“And who the hell came up with jeans?” Tamani continued darkly. “Heavy, sweltering fabric? You’re seriously telling me the race that invented the internet couldn’t create a fabric better than denim? Please!”

“You said ‘internet,’” Laurel said with a snort. “That is so weird.”

Tamani just laughed and took another bite of the nectarine. “You were right,” he said appreciatively, holding up the fruit. “This helps a lot.”

Laurel stepped over and sat down next to him on the fallen log. They were almost close enough to touch, but the air between them might as well have been a granite wall. “Tamani?”

He turned to face her, but said nothing.

Not sure whether it was a mistake, Laurel smiled and leaned forward, circling her arms around his neck. “Hello,” she said, her lips near his ear.

He wrapped his arms around her, returning her greeting. She started to pull back, but he held on tighter, his hands begging her to stay. She didn’t fight it — realized she didn’t want to. After a few more seconds, he released her, but it was with obvious reluctance. “Hi,” he said quietly.

She looked up into his light green eyes and was disappointed to realize that the color still bothered her. They weren’t different, really; they were still his eyes. But she found the new color irrationally disturbing.

“Listen,” Tamani said slowly. “I’m sorry this was all such a surprise for you.”

“You could have told me.”

“And what would you have said?” he asked.

Laurel started to say something, then closed her mouth and instead smiled guiltily.

“You’d have told me not to come, right?” Tamani pressed.

Laurel just raised one eyebrow.

“So I couldn’t tell you,” he said with a shrug.

Laurel reached down, plucked a small fern, and began tearing it to pieces. “Where have you been?” she asked. “Shar wouldn’t say.”

“Mostly in Scotland, like I said in class.”