He squirmed. “She’s got this guy sending her texts,” he said and stopped, not elaborating.

“Cuba?” I bit out unsure whether to be relieved or angry Nora was sleeping with some other guy. Or maybe both?

Sebastian must have seen the conflict on my face, because he sputtered. “Jesus . . . someone . . . I can’t say who . . . keeps sending her texts and trying to scare her.”

“Scare?” I rose up from my desk and braced my arms on top. “How?”

His face whitened.

I rapped my fist against the hard wood of the desk. “Tell me, Sebastian.”

He stood and backed toward the door, his eyes wary. “This was a really bad idea. I’m breaking Nora’s confidence, and I shouldn’t have. It’s not a big deal anyway.” He ran his eyes over me dismissively. “I’ll protect her.”

“Yeah, because you love her, right? You guys gonna go steady now? Get married someday? I hope you’re using protection, Sebastian.”

He let a small smile slip out, like he had a secret.

“What’s with the smile?” I snapped.

“We use protection, don’t worry,” he said, his eyes trained on my face as blood drained from it.

I swallowed painfully and closed my eyes, trying to get the mental picture of them together out of my head.

He snorted. “We don’t have sex, Leo. You’re so stupid, man. And you’re right, I do love her. Like a sister.”

“These boots were made for staggering.”

–Nora Blakely

ON SUNDAY, I woke up at five when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Finn.

--If you won’t call me, then I’m coming to you.

If he was up texting that early, I knew he had to be either drunk or high and that made him unpredictable. I immediately scooped up my purse from the side table next to my bed and took out my knife, assuring myself it was still there.

I had to be ready.

Later, I made my way downstairs to help Aunt Portia get the breakfast crowd started. I cleaned the kitchen from the morning muffins, make the daily coffees, and prepped the stations. At eight, I called the Piano and Friends studio and told them I wouldn’t be back. They’d been calling my phone and leaving voicemails, asking if I was returning for lessons. For the past several years, I’d spent many weekends there, sometimes hours at a time if I was preparing for a recital or a pageant. Would I miss those lessons? No. I’d never had a choice in taking them.

At noon I was upstairs when my dad called and asked if I wanted to come by and pick up some of my things. He said he would meet me there to help load up. I got excited thinking about my sewing machine and laptop, so I threw on some jean shorts, a tank, and flip-flops. I decided to head over to the gym to see if Sebastian would mind following me so we could load both vehicles.

When I got downstairs, I noticed a package sitting inside by the front door. It was a large brown box and addressed to me with no return name on it. I pulled it past a couple of staring customers and back to the kitchen where Aunt Portia was cleaning up from the lunch crowd.

“Oh, glad you found it. It was delivered by courier while you were upstairs. What do you think it is?” she asked, washing a baking pan.

“Don’t know,” I said, pulling some scissors from the utility drawer. I cut through the taped-up box. When I had it open, I peered inside and saw a shoe box with the words Texas Traditions Customs written on it. TTC was a boot-making company in Dallas owned by Scott Ryan, who made boots for people like Lyle Lovett and Mick Jagger. The average cost for a pair was around a thousand dollars with wait times up to a year.

I opened the lid and inside was a pair of vintage-style, amber-colored boots made of distressed sharkskin. I stroked my hands across the surface, tracing my fingers over the delicately stitched blue angel wings with a red heart in the center. I pulled a small note out of the box, unfolded it, and read aloud, “For Nora, who flies with her own wings.”

He’d left it unsigned.

“How did he know what size?” I mused.

“Leo? He called me, and I told him.”

“I thought you didn’t know who sent them?”

She flicked a towel at me. “I didn’t know it was boots in there, silly. Plus, it was weeks ago when he asked about your size.”

She gave me a considering look. “Those are expensive boots. Is there something going on between you two?”

“He got me these because of a bet. And no, there’s nothing going on between us. We’re just friends,” I said.

I kicked off my flip-flops and put the boots on. They slid on perfectly. “I’m wearing these all day.”

She smiled at me.

I gathered up the packing material, took it out back to the dumpster, and then carried the boot box up to my room for safe keeping.

I walked over to the gym, and the decorators let me in. The opening was only a few days away, and they were there putting on the finishing touches. I didn’t see Sebastian or Leo, and I thought about heading up to the loft, but images of Tiffani coming out of Leo’s room stopped me. I sat down at the desk and sent Sebastian a text, but when he still hadn’t responded after a few minutes, I decided to check the music room.

I heard guitar music as I walked down the hall. I peeked in and saw Leo. He didn’t see me, and since I’d been avoiding looking at him lately, I took the time to stare at him greedily.

He sat on a stiff folding chair with his head bent low over his guitar as he hesitantly strummed some chords that didn’t sound like anything we’d been practicing. I saw he hadn’t shaved yet, and my eyes caressed the dark shadow that covered his jaw. He looked pensive, and I wondered what he was thinking about so heavily.

Balancing his guitar on his legs, he reached over for a pen and paper he had on the end table next to him. He jotted down something and then picked up the guitar again. He strummed more chords, and the melody he sang was soft, making me strain to hear the words:

Girl, you show up uninvited,

You’re crazy good, beautiful.

Baby, I tried, but I can’t fight it.

Girl, you got some bad secrets to keep,

You’re a chaos I want, it’s so deep.

Baby, use your wings to fly, fly, fly.

Why do you want me in your life?

Could you love me, love me, love me . . .

He suddenly stopped and murmured to himself, working to find the right chord.