"So she was blind?" I say.

"Hardee har har. I guess I deserved that." He nudges me with an elbow. "After lunch is cultural time. So what do you say? I say burnt caramel mochas are very culturally relevant."

I fiddle with my napkin. I know Jason is trying, but I'm not totally ready to forgive him yet. Still, maybe the cafe is somewhere Chris hangs out regularly. He might even be there right now, even though he sent the text a while ago; Phoebe and I used to practically live at the Beanstalk.

"Okay," I say. "Fine. But you write your own paper this time."

"We'll leave that discussion for later," he says. He pumps his fist in the air. "Oh, and you should write back to that text. Say ... say 'wish I could be there to warm you up.' "

I stare at him like his red hair is actually on fire, but when he doesn't flinch, I give up. I pull out my phone and type it in, word for embarrassing word. What have I got to lose, anyway?

When we finish lunch, we walk the eight blocks to the first cafe he's noted, but from the moment I walk in, I'm sure this cannot be the place. The wall is plastered with heavy wallpaper covered in roses the size of my head. There're so many of them, red and pink and fuchsia, in a repeating pattern that I start to worry that they're closing in on me. Each round table is topped with a handmade doily, and cross-stitched Bible verses in wooden frames adorn the walls. The only patrons in the cafe are of the blue-haired set, and they appear to be holding a book club focused on the latest Nicholas Sparks sob fest.

"Can we please get out of here?" Jason whispers to me as the elderly woman at the counter waves a porcelain floral teapot threateningly in our direction.

"God yes," I whisper back, a fake smile plastered on my face for the patrons. We rush out before they start showing us pictures of their grandchildren.

We have to take the tube to the second cafe, and I notice that Jason is nice enough to stand between me and the creepy guy who smells like oatmeal and sweat. Turns out even Europe has subway weirdos. Or tube weirdos, I guess they say in London.

When the train glides to a stop, Jason leaps out. Then he bolts toward the exit. I make it out of the train right before the doors slide shut again, and take off after him. He's weaving through crowds of commuters, dodging around people like he's on a slalom course. When he gets to the base of the escalator, he barely gives me enough time to catch up.

"What was that about?" I ask, but the words are barely out of my mouth before he takes off again, running up the escalator, taking the steps two and even three at a time on his long legs. I run after him, and when we finally burst out onto the street, we're both panting and laughing.

"Where's the fire?" I ask through gasps.

"Daily cardio, Book Licker," he says. He's bent over slightly, his hands on his knees, catching his breath. He stands up and raises a hand high. I have to hop a little to return his high five. "Nice work," he says.

"Thanks," I reply. I ball my fists and hold them up like the track champion I'm definitely not. Even though I'm winded, I feel incredibly energized. "So what's with the mad dash?"

"Don't you want to meet this mysterious Chris? Isn't he worth running for?" Jason gives me a strange look. I open my mouth but realize I don't have anything to say.

An uncomfortable feeling worms its way into my stomach. The truth is I'm not sure how I feel about seeing Chris. All I know is it feels nice to be wanted, to be pursued, to be flirting for once.

And a tiny little minuscule piece of me might be enjoying Jason's company, too.

Jason guides me across a square and toward a narrow coffee shop squished between a used-book shop and an Internet cafe. When we get inside, I hustle straight to the register to take a peek at the menu. Sure enough, burnt caramel mochas are listed right at the top, a house specialty.

"Think we should order one?" Jason asks, coming up behind me in line. "We did scour all of London to find them."

"Nah," I say, gazing around the shop. "I'm not much of a coffee drinker." I'm not much for caffeine of any kind. It makes me so jittery that I feel like I could read the entire Harvard library in one night, or flap my arms and take flight off the roof of the Hancock Building. The last time I drank a latte, I decided the best way to study for the SATs would be to memorize the entire dictionary. My mom found me the next morning surrounded by multicolored flash cards that looked like they had been written by a serial killer. I was drooling in the middle of the Ks. It was a month before I could look at a K word without getting the shakes.

There are a few people in the shop, and most of them look older, like graduate students. One is pounding away angrily on his laptop, and I'm pretty sure he can't be Chris. I would have remembered the jagged scar across his cheek (I hope). Another is engrossed in a paperback novel, but I don't think he's Chris, either, as I'm certain a chest-length red beard would have been fairly memorable.

There's only one other candidate, and he's reading what looks like ... No. It can't be.

It is. A pocket Shakespeare sits on the table next to his mug (a burnt caramel mocha, perhaps?).

It's him. It has to be.

My stomach flips. He's got horn-rimmed glasses and short, messy black hair. He's that kind of rugged, nerdy handsome. Part emo, part mountain man. In a word, the boy is hot. If he has a British accent, I might actually suffer a romance-induced stroke and keel over dead right here in this coffee shop.

My hands instantly go clammy and the blood drains from my face.

"Think that's him?" Jason nudges me.

"Dunno," I say, limited to one-word answers by my fear.

"Are you going to go over there?"

"Nope." I hope I don't look as panicked as I feel. I shove my hands into the pockets of my pants so no one can tell they're getting so sweaty it's like I dipped them in a vat of movie theater popcorn butter. My heart is beating as if someone is playing speed metal inside my rib cage.

Jason studies me for a second. I catch myself bouncing up and down on my toes. Okay. So I almost definitely look as panicked as I feel.

"Fine," he says, brushing past me. "Then I will."

"No!" I shout, drawing the attention of the few patrons. I reach out and grab the hem of his shirt, pulling hard.

He jerks backward, then whirls around to face me. "What is going on? We've been running all over London to find this guy. Now there he is, and you can't go over there? You've got to take the training wheels off sometime, Julia."

"I ... I just ..." My mouth bobs open and shut like I'm some poor fish that's been plucked out of the ocean. I don't know what to say. The truth is now that I've seen him, I can't go up to him. He's HOT. And I'm ... well, I'm me. Not to mention I've been telling him I'm a supermodel. He probably only believed it because he was as drunk at the party as I was. One look at me in the sober light of day, and the whole thing crumbles to the ground about my short little legs.

"I can't do it," I finally manage to croak.

"Isn't that your book?" Jason prods. "Your pocket Shakespeare, or whatever?"

I'm shocked he remembers. Last time I mentioned my pocket Shakespeare, he looked at me like I'd been carrying a live fish in my purse.

"I'm not ready," I say quietly, almost in a whisper. I turn away and head toward the door. Jason trots after me.

"You're serious?" he asks.

I can only nod.

I feel a thousand emotions, everything from fear to anxiety to sadness.... I wish I had the confidence to stroll right up to Chris and smile at him. Evie and Sarah would. Phoebe definitely would. But I don't. I can't. I'd say something to screw it up, or I'd trip over myself or knock coffee into his lap, and I wouldn't be able to stand the disappointed look on his face.

When we get out to the street, I have to lean over and take a few deep breaths. My legs buzz with energy, and I want to take off running. Instead, I inhale three more breaths, then turn and face Jason. "I think I need some more time."

Jason looks at me for a moment, and I brace for the teasing. But shockingly, it doesn't come.

Jason scans the street and suddenly brightens. "I've got an idea," he says. He grabs my arms and starts pulling me down the sidewalk. "This'll cheer you up." He ducks into the used-book shop next door, which appears to specialize in antiques and rare editions. The place smells like a library attic, and from the moment I step through the door, the little bell tinkling behind me, signaling my arrival to the shopkeeper, I'm in heaven. This is definitely more fun than standing in that cafe, morphing into a quivering pile of nerves.

Shelves jammed with books of all sizes take up nearly every square inch of the store, leaving only narrow aisles down which you can browse. A fat gray cat snoozes in the corner on a lumpy red pillow, a basket of yellowed Penguin Classics next to him. Soft strains of music are wafting through the shop, a familiar tune I can't quite place, but I hum along anyway. I walk over to the glass display case where highly polished leather volumes with gilded pages and borders practically sparkle. As I stare at a copy of The Collected Works of Shakespeare, I realize I've been holding my breath since I walked in. I let it out in one long, satisfied sigh.

Jason has wandered off down one of the tall, narrow aisles, no doubt in search of the DVD section (which he won't find in a place like this). I hope he doesn't knock anything over. I wander down the closest aisle, looking for him.

The back of the store opens up into a small cafe area with a stage at the back. There are several people gathered at the tables, drinking coffee and tea out of chipped mugs. A young-looking girl with loose braids is carrying an acoustic guitar offstage, and three raggedy-looking guys push past her onto the tiny stage, where their instruments are waiting. The guitar player turns a few knobs on his Gibson while the drummer closes himself into the corner behind his drum kit. Within minutes, they've fired up the amps and the bass player is belting into a mic. Their music is loud and seems kind of out of place in the small, old-looking space, but it's also joyful. The rhythm starts beating its way through the floor, up through my body.

I recognize the song from the very first notes, from the ten thousand times I've heard it on my parents' old record player to the time just the other day when Jason played it at the skate park. I lean into a bookshelf in the back of the room, close my eyes, and listen as they begin to sing, "Oh darling ..."

Jason taps me on the shoulder.

"C'mon," he says. Before I can protest, he pulls me toward the stage. We weave through the maze of tiny tables and patrons, and at first I'm afraid he's going to jump onstage and sing (again). He stops short of the stage, though. He bumps an empty table with his hip, scooting it over to make some space for us. Then he holds out his hand.

"What are you doing?" I whisper. I can feel the audience's eyes on us. We're standing in front of the entire room, only a few feet away from the band.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he responds neutrally. "We're going to dance." He grabs my hand, pulling me into him, and the next thing I know, he's got me in a classic ballroom pose. I feel strange in his arms, like I should be on my guard. I anticipate a tickle attack of some kind or kamikaze pantsing at any moment. Or maybe he'll dissolve into some goofy fox-trot or tango. Instead, he loosens up and starts a slow sway. I giggle into his shoulder.

"What's so funny?"

This is fun, I almost say. But instead, I shake my head and say, "Nothing." I breathe in the smell of his shirt, which is equal parts detergent and cedar.

He begins humming along with the bassist. "This should be our song."

"Yeah, one where a guy begs for forgiveness," I say, rolling my eyes.

"He's not begging for forgiveness," he says, pulling back a little so he can give me a look. "He's asking for her trust."

"Probably because he broke that trust at some point in the recent past," I retort. I pull back a little, too.

"Why so cynical all of a sudden?"

I feel my cheeks heating up. Jason's eyes are locked on mine. I can see bits of gold swimming among the blue. "You're the one that's suddenly sentimental!"

"Sorry," he says breezily. "I thought you were the one that believes in love and all that." He pulls me back in, eliminating all the space between us. He's warm. I can feel the heat from his body pulsing through me, from the top of my head down to the tips of my toes.

"Yeah, I am," I reply, "but if this is, in fact, our song, then I'm going with the alternative interpretation."

"Okay then, Professor Lichtenstein," he says, chuckling.

"You don't see it that way?" I say, my cheek now dangerously close to pressing into his chest. He leans down to my ear.

"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the heart," he says. His breath tickles my neck and a chill shoots up my spine. I'm so shocked I end up stamping hard on his foot. Where did that come from?

"Ow!" he says, hopping a little. "Watch where you stomp those things, okay? They're small but deadly."

"Um, it's 'Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,' " I say, correcting him, trying to shake off the surprise of hearing him quote Shakespeare, however incorrectly. " 'And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.' "

I feel funny saying the lines to him. It's different from the thousand other times I've corrected him on something. This time I feel a little warm, and I can't look him in the eye. It's my and Phoebe's favorite Shakespeare quote, and I've always imagined Mark whispering it into my ear right before planting a soft kiss on my lips. Instead, I'm being squeezed a little too tightly by Jason Lippincott, who's not even saying it right.

I look up. He's looking right at me, one eyebrow raised and a slight glimmer in his eyes. I worry he's going to start teasing me about love again, but instead, he starts spinning me around. The band is really winding up now, the amps buzzing with the wailing of the lead singer. Jason spins me faster and faster. I lose my balance and break away from him, stumbling backward into a waiting cafe chair.

"I think that's enough dancing for me," I say. My fingers clutch the bottom of the chair as the room tilts in front of me. I feel dizzy from the spinning, and maybe a little from the conversation, too.

Jason's still staring at me. There's no glimmer in his eyes now. His expression is totally unreadable. "Whatever you say," he replies. He puts his hands deep into his pockets, then turns on his squeaky heel and heads for the front of the shop. In a blink, he disappears between the shelves. I take a deep breath. I can still smell him-grape gum and fabric softener and something else, something I can't identify. My stomach does a little flip, and I tell myself it's only nausea from the spinning. In the distance, I hear the tinkle of the bell on the front door.

"Hey, wait up!" I call. I scramble after him, overcome for a moment by that head-rushing blackout sensation. More people turn to stare at me, but I ignore them. I can see Jason through the glass door, his back to me, his red hair curling underneath his ball cap. The butt of his jeans is worn, the ancient outline of a wallet visible in his back left pocket. One of his belt loops is ripped and dangling, causing his brown belt to droop a little near his hip.

I pause for a second to make sure that all the dizziness is gone. Then I push the door open. When the bell tinkles, he doesn't turn.

"I didn't know you could dance," I say to his back.

He pauses for a split second and shoots me a glance over his shoulder. "There's a lot you don't know about me," he says, and then he's gone.

i want 2 get 2 know u better. -C "Can I sit here?"

I'm surprised to find Susan standing over me. Her perfectly flatironed hair is held back by a red headband with a dainty little bow. It matches the red in her cardigan and the red patent leather flats on her feet.

"Uh, sure," I reply, scooting my notebook closer to give her room at my standard corner table. I'm frankly happy to have her join me. I figured Jason might sit with me at dinner, but he's been ignoring me since the impromptu dance performance at the bookstore.

As if on cue, I hear riotous laughter coming from across the dining room. Jason is sitting with a group of guys and they're launching dinner rolls off their forks. Typical. I notice Ryan is sitting with them. Their table is full, which explains why Susan is sitting with me and not over there, hanging on every "dude" Ryan is uttering.

Awesome. I'm the reject table.

"So what have you been-" I say, but Susan has already pulled out a thick copy of British Vogue and is engrossed in its pages. Susan probably joined me at my table because she figured it was the place to page through her magazine without being bothered.

A dinner roll sails over our table and bounces off the wall behind me. I look up to see Ryan and Jason raising their forks in triumph.

"Ugh, isn't he the worst?" Instantly, magazine forgotten, Susan whips around to stare at the boys' table. "Such a child."

"Seriously," I say. Thank God Susan Morgan and I have something to talk about: our mutual dislike for Jason. "It's like he's incapable of acting like a normal human. And that gum! What high school boy do you know that chews that much grape gum? So gross."

Susan looks slightly puzzled. "What?" she says; then she shakes her head. "Oh, I meant Ryan. He's, like, so ridiculous."

"Oh," I reply. I guess Susan and I don't have anything in common.

"Jason's actually not that bad," she continues. "He totally bailed me out last spring when my computer ate my final paper for Freeman's AP English class. He lent me his computer right away-and his notes were soooo much better than mine! I would have, like, totally failed if it weren't for him."

"Oh," I say again. Even though I'm sitting down, I feel curiously disoriented. Jason lent Susan his computer just to be nice? Even stranger, Jason takes notes in class?

"Yeah. Jason's kind of the best, actually," Susan chirps. Then she returns to her magazine, and just like that, I'm alone again.

I turn to my own notes, trying to make sense of all the madness I've been writing. I'm going to have to crank out a reflection paper later, and there's no way I can be thorough with the mess I've got in front of me. My brain feels like it's doing freestyle laps through a pool of lime Jell-O. Well, maybe I can't blame my notes entirely. It was a long walk from the cafe to our hotel, but we somehow made it all the way back without ever mentioning a word of what had just happened.

I'm not even sure what did happen-whether we had some kind of a moment, like we did in the record store, or whether I imagined the whole thing.

And then there's the text I got from Chris, which of course binged onto my phone as soon as we got back to the hotel. I was tempted to show it to Jason, but after the dancing, I felt funny about it. And what did he mean, 'There's a lot you don't know about me'? What is he hiding? Why can't he just be normal? One second we're friends, the next second he acts like I have leprosy. It's enough to give a girl whiplash. It's like he gets off on confusing me, like it's some little game.

Well, I don't want to play anymore.

But I do want to get to know Chris better. Or more accurately, now that I've seen him, I want him to get to know me better so that when I finally work up the courage to meet him, he may not be too dismayed or shocked to find out that I'm a five-foot-tall swimmer and not a six-foot-tall supermodel. Even if he weren't the single hottest guy I've ever seen (after Mark, of course), he seems totally perfect. I mean, he was reading Shakespeare. In a cafe. The same book I was reading.

I glance up at Susan, who's completely engrossed in an article about the return of the feather boa. She probably wouldn't care in the least if I walked away, but I still feel bad abandoning her.

"Do you mind?" I ask, nodding toward the elevator. "I need to get a jump on this paper, and that tour guide was completely useless today."

"Whatever, totally fine," she says. She glances back at Ryan's table, where a seat has opened up. She grabs her stuff and bolts for it. So much for thinking he's a child.

While I ride the glacially slow elevator to my floor, I pull out my phone and stare at the text from Chris. As the elevator dings past each floor, I take a deep breath and type out a reply.