I arrive at the bakery stand where a long folding table is covered in an orange and blue striped tablecloth. Half the pastries are already gone, gobbled up by the early risers, but there are still three ensaimadas left. I point at them then hold up two fingers.

“Uno cincuenta,” the merchant woman says as she begins to put them in a white paper bag.

I don’t know what this means, but I know uno means one, so I give her two euros. She hands me back fifty cents. So cincuenta must mean fifty. I’ll have to remember that.

I smile and say thank you in Spanish, then I use hand motions to ask if I can take her picture. She smiles for the camera and I say gracias a few times before I head back toward Dolores Street, the narrow lane I live on. Also the narrow lane that my new friend Nick lives on, which is where I’m headed. A dark flitter of movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention as I pass the convenience store, but when I turn toward it there’s nothing there. My eyes flit back and forth at both sides of the street, glancing over both shoulders then forward again. Nothing and no one but locals here.

It’s hard to let go of that paranoid sense of being watched. My father had been watching me every night for eight months. I’d grown so accustomed to that feeling. It made me both uneasy and comfortable at once knowing he was keeping an eye on me. I didn’t know I was also being watched for months by Daimon. It’s only natural I’m still on edge.

I turn left onto Dolores and the gravity of the downhill slope is urging me toward the tiny gray stucco cottage on the right side of the lane. The house is set back from the iron gate surrounding the property and the grass is a bit overgrown, but he did mention that he’s only been here a day or so. I’m sure he’ll be outside pushing a lawnmower with no shirt on very soon.

I lift the latch on the waist-high gate and slide it aside. Pushing it open, I step onto the cracked concrete pathway leading toward the small cottage. I close the gate softly behind me and make my way toward the front door.

Something about the fact that he’s not up at nine o’clock in the morning, already working on taming this unruly garden, disconcerts me. I can’t help but think of Daimon. By nine o’clock, Daimon would have this garden tamed with at least three adversaries buried beneath the soil.

I knock on the dark wood door with the intricate carvings and wait. My heart pounds as I realize I didn’t prepare a greeting in my head. What am I going to say? Hi, I brought you some bread! Not very clever or sexy, but—

The door opens, interrupting my thoughts as I’m rendered speechless. Nick is standing before me in nothing but black boxer briefs. His hand is rubbing his face, attempting to wipe away the cobwebs of sleep clinging to his drowsy expression. His bare chest is smooth and golden with a light patch of hair trailing from his navel and downward, disappearing underneath the waistband of his boxers. Right above that bulge. I have a strong urge to photograph him right now.

“Alyssa?”

I snap my eyes upward and he looks stupefied by my presence. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just… I brought you something… to thank you for the bottle of wine.”

Don’t look at the bulge. Don’t look at the bulge.

He glances at the white paper bag in my hand and smiles. “You didn’t have to do that. What is it?”

“Um …” I look down at the bag and catch another glimpse of his boxers, then quickly look up. “Bread?”

“Bread?” I nod and he chuckles as he opens the door wider. “Come inside and we can share this bread.”

I step over the threshold and into his living room. It’s small but more modern than I would have expected considering he’s only been here for a couple of days and it used to belong to his great-aunt. The white sofa and heavy wood coffee table are anchored by a soft gray area rug. Beneath the rug are light beechwood floors that extend into an open dining area and kitchen.

“Have a seat at the table. I’m going to put on some clothes.”

I smile as he heads toward the hallway on the left and I head for the dining table. Passing a small black desk set against the wall, I can’t help but notice a passport and two photo identification cards lying on the surface. I pause, tempted to pick them up to see what kind of IDs they are, but the sound of footsteps stops me.

I turn around and his eyebrow is cocked as he approaches. He brushes past me and opens the top drawer of the desk. Then he sweeps all the IDs into the drawer and quickly slides it closed.

He smiles as he gently places his hand on the small of my back. “Come. Sit. I’ll make some coffee.”

I take a seat at a dark wood dining table in the kitchen, but I don’t bother telling him that I don’t drink the stuff. I might as well give it a try. I tried the wine last night and it wasn’t so bad. But I’ll have to watch him carefully while he prepares it.

He’s wearing a blue T-shirt that clings a little to his chest and shoulder muscles. The jeans he wears look perfectly distressed, just like his dark hair. From a shelf above the steel kitchen counter, he grabs a glass French press coffee maker and he begins spooning some coffee into it from a jar. He seems very at ease and this house feels very lived in. It doesn’t seem like it was empty for years.

He carries the French press and two mugs to the table and sets them down in front of me. “Do you take your coffee with milk and sugar?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

I keep my eye on him as he retrieves a small carton of milk from the stainless steel refrigerator and a small jar from the counter. Grabbing a couple of spoons from a drawer, he sits across from me at the table and pours me a cup. I don’t know the first thing about how much milk and sugar goes into a cup of coffee, so I take a guess and put a splash of milk and three spoons of sugar. When I taste it, it’s very sweet, but I don’t say this.

“Very good.”

He pours himself a cup, but he doesn’t add any milk or sugar. He quietly sips from his mug for a minute or two while watching me. Then his face gets very serious.

“Forgive me, but I have to ask about this.”

He reaches forward and I flinch a little when he gently grabs a piece of my white streak of hair. I push his hand away and take a deep breath as I remind myself not to retreat inward. It’s a simple question.

“I’m a chimera. I have two sets of DNA.” He scrunches his eyebrows together in confusion and I sigh. “This is why I’m here. I’ve been hiding all of my life. I just wanted to go somewhere I could be myself.”

My stomach hurts at the painful truth buried in this lie.

He smiles and tilts his head. “It’s quite beautiful. You look like a superhero.” I laugh and he smiles even wider as he leans forward. “You also have a beautiful laugh.”

Flattery. He wants something.

I reach for the white bag and push it across the table so it’s between us. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

He reaches into the bag and pulls out an ensaimada. Then he takes a huge bite, getting powdered sugar all over his lips and a bit on the tip of his nose.

“These are my favorite,” he says through a mouthful of bread. “How did you know?”

I smile at his goofiness as a strange warmth grows inside my belly. But I can’t help but feel as if something is off. I don’t know how to talk to him. He’s not like Daimon. He’s not like me. He’s normal.

“I should get going.”

I rise from the table and he tosses his bread back into the bag. “I’ll walk you home.”

I chuckle and immediately wonder if I’m doing it just because he complimented my laugh. “That’s not necessary,” I say when I reach the front door. “I’m just two houses down on the other side of the street.”

“I know. You’re closer to the ocean than I am. I’m jealous.” He stands with his hand on the door handle, making no attempt to open the door so I can leave. “Would you like to come with me to a dinner party tomorrow night? A friend of the family would like to welcome me to the island. Any excuse to get drunk.”