“How would you know?” I demanded, angrily snatching my hand away and letting the picture drop to the middle of the table. “You were so busy with Miss-Thanks-for-Fixing-My-Carburetor, I’m surprised you even noticed.”

“Hey,” he said, looking wounded. “Take it easy. I told you—”

“Let’s cut to the chase here, Rob,” I said, my voice shaking. Because I was so angry, I told myself. That was the only reason. “You want me to find your sister. Fine. I can’t find her. I can’t find anyone. Now you know. It’s not a lie. It’s not a stunt to get people off my back. It’s real. I’m not Lightning Girl anymore. But don’t try to snow me with fake sympathy. It’s not necessary, and it won’t work.”

Clearly stung, Rob blinked at me from across the table. “My sympathy,” Rob said, “isn’t fake, Jess. I don’t know how you could say that to me, after everything we’ve been through toge—”

“Don’t even start,” I said, holding up a single hand, palm out, in the universal sign for Stop. Or Tell It to the Hand. “You only seem to remember everything we’ve been through when you want something from me. The rest of the time, you seem to forget it all conveniently enough.”

Rob opened his mouth to say something—probably to deny it—but he didn’t get the chance, since Ann came up to the table and asked, sounding concerned, “Everything all right here, guys?”

I noticed the only other couple in the place was glancing at us surreptitiously from behind their menus. I guess our conversation HAD gotten pretty heated.

“Everything’s great,” I said miserably. “Can we just get the check?”

“Sure,” Ann said. “Be right back.”

The minute she was gone, Rob leaned forward and, elbows on the table—his knees brushing mine beneath it and his fingers just inches from where mine lay by the picture of his sister—said in a low voice, “Jess, I understand that you went through hell the year before last.