He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t want you distracted, Miss Snow. And I certainly don’t need to invite the ire of a jealous boyfriend. It wouldn’t end well for him.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I say, but for some reason, I get the feeling his words mean something else. Oh well. Feign will throw a wrench in the works anyway, so I don’t need to worry.

Mr. Hale sips his espresso. “Do you go back to England often?” he asks abruptly.

“No.” It’s technically true.

“What about your parents? Are they in England?”

I guess I knew this was coming. I go through my routine for such questions. Take a breath, recite to carbon. “My parents have passed away, Mr. Hale.” I don’t look at him because I don’t want to see what I know I will see. Pity. I dislike it from anyone but apparently, I really despise it from him.

“I’m very sorry.” His voice is the softest I’ve heard it yet. From the corner of my eye, I see his hand extend a little toward mine and then stop as if he thought better of it. “And I’m sorry I asked. I had no idea.”

“No need to apologize. There can be no fault when the intention is kind.” I risk a look at him. His face is tender, like he is seeing something painful. And not just painful, but maybe familiar.

“Do you have siblings?” he asks in that same gentle tone.

“No.” I always wanted one but Mum couldn’t have children after me. She always felt a pang for that.

“I’m an only child myself. I sympathize.”

This voluntary disclosure feels like an olive branch. I accept it with a smile. “I went through a stage when I would draw my brother and sister. My parents had to endure the stick figures at the dinner table for several months.”

“I should have given that a try. It might have made me less selfish.” He’s joking but his stormy eyes betray some regret. For some reason, I want to vanquish it.

“Most kind people think of themselves as selfish, I’ve noticed.”

He smiles but the dimple does not pucker in his cheek.

“What about your parents?” I ask.

“They’re vacationing in Thailand for the next month. My father, Robert, is an architect; my mother, Stella, an editor.” His voice turns guarded and distant. “Why did you leave England?” He puts the spotlight on me again.

“After my parents’ car accident, I needed a fresh start. I’d always thought the States were more immigrant friendly than Europe. So, here I am.” I leave out the long, torturous journey of the last four years, the Top Ramens, the dependence on others. It would be a real downer.

“This must have been very difficult for you,” he says softly.

“I’ve had my moments. It’s better now though. I miss them still, but I have done my best to keep parts of them alive. Like the nutritional supplement that my dad was so keen on. Most days, I just feel really lucky to have had such unconditional love even for a short while.”

“Well, from what I’ve seen, they would be really proud.”

“Thank you. I’d like to think so.” I have a feeling he is trying to catch my eye but I stir my now-cold hot chocolate. A phantom hole sinks in my chest. Not like I’m missing something I’ve lost, but something I’ll never have. I fidget with my watch, or rather my dad’s Seiko watch.

Mr. Hale looks at it, too, and his eyes soften. Suddenly, I am sure he knows.

“Yes, this was my dad’s. I know it’s masculine, but I can’t imagine wearing something else.” I look at Mr. Hale’s watch reflexively. An Audemars Piguet that probably cost as much as one year’s tuition at Reed. He moves his hand under the table, looking almost embarrassed.

“No need to hide your James Bond watch, Mr. Hale. Trust me, orphans don’t like making others uncomfortable. On the contrary, I’m happy for you.” I put as much honesty in my voice as possible. He obviously has some darkness he is hiding and despite it, or perhaps because of it, he has done quite well. He should be proud, not embarrassed.

“Your parents must be proud too,” I say.

His eyes zoom in and out of focus briefly, as if tectonic plates are shifting underneath. Then, they still.

“If I ever sell my supplement, I’ll send you a picture of my Audemars.” I crack a joke to bring him back from whatever thought is emptying his eyes this way. It works. He is back with a melancholic smile.

“Or maybe you’ll find yourself winning the lottery, Miss Snow.”

Suddenly, the “Miss Snow” sounds jarring. “You can call me Elisa, Mr. Hale. Or Isa.”

“Elisa.” He nods.

My body thrums at the sound of my name from his lips. He does not make the same invitation to me. That’s good. For some reason, Aiden would be too much for me. Like the moment I say it out loud, I will be tied to him in a tangible way. But after witnessing his dimple-and-scar contradictions, his intelligence and now his tenderness, I have a feeling that if I allow myself to get close to Aiden Hale, it would be a hold for life. Suddenly, I want to leave.

“I’d better go. I have a lot of information to download on poor Eric.”

He stands with me. “I’ll walk you to the lab, Elisa.”

He leaves a bill on the table and steps aside to let me lead the way. I walk into the misty morning, feeling new inside out. Even my own name.

Chapter Eleven

House of Sun

By the afternoon, the mist has changed into a full-blown downpour. I huddle in my rain jacket as I ride Bus Six to the Solises, trying not to think about Mr. Hale or my ridiculous reaction to him. When I lose the battle, I recite the periodic table until the bus drops me off at the Solises’ napkin-sized clapboard home in Immigrantville on North Williams Avenue.

Javier keeps Casa Solis painted crispy white. Pots of daffodils line the windows with Maria’s lace curtains. The mailbox has no name, just numbers. The Solises’ American dream in the flesh. And mine. I know every nook and cranny. The nutmeg in Maria’s kitchen, the lemon-scented dish soap, the couch that doubles as Javier’s bed because his room serves as a studio.

I sprint to the door, knock once and go in. “It’s me,” I call.

Javier’s little sisters run from the living room and turn into a pretzel around my waist. Javier strolls behind them, with a pencil behind his ear. They’re doing homework. Maria is at work even though it’s Saturday. In the kitchen corner is Antonio’s wheelchair—he must be resting. Since his construction accident last November, he is weak despite physical therapy every Thursday.

“Here you go—new paints,” I say, tossing a Ziploc bag full of pigment jars to Javier. One of the benefits of being a chemist? You can make things like your own shampoo, your roommate’s hand moisturizer or your de facto brother’s acrylic paints in a lab.

He catches it. “Thanks! Denton’s still okay with this?”

“Are you mad? He thinks I should patent the formula.”

He nods and sets the pigments on the counter. I start cleaning the kitchen while the girls give me a detailed account of their day.

“Still no hot water?” I ask Javier as Isabel tells me about her biology test.

“Need three more paintings for a new heater.” He shrugs, helping Isadora practice her ballet pirouette.

By the time I’ve wiped the counters with ethanol, Bel and Dora go back to their homework on the dinner table, and Daniela starts drawing in her coloring book, while four-year-old Anamelia starts banging on her toy drums.

I catch Javier’s eye and cock my head toward his bedroom. He needs to know about Mr. Hale’s project. He follows me with knitted eyebrows.

The more I talk—quietly, so the girls can’t hear—the more his eyes dilate in fear. By the time I finish, his sienna skin is pale.

“What did you say?” he whispers. His hands are shaking. I can’t stand the sight of him terrified. I walk over to him and take his hand.

“I know it’s scary, Javier, but think about it. There’s no way Feign will go for it. Hale wants this done in his house and if Feign agreed, he’d practically admit his fraud. Shh, calm down.” I rub my hand across his back. His breathing has picked up, shallow and fast, like a wounded deer’s.