lowered myself onto the porch steps, fighting the compulsion to rock myself. At that moment, I would have done anything, said anything, to make that wailing in my head disappear.
    “Hey, you,” Jackson said, loping to my side.
    I forced a placid smile even as my stomach roiled from my effort to ignore the crying that was growing increasingly sorrowful. Between Mom’s order to stop dreaming, Dad’s scornful denial of anything that hinted of premonitions, and Ginny’s painful three-month silent treatment after I predicted that her father would die, I’d learned to stopper my sixth sense. I ignored the few visions I still had on rare occasions, afraid people would fire me from their lives. How different was that from Dad’s terminating employees who didn’t agree with his business vision?
    A trickle of sweat that could have been a trail of tears slid down my cheek. Unlike other guys, Jackson didn’t glance away awkwardly because I was upset. Instead, he stared at me tenderly, as if he couldn’t believe I was real. The crying in my head became heartache, every tear a glass shard that pierced my resolve to break it off with Jackson. I didn’t want to hurt as badly as that weeping, not now. So why not try? I turned from the panoramic view of the Puget Sound to Jackson’s piercing eyes.
    “So my dad said he’d fly you out for a visit,” I said softly as a cool breeze brought the salty scent of the seawater to me. “October sound good?”
    “What do you think?” he asked, grinning at me.
    The weeping stopped. All I heard was our breath as we leaned into each other for a kiss, slow and sweet. Then, as if in benediction of my decision, Jackson’s hand wrapped protectively around my hip, and with his forehead against mine, he drew me even closer.

Part Two
    Form follows function—that has been misunderstood. Form and function should be one, joined in spiritual union.
    —Frank Lloyd Wright, architect

Chapter Five
    A s soon as we cleared security at Newark Airport, Dad waved from the barricade, iPhone to his ear, and finished his conversation: “Okay, Mother, they’re here. I got to go. Well, Adam’s not always right, but if you want to buy that property, it’s up to you. Okay, tomorrow. Yes, I’ll call you tomorrow.” With a long-suffering sigh, Dad hung up and pocketed his phone as though it were a distasteful secret he needed to tuck away. I had a sudden inkling of what my own life in college would be like in a few weeks. Like Dad, I could relocate across the country and