If You Could See the Sun (53)

“I think it’s rather romantic,” Henry says lightly, while more roses threaten to take over the entire illuminated screen.

I whip my head back to stare at him. “If this is your idea of romance, I’m somewhat concerned for your future girlfriend.”

Girlfriend.

The word hangs in the cool evening air between us, and if I had the energy and resources and brainpower to invent a time machine just so I could go back and retract that one sentence, I would without hesitation.

Henry and I have spoken about plenty of things over the past few months. Exams. Criminal activity. Bribery. The Boxer Rebellion. How we both achieved the same perfect English test score in Year Ten but I received more praise.

But we’ve never touched upon the topic of relationships. Of romance.

It’s not as if I haven’t thought about it in his presence, haven’t occasionally wondered about things I shouldn’t, dwelled a little too long on the shape of his lips, but to speak it aloud and acknowledge it feels like a kind of surrender.

It doesn’t help that Zhang Jie’s hit ballad “This Is Love” is now blasting at top volume from the speakers.

Or that Henry’s gazing intently down at me.

“Anyway,” I say, raising my voice over the music, praying he can’t distinguish the reddish glow of the screen from the heated redness of my cheeks. “I’m happy for the couple and all, but we should really, uh, focus on finding Vanessa...”

To both my disappointment and relief, Henry doesn’t say anything else as he follows me down toward the crowd. The girl must’ve accepted the proposal, because people are clapping wildly and wolf whistling, and off to the side of all the commotion is—

“Shit,” I hiss under my breath, grabbing Henry by the sleeve and dragging him behind a nearby pillar with me.

“What—” he starts to say, but I clamp my hand over his mouth, forcing him farther back against the stone, out of view, my own body pressed up to his. Close enough to feel the heat of his skin. The warm tickle of his breath on my cheek.

My heart thuds louder in my ears.

Vanessa was there. Is there.

Carefully, one hand still pinning Henry in place, I sneak a quick glance out at the crowd again. Vanessa doesn’t seem to have spotted me. She’s standing next to a tall wiry guy maybe a few years older than she is; someone I’ve never seen before. The university student.

It must be him.

The two of them linger a few beats longer before turning in to the French-style bakery café on their left, their figures soon obscured by the colorful display windows.

I release a small sigh.

All I have to do now is turn invisible and follow them inside. I’ll need close-up evidence; photos of the exchange taking place, pictures of the university student’s face, and the artwork involved.

“Er... Alice?”

Henry’s voice comes out muffled through my palm, and only then do I realize how close we still are. How easy it would be, in our current position, to stand on tiptoe and tilt my head just so and—

I lurch back. “Sorry,” I apologize hastily, bringing my hand back down. “I was scared she’d see us.”

“No worries.” His tone is equally dismissive, nonchalant, but the tips of his ears are a deep pink.

Or maybe, in his case, it really is just the effect of the glowing screen.

“I should turn invisible now,” I say out loud, more to fill the silence than anything.

“Indeed.”

An awkward beat passes. Then another.

Nothing happens.

I keep waiting for the familiar chill to descend over my body, wash over me like a bucket of ice water, for the hair on my arms to rise, but all I feel is...warm. Whole. Flushed from my proximity to Henry, from the way he’s looking at me, his lips red in the places I pressed my fingers to; from the ballad still playing in the background, the soft piano notes tangling together, the vocalist singing throatily about love and loss and want and how it feels to be truly seen.

And I’m just standing here, as blatantly visible as ever, my shadow falling firm over the pavement at my feet.

“Perhaps you can try again later,” Henry suggests after about fifteen minutes of this. “Take a break and whatnot.”

“I can’t.” I shake my head fast. “There’s not enough time—for all we know, she’s probably already taken the art—”

“Then let her.”

I gape up at him, uncomprehending. “But that means—then I’ll fail the task—I can’t just fail—”

“Well, it seems like this isn’t something you can control at present.”

He’s right. He’s right, and it’s horrible. My powers have never been the most reliable, I know that, but to have them abandon me at a time like this, when Vanessa is right there in that café and I’ve traveled all the way here, feels like the worst possible betrayal.

“Come on.” Henry waves a hand. “Even if you do turn invisible in time, we might as well walk around while we wait.”

But I don’t turn invisible that night. What I end up doing instead is following Henry down the length of the crowded road, watching the screen glow and change scenes every few seconds, from a vast stretch of ocean to an ancient Chinese palace to a phoenix unfurling its fiery wings. He buys this inflated disk-like toy thing from one of the vendor carts parked outside a busy Zara shop, and even though I’m half-convinced he only wants to see me fumble with it and laugh at me, I try throwing it up in the air. It flies much farther than I thought, carried along by a mild breeze. We take turns with the disk afterward, until it inevitably becomes a ridiculous, intense competition to see how far we can throw, and soon I’m yelling at him to mark out the exact spot the disk hit the ground because I swore I won that last round.