“Holy shit,” Jamal said. “Is this normal? Boys flipping about on moving subway cars? I can barely stand without holding the pole and this child just reenacted an Olympic gold medal gymnastics routine.”

“It’s pretty normal,” Ledi said. “It’s amusing until the first time you accidentally get kicked in the face.”

“Brilliant,” was all he said, his attention locked on the dancers. He laughed and clapped along as each of the three boys cycled through their particular routines, doing a little two-step along to the beat and occasionally pressing his shoulder into Ledi’s as if urging her to join him. She couldn’t quite bring herself to let go enough to dance, though the rhythm of the music pulled at her. She clapped along, instead.

The song wound down, and Jamal cheered, drawing a few looks from some of the jaded New Yorkers sharing the car with them. He was particularly impressed with the last boy, a break-dancer.

“Anyone willing to fling himself on this floor after the information you’ve given me about bacteria should be considered an artiste of the highest caliber—obviously prepared to suffer for his art.”

“I’d never thought of it that way, but I guess you’re right,” Ledi said.

One of the boys walked by with an open backpack, holding it out for donations. People who had been rapt a moment before suddenly had their faces resolutely stuck behind e-readers and books, ignoring him. Ledi could see the bag was empty, but she rarely carried cash on her. She searched her purse, hoping she had a couple of bucks.

“I’ve got it. You paid for lunch after all.” He rifled through his wallet and casually tossed in a few bills as the kid went by.

“Thanks, mister,” the kid said with a nod and kept walking. Then he stopped and turned back, confusion on his face. He looked into the bag, then at Jamal, and then back into the bag. “Um . . .”

Jamal waved a hand. “Thanks for a great show.”

“Thanks, mister!” The boy turned and ran toward his friends on the other end of the car as the train pulled into the station.

“Yooooo!”

They ran out through the open doors, congregating behind a pole that blocked them from view.

“What was that about?” Ledi turned and peered through the window as the train pulled away. The boys were peering into the backpack and shouting, the sound amplified by the acoustics of the train station. She leaned back against the door and crossed her arms over her chest to look up at him.

“You know how children are,” he said, shrugging it off. “By the way, the sign instructs you not to do that.” He pointed to the peeling, scratched-up DO NOT LEAN ON DOOR sticker over her head.

“Okay. Now that I have you trapped on a train, I have to ask. How have you never taken the subway, or gone to a bodega? Never seen train dancers before? I know rich people—like, pretty rich—and they’re not quite as . . . disconnected as this.” She tried to cushion the bluntness of the questions in a teasing tone, but if she was going to give him some of her valuable time, she deserved to know who she was dealing with.

The laughter left his eyes; it was strange to see him tuck away his emotions so quickly. It reminded her that she didn’t know him at all, despite the fact that she’d talked to him—and let him touch her—as if she did.

“I’m just used to traveling in a rather different style, and moving in different circles, when I’m here.”

The train began to slow down again as it pulled into the next station, the loud screech of its brakes against the rails drowning out the sound in the train car and drowning out the rest of his response.

She moved aside to let a man off of the train, and then resumed her position in front of the door.

“So, that ‘different style’ you’re accustomed to? I’m guessing it doesn’t mean you’re usually at an alpaca farm upstate?”

He chuckled. “No.”

“So you haven’t been traveling around the city via dromedary instead of train. I guess I would have seen video of that online.” She resumed her position against the door.

“I had chauffeurs.” He took a deep breath and when he looked at her again a familiar fear sprang up in her. He was wearing the expression. The one that looked the same regardless of skin tone or age or gender. It was the expression her various foster parents had sported when they called her into the kitchen or living room, avoiding eye contact as they explained she would be leaving.

Guilt.

“I was hesitant to tell you about my wealth and my background because I wanted you to see me for me,” he said. “I’m used to people judging me for everything I own and represent, and not me as a person.”

His brows drew together, and Ledi ached to reach out a hand and smooth away his worries, but she was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He opened his mouth and then closed it. “It’s just . . .”

He sucked in a deep breath.

Here it comes. Ledi steeled herself for the impact. Why had she stepped out onto this thin branch of possibility, knowing that when it came to her dating life, any experimentation always yielded the same results? She should have stayed home to study. Reading case studies about a flesh-eating virus would be a step up from her imminent rejection.

“I’m just going to say it.” Jamal’s mouth twisted beneath the bristles of his beard. “I like you.”