“His arm slid around my shoulders and drew me to him. It was odd, sitting there under the veil of darkness, watching the neighborhood settle down. Lamps burned in windows. TVs flickered. A few houses down, the rhythmic thud of a basketball on concrete and muffled laughter alerted us to the only other people outside on this glorious fall night.“This is a perfect date,” I said.He tensed. “You’d call it a date?”“Sure. You wouldn’t?”He looked down at me, his eyes glittering in the faint light. “I thought American girls liked more formality in a date.”“More money is what you mean.” I smiled. “It’s a date. Don’t argue with me.”“I never do.”

“We could’ve been a still photo, the kind from a booth at the mall where two dollars went in and a strip of three shots came out. Our image wasn’t the first shot, the one that was always frantic and unfocused. It wasn’t the second shot either--laughing and silly. No, this was the final image--the serious shot--where the couple realized they wanted a good picture to remember the moment by and couldn’t afford to screw the last one up.”

“What is the verdict?”“There is always hope.” His face softened. “However, it’s unlikely your brain damage will improve.”He’d given me the answer I’d expected and dreaded.I shut my eyes and sagged into the pillows. I’d braced myself for this result, but I’d wanted a miracle so badly that it was painful to hear the truth.Sunlight pressed in on me, trying to cheer me up. I would resist a moment longer. This room, the quilt, my closed eyes—they formed a serene barrier against the world, although it wasn’t clear to me if I wanted to keep the scary stuff out or the scared me in.”

“His arm slid around my shoulders and drew me to him. It was odd, sitting there under the veil of darkness, watching the neighborhood settle down. Lamps burned in windows. TVs flickered. A few houses down, the rhythmic thud of a basketball on concrete and muffled laughter alerted us to the only other people outside on this glorious fall night.“This is a perfect date,” I said.He tensed. “You’d call it a date?”“Sure. You wouldn’t?”He looked down at me, his eyes glittering in the faint light. “I thought American girls liked more formality in a date.”“More money is what you mean.” I smiled. “It’s a date. Don’t argue with me.”“I never do.”

“There it was again, that strange sensation. Sort of floaty. Completely lovely. “Why aren’t we kissing yet?”“The same question had crossed my mind.” He leaned closer and pressed his lips to mine.I could never get enough of this sweet, crazy kissing. How did anyone ever get anything done when they were falling in love?”

“Have you ever experienced human love?”“Yes. Once.”Regret shadowed his face. “Then why would you be willing to repeat it?”“What we learn is worth more than what we lose.”

“Obviously, genies worked out in their off-hours. He looked so good it was distracting.”

“Thanks for driving me home, Mason. And for dinner. And…everything.”“You’re welcome.” His hand cupped my shoulder, his face in the shadows. “Was this a date?”“No.”His smile was a slash of white in the darkness. “Then you’re not expecting me to kiss you good-night.”“No.” I smiled back.“Too bad.”

“I think it must be one of those things where no one’s wrong and everybody loses.”

“Strange how knowing our story had no happy ending had freed us to live in the moment. We weren’t guy and girl. We weren’t damaged and terminal. We were just now.”

“My mother sat motionless at the kitchen table, her head cradled on one arm, the other extended toward her ever-present coffee mug. This was going to be another of her bad days. It was hard to pinpoint when I’d given up hope that she would pull herself together--that me being in charge would be a temporary thing. But too many months had passed with nothing changing, except somewhere along the way I’d stopped feeling sympathy for her. Or anger. It was easier to not feel anything where my mother was concerned because then I could never be let down.”