Free Radiant by Cynthia Hand

not see this boy again.”
    “He’s not a boy,” I say.
    “I don’t care what he is,” Nonna says wearily. “You will go. Now get upstairs and pack.”
    I want to refuse. I’m eighteen now, a grown woman. I make my own choices. But I don’t argue. When Phen said good-bye to me this morning there was a finality in his voice, like maybe he won’t be there if I go back again. I guess I always knew that our time together would be fleeting. Ephemeral. And if he doesn’t decide to call it off now, it’s not like going to Florence will stop us from being together.
    “Fine,” I say softly. I slip past Nonna into the house. In the kitchen, Clara looks up at me from the table, then looks quickly away.
    “Well played,” I tell her.
    “I didn’t do anything. She has eyes, you know. She could see you weren’t here. I tried to cover, but—”
    “You’re a crappy liar,” I fill in. Which is true. Clara couldn’t lie her way out of a paper bag.
    “Sorry,” Clara murmurs. “But Ange, about Phen—”
    “Don’t concern yourself with Phen,” I interrupt. “Now apparently I’ve got some packing to do.”

CLARA
    Angela doesn’t speak to me for a solid week. I pass the time wandering around Florence alone, seeing the sights without her. I consider how hard it’s going to be come fall, when we have to head off for Stanford together. But I’m not sorry for what I said to Phen. Not really. I was protecting her, I tell myself. The only way I knew how.
    It doesn’t matter though. By the end of the week, she’s sneaking out again. Out the window, this time. Phen must have followed us here.
    I’m going to have to talk to her about it. About him.
    Angela’s great-aunt, Betta, puts us to work making her mandatory Sunday night family dinner. I watch Angela while she’s chopping lettuce for the salad, and I can tell she’s barely here with me. She’s still with him. Her eyes are far away. I wonder if I looked like that, with Tucker. If it was so plain on my face.
    She looks up, sees me staring at her, and her expression darkens.
    “You’re judging me,” she says. “Again.”
    I don’t know how to tell her what I think. My throat closes around the words I would say, about what I saw of Phen’s soul, what he said, what I said to him. It’s not what she wants to hear. Still, I should tell her. It might hurt, but it’s important for her to know what he’s really like. I glance out the window and spot Betta on the balcony hanging up sheets, humming to the radio, safely out of earshot.
    “Ange, listen,” I begin, even though I have a feeling that she won’t.
    “Don’t bother explaining,” she says before I can get another word out. “I know this thing with Phen won’t work. He and I both know it. We’ve been over it. Maybe that’s part of what drives me crazy about him. He’s forbidden fruit. I know we can’t be together.”
    I let out a tiny sigh of relief. Thank God she’s being sensible. Finally.
    “But that doesn’t change how I feel about him,” she says then, staring up at me with the paring knife still clutched in her hand. “He might not be my destiny, like what you have, but it doesn’t change the fact that I . . .” She looks embarrassed, wipes sweat off her forehead, and goes back to cutting up lettuce. “I guess I thought you’d understand.”
    So much for sensible. She’s right, though. I’m the last person qualified to lecture someone else about affairs of the heart. I’m the poster girl for the it’s complicated relationship status on Facebook. I still dream about Tucker almost every night.
    “I do understand,” I say. “But—”
    “That’s why we agreed to keep it casual,” she says like she didn’t hear me. “It was temporary; we knew that. We’re just friends, really. That’s all.”
    “Friends,” I repeat slowly.
    “Yes.” She holds out her hand, and it takes me a second to realize that I’m supposed to give her a tomato I’ve been holding.