“How’d you know I was here?” I ask.

“Are you kidding? Adam Wilde in Zankel Hall. At the intermission, the entire backstage crew was buzzing about it. Apparently, a lot of Shooting Star fans work at Carnegie Hall.”

“I thought I was being incognito,” I say. To her feet.

The only way to survive this conversation is to have it with Mia’s sandals. Her toenails are painted pale pink.

“You? Impossible,” she replies. “So, how are you?”

How am I? Are you for real? I force my eyes upward and look at Mia for the first time. She’s still beautiful. Not in an obvious Vanessa LeGrande or Bryn Shraeder kind of way. In a quiet way that’s always been devastating to me. Her hair, long and dark, is down now, swimming damply against her bare shoulders, which are still milky white and covered with the constellation of freckles that I used to kiss. The scar on her left shoulder, the one that used to be an angry red welt, is silvery pink now. Almost like the latest rage in tattoo accessories. Almost pretty.

Mia’s eyes reach out to meet mine, and for a second I fear that my facade will fall apart. I look away.

“Oh, you know? Good. Busy,” I answer.

“Right. Of course. Busy. Are you on tour?”

“Yep. Off to London tomorrow.”

“Oh. I’m off to Japan tomorrow.”

Opposite directions, I think and am surprised when Mia actually says it out loud. “Opposite directions.” The words just hang out there, ominous. Suddenly, I feel the vortex begin to churn again. It’s going to swallow us both if I don’t get away. “Well, I should probably go.”

I hear the calm person impersonating Adam Wilde say from what sounds like several feet away.

I think I see something darken her expression, but I can’t really tell because every part of my body is undulating, and I swear I might just come inside-out right here. But as I’m losing it, that other Adam is still functioning.