Or maybe he ran into me.

Either way, we collided—hard—and I’m pretty sure I stabbed him in the gut with the pen I was carrying. I know for sure that my jaw slammed into something hard, most likely his collarbone—and as we reverberated back from the impact, Duncan dropped his laptop on the industrial-tile floor.

It hit with a clatter, and the whole room let out a collective “Oof!”

Then somebody shouted, “That’s gonna leave a mark!”

It all happened so fast that I forgot myself.

For a second, I forgot entirely where we were, and who we were, and all I thought about was that I had just stabbed somebody—and without thinking it through at all, I looked down, slid my hand inside his suit jacket and pressed it against his stomach, murmuring something like, “Oh, my God! Are you okay?”

The whole thing happened in seconds.

What was I even doing? Checking for bleeding? Making sure my pen wasn’t impaled in his abdomen? It wasn’t until my hand was already there, already pressed against him just above his belt, feeling his warm skin through the cool cotton of his shirt, that I felt the muscles in his stomach tense into some kind of six-pack situation as he recoiled from the unexpected touch.

The shock of what I’d done hit me at his reaction—I had just reached inside his suit jacket and pressed my hand to his stomach—and I snatched my hand back. But then, as I lifted my eyes toward his face, intending to say I was so sorry for all of it, I noticed something else: a dark red smear—oh, God, of lipstick—on his white shirt from the moment my mouth had just collided with it. And at the sight, still not thinking—my brain still several steps behind my actions—and maybe just wanting to make something right in this whole disastrous situation, I found myself reaching up to rub the stain, as if I could wipe it off with the pads of my fingers, even though that’s not how lipstick works.

That’s right. I followed my accidental pressing-my-hand-against-his-stomach with an only slightly less accidental rubbing-his-collarbone-with-the-pads-of-my-fingers.

Tallying it up, I’d say the moment totaled five very unfortunate seconds.

At last, I stepped back, my mouth open, my whole jaw still smarting like I’d been punched, and he looked down at the laptop’s carcass.

When he bent to pick it up, moving slowly, like there might still be some hope, it rattled.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, leaning closer to get a look at the damage.

He rose and stepped back, his eyes wide and astonished, blinking at me like I was some kind of she-devil. Like I might attack again.

And then time seemed to warp and slow down as I took in the sight of him for the first time since the grocery store, when I’d been too panicked to really take it in.

There he was.

After all these years.

Him, but not him.

Him, but altered. Bulked-up. Groomed. Short hair, coiffed up and back, almost like a cross between a buzz and a pompadour. Pressed and neat. Professional. Adult.

That was it: he looked like a grown-up.

And I’m not going to lie—it was definitely a new kind of sexy.

I’d been hoping that the sight of him might not do much to me—that after all this buildup and dread and worry and anticipation, that the actual moment when I saw him again might fizzle. That I’d see him again after all this time and think, “Oh. You. Whatever.”

But …

Nope.

The opposite. The most electric, physical, breathtaking opposite.

The fact of him—right there, so close—sent ripples of awareness buzzing and crackling through my body. It almost hurt a little. But in a good way.

Duncan Carpenter was six inches away from me.

Looking really, really good.

It was like he’d amplified all the most masculine parts of himself.

Even his jaw seemed squarer. How was that possible?

It was him, no question … but nothing like the goofy guy whose memory was stored away like a keepsake in my heart. It was him, but with a totally deadpan expression. It was him, but wearing—and I’m not joking here—a three-piece suit.

A gray three-piece suit.

With a navy blue tie.

Had I ever seen anyone, ever, in a three-piece suit? Did they even make them anymore? Wasn’t that only for dads in reruns of midcentury sitcoms? It would have been so bizarre for anybody my age to be wearing that suit—but Duncan Carpenter, the guy who used to teach juggling classes barefoot because you had to “massage the earth” to “get your rhythm”?

Impossible.

I blinked a couple of times, like that might help it all make sense.

I couldn’t read his expression. I hoped like hell that when he drew in his next breath to say something, it would be, “Samantha Casey? From Andrews Prep?” And then, heck—as long as I was writing dialogue for him, he might as well also say, “You look amazing! I never realized how stunning and fabulous you were!” And then maybe—why not?—he’d relax into a big smile and stretch his arms out wide for a hug, and announce to the room, “I regret all my life choices!”

I wouldn’t have said no to a moment like that.

Instead, he looked at me and—just like he might have to any other total stranger in the room who had just slammed into him, broken his laptop, rubbed his belly, and then weirdly caressed his collarbone—he said: “Have a seat, please. It’s past time to get started.”

* * *

As he turned and walked off toward the stage, cradling his broken laptop, I accepted several truths at once. One: Duncan Carpenter was really here, in my school, about to become the guy in charge. Two: I was not immune to the sight of him in any microscopic way. And three: he had no idea who I was.

That last one smarted, I’m not going to lie.

Not even a flash of recognition. Not even a tiny frown of déjà vu. Nothing.

I knew I’d changed a lot. Almost everything about me was different now. The bangs, the glasses, the lipstick—the colors. I’d expected he might not place me at first.

But I’d been so looking forward to the big reveal—when I’d get to say, “It’s Samantha Casey! From Andrews! Except I’m fabulous now!”—and watch all the recognition click into place.

In truth, I didn’t even realize how hungry I’d been to experience that moment until it didn’t happen. I hadn’t been an ugly duckling before, exactly … but maybe more like a mousy mouseling. What would it have been like to see his face when he realized that the mouse had been transformed into a … a … a really stylish librarian in a polka-dot scarf?

There’s nothing better than a before-and-after.

But he didn’t remember the before. So that pretty much killed the after.

It was deflating, to say the least. It was also a moment I could have processed straight through until dinnertime with Alice if there had been time to drag her off to the ladies’ room.

But there wasn’t.

In seconds, Duncan was up at the podium and I was seated meekly in the last empty chair—right in the front row, next to Alice, who was wearing a navy blue T-shirt that said: EAT. SLEEP. MATH. REPEAT.

Alice was a front-row kind of person, and so was I.

Though maybe less so today.

I snuck a look at Duncan, now looking down at the red lipstick blotch on his shirt.

He rubbed at it himself for a second. Then he gave up.

He turned to the room, and my eyes felt magnetized to him.

He looked even bigger on the stage, and so wrong in that plain, dull, gray suit—but also—okay—undeniably handsome. To me, at least.

“Hello,” he said at last, into the microphone, even though there were only about forty faculty and staff there. He didn’t exactly need it. “My name is Duncan Carpenter, but you can call me—”

And here, I fully anticipated one of his old nicknames from Andrews: Duncan Do-Nuts, Big D, Dunker, Dig-Dug, or just plain D, before remembering that he was in administration now and revising my expectation to maybe just his plain-old first name.

That’s when he finished with, “Principal Carpenter.”

I let out a funny little squeak.

Duncan ignored it. “I am your new head of school.”

Where was the comedy? Where was the mirth? I waited for something fun to happen—anything. A balloon drop, maybe. A karaoke moment. Maybe that suit would turn out to be a rip-away.

But nothing.

“The Kempner School,” Duncan went on, in a dull, serious voice, “is a paragon. Its national reputation for nurturing creativity and diversity is unparalleled. For thirty years, this institution has been innovating, uplifting, and leading with its child-centered models for growth and learning. You’ve inspired a whole generation of educators, and it’s a great honor for me to be here, stepping humbly into Principal Kempner’s oxfords.”

Okay. All right. Fair enough. This was a serious occasion. I could give him a few minutes of gravitas.