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of America, you mean?" The chair was too soft and deep. I had to balance on the edge to keep from sinking into it like quicksand. "Newspaper story."

    "So how is it?"

    "Interesting." I solved the quicksand problem by tuck- ing my legs up under me and leaning on the poufy uphol- stered arm. "It's more of a social commentary sort of thing than hard-hitting investigative journalism." "So nothing . . ." He gestured vaguely. "Weird?"

    "Sorority girls from Hell, you mean?" I laughed. "That's so seventies B movie."

    His smile turned rueful. "It does sound clich� when you put it that way. How's your mom?"

    "Aside from the morning pukeathon, she's doing great."

    "And your gran?"

    "Good." I anticipated his next question. "And Dad, too."

    He smiled that crooked smile. "And Lisa?"

    "Fine, I guess. She left for Georgetown last week."

    "Is she still . . . ?" He faltered, maybe because of the busy coffee shop, maybe because of the baggage it brought up.

    "Studying the dark arts?" I tried to hit a droll tone, but missed the mark and landed closer to sour and dejected. "It should make her fit in well in Washington, D.C., I guess. If I wasn't worried about her moral compass before, living that close to the Capitol would do it."

    "I don't know." Justin had better aim, and he struck the perfect note of comforting humor. "Georgetown University is affiliated with the Jesuits. Maybe it will be good for her."

    That made me smile. Not because of any renewed hope for Lisa's ethical education, but because Justin was such a font of eccentric information.

    I left the uncomfortable subject of Lisa for a happier one. "Was the internship everything you'd hoped it would be?"

    "It was great." His face lit with warmth for his subject. "Hearing their folktales in Gaelic, looking into the weather- beaten faces of those living so close to the land and the legends, and seeing the belief that's woven into the tales. And the pictures we took of the haunts of the fair folk and the giants . . . I have enough for a whole book, let alone a thesis."

    "That's fantastic." I had to grin; his enthusiasm was contagious. Justin's graduate studies were in anthropology, specifically the folklore of magic and the occult. Or as I called it when we met, an advanced degree in "Do You Want Fries with That." Dad said Justin was hard to classify academically, but they let him hang out with the history folks anyway.

    "After what happened this spring," I ventured, curi- ous, "how will you write about all this in a scholarly paper? Don't you question everything now, wonder what's myth and what's real?"

    He fiddled with his cell phone on the table. "I still have to record it empirically as folklore and fairy tales. We don't know which is which, do we?"

    I paused, a little surprised at that noncommittal answer from Justin, the true believer. And there was that ambiguous "we." I knew he wasn't talking about me. I had the theo- retical advantage of my Spidey Sense to tell me when the boogeyman was real. "No. I guess not."

    He rose to his feet, dusted his hands on his jeans. "Can I get you something to drink? Vanilla latte, extra shot, right?"

    "Yeah." I smiled, feeling a melty warmth inside at the fact that he remembered.

    Our friendship had been a brief, intense proving ground, but romance-wise, he'd left before we'd gone out more than twice. We'd kissed--which was a little like saying Mount St. Helens had exploded once. But I suppose I could understand the "just friends" uncertainty of our relationship when he boarded that plane, and why we were starting over now. I even understood if he'd gotten too busy, too involved with his work to e-mail me the way he did at first. Three months was a long time. He was across the ocean, building his career, and . . .

    His phone rang. I glanced toward the counter, where Justin waited for the drinks. Clearly he couldn't hear his ringtone over the chatter and music. I swam out of the chair and picked up the phone, intending to flag