Prologue

Why do stories always seem to begin with random encounters that later turn out to be not so random? I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about this, and the conclusion that I’ve finally come to is that stories are actually a gross understatement of random chance meetings. After all, how many hundreds of people every week do we bump into on the Tube or in that corner café or in the old bookstore down the street that seems to just be screaming “Come inside and meet the love of your life within our romantically narrow aisles!” Yet these hundreds of random encounters are never documented because... because they don’t matter. They’re boring. They’re almost always meaningless. We rarely pay any attention to the man at the table behind us or the woman walking behind us on the street or the kid sitting with a bored grimace in the lobby of our apartment building.

But then I suppose it happens someday. You meet someone in some random location and don’t think much of it. They’re just another nameless nobody that you’ll never see again. Except this time you do. It only has to happen one time, and then even if you don’t realize it’s anything important –maybe it takes three, four times of seeing them before you begin to catch on– later you look back and think, “Hm. What were the chances of that? How odd...”

So random encounter number one. I’m standing on the plane, tugging my luggage out of the overhead compartment where the strap has wound itself around someone else’s bag and refuses to let go. Apparently they formed some sort of bond during flight, maybe a marriage ceremony took place, and now the two bags are madly in love and unwilling to part ways. I’m tugging and tugging, as is some guy standing right behind me with similar problems. Suddenly his bag comes rocketing out of the compartment and his elbow stabs me in the back of the head like a well-aimed punch. The instant I let go of my bag, it decides to leap down into my arms, but misses and crashes down on my face instead.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” the man cries, grabbing my arm as though this will alleviate the throbbing on both sides of my head.

I don’t even look at him, too busy glaring at my bag, and wave him off with my hand, “It’s no problem. The airplane gods aren’t on my side today. There’s nothing you can do to help that.” He laughs because I can be quite clever at times. I still don’t look at his face because what do I care who he is? We part ways and that’s that.

Random encounter number two, in which I still don’t see the man’s face but faintly recognize him due to his British accent. Not that British accents are any big phenomenon, especially not when you’re in Britain, but the voice sounded the same so I decided it simply must be the same man. At least in this instance I was right in my assumptions.

I’m sitting in a restaurant later that very same day with dear Izzy, whom I continue to call Izzy after fifteen years of her begging me not to. She hates the nickname, and I really don’t blame her; it’s hideous. We’re just sitting there in this unimportant Chinese restaurant that’s crammed into far too small a building so that all the tables are rubbing right up against each other. I suddenly have to go to the bathroom at the exact same moment that the man behind me does, or maybe he’s just leaving. Whatever the case, he stands just long enough before me that when I rise, his elbow clonks me on the top of the head horribly sharply.

“Shit!”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, grabbing my arm as though to steady me should I pass out from the impact. That seems to be his MO. Knock helpless girls over the head, then grab them by the arm and insist, “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

I shake my head and wave him off, “No worries. I’m fine.” Not giving him a second look because I’m sure he’s embarrassed and I really don’t care anyways, I skirt past him and go to the bathroom.

Random encounter number three, and at this point I begin to catch on that something is a bit strange. It’s the next morning, which shows you how shady it is that I should have three random encounters with the very same man in less than two days. I’m strolling along in Hyde Park because I’m lost and all I need is a grocery store because the kitchen is completely empty when suddenly wham, there goes the elbow again. Perhaps if my nose hadn’t been buried in my cellphone, I would have noticed when the man in front of me suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the walkway to answer his cell phone. I’m telling you, the things are the tools of the devil. I happened to run into him just as he raised it to his ear, earning me a sharp elbow right in the cheek.

“Uhh-“

”Oh, God, I’m sorry,” the man gasped, pulling his phone down to gape at me. His voice again. It was the same frigging man!

This time I decided to get a good look at him. After almost knocking me out three times, I felt I had the right to at least see what the guy looked like.

He was awfully small, a narrow little guy with an ungodly amount of energy, even trying to stand still as he was. He had a head full of dark hair to match his olive skin, and to me he really looked more Italian than the fair-faced Brit I had stereotyped from the movies. I was nothing if not ignorant.

I pointed out, “That’s three times you’ve clonked me now. You’d better watch those elbows or you’re going to hit someone who isn’t quite as tough as I am and they’re going to go down.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful,” he promised. Then, with a grin and a nod, he turned and strolled off, apparently unconcerned about whatever concussion I was probably suffering due to his excessively sharp elbows.

I rolled my eyes, “What a douche.”

But hey, I was eighteen and loose in London for the first time. Not even a massive concussion could ruin my mood. So with a giddy smile, I continued my search for the frigging grocery store, ignoring the small voice in the back of my head pointing out, ‘Don’t you find it a bit odd... the same guy...’


	Prologue Why do stories always seem to begin with random encounters that later turn out to be not so random? I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about this, and the conclusion that I’ve finally come to is that stories are actually a gross understatement of random chance meetings. After all, how many hundreds of people every week do we bump into on the Tube or in that corner café or in the old bookstore down the street that seems to just be screaming “Come inside and meet the love of your life within our romantically narrow aisles!” Yet these hundreds of random encounters are never documented because... because they don’t matter. They’re boring. They’re almost always meaningless. We rarely pay any attention to the man at the table behind us or the woman walking behind us on the street or the kid sitting with a bored grimace in the lobby of our apartment building. But then I suppose it happens someday. You meet someone in some random location and don’t think much of it. They’re just another nameless nobody that you’ll never see again. Except this time you do. It only has to happen one time, and then even if you don’t realize it’s anything important –maybe it takes three, four times of seeing them before you begin to catch on– later you look back and think, “Hm. What were the chances of that? How odd...” So random encounter number one. I’m standing on the plane, tugging my luggage out of the overhead compartment where the strap has wound itself around someone else’s bag and refuses to let go. Apparently they formed some sort of bond during flight, maybe a marriage ceremony took place, and now the two bags are madly in love and unwilling to part ways. I’m tugging and tugging, as is some guy standing right behind me with similar problems. Suddenly his bag comes rocketing out of the compartment and his elbow stabs me in the back of the head like a well-aimed punch. The instant I let go of my bag, it decides to leap down into my arms, but misses and crashes down on my face instead. “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” the man cries, grabbing my arm as though this will alleviate the throbbing on both sides of my head. I don’t even look at him, too busy glaring at my bag, and wave him off with my hand, “It’s no problem. The airplane gods aren’t on my side today. There’s nothing you can do to help that.” He laughs because I can be quite clever at times. I still don’t look at his face because what do I care who he is? We part ways and that’s that. Random encounter number two, in which I still don’t see the man’s face but faintly recognize him due to his British accent. Not that British accents are any big phenomenon, especially not when you’re in Britain, but the voice sounded the same so I decided it simply must be the same man. At least in this instance I was right in my assumptions. I’m sitting in a restaurant later that very same day with dear Izzy, whom I continue to call Izzy after fifteen years of her begging me not to. She hates the nickname, and I really don’t blame her; it’s hideous. We’re just sitting there in this unimportant Chinese restaurant that’s crammed into far too small a building so that all the tables are rubbing right up against each other. I suddenly have to go to the bathroom at the exact same moment that the man behind me does, or maybe he’s just leaving. Whatever the case, he stands just long enough before me that when I rise, his elbow clonks me on the top of the head horribly sharply. “Shit!” “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, grabbing my arm as though to steady me should I pass out from the impact. That seems to be his MO. Knock helpless girls over the head, then grab them by the arm and insist, “Oh, God, I’m sorry.” I shake my head and wave him off, “No worries. I’m fine.” Not giving him a second look because I’m sure he’s embarrassed and I really don’t care anyways, I skirt past him and go to the bathroom. Random encounter number three, and at this point I begin to catch on that something is a bit strange. It’s the next morning, which shows you how shady it is that I should have three random encounters with the very same man in less than two days. I’m strolling along in Hyde Park because I’m lost and all I need is a grocery store because the kitchen is completely empty when suddenly wham, there goes the elbow again. Perhaps if my nose hadn’t been buried in my cellphone, I would have noticed when the man in front of me suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the walkway to answer his cell phone. I’m telling you, the things are the tools of the devil. I happened to run into him just as he raised it to his ear, earning me a sharp elbow right in the cheek. “Uhh-“ ”Oh, God, I’m sorry,” the man gasped, pulling his phone down to gape at me. His voice again. It was the same frigging man! This time I decided to get a good look at him. After almost knocking me out three times, I felt I had the right to at least see what the guy looked like. He was awfully small, a narrow little guy with an ungodly amount of energy, even trying to stand still as he was. He had a head full of dark hair to match his olive skin, and to me he really looked more Italian than the fair-faced Brit I had stereotyped from the movies. I was nothing if not ignorant. I pointed out, “That’s three times you’ve clonked me now. You’d better watch those elbows or you’re going to hit someone who isn’t quite as tough as I am and they’re going to go down.” “I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful,” he promised. Then, with a grin and a nod, he turned and strolled off, apparently unconcerned about whatever concussion I was probably suffering due to his excessively sharp elbows. I rolled my eyes, “What a douche.” But hey, I was eighteen and loose in London for the first time. Not even a massive concussion could ruin my mood. So with a giddy smile, I continued my search for the frigging grocery store, ignoring the small voice in the back of my head pointing out, ‘Don’t you find it a bit odd... the same guy...’