Paradise by Joanna Nadin Page A

opposite a guy, older, but with the same eyes. Her brother, I guess.
    The café is done out like some textbook seaside cliché. Red-gingham tablecloths. Blue walls. But, like everything around here, it bears the signs of slow decay. The tiles are cracked, grime clinging to the grouting. The Formica tables propped on crumpled newspaper to keep them upright.
    On top of the counter is a sponge cake; homemade. Underneath, juice cartons, Mars bars, and millionaire’s shortbread. God, I used to love that stuff. Begged Mum to bring it back from Martha’s. Finn dancing around, happy that he was eating the same as a real millionaire, thinking somehow he’d be one now. The music blares from a CD system. I recognize it now. Kaiser Chiefs. It seems out of place here. Out of time.
    I feel him before I see him. I’m still looking at the shortbread, wondering if I’ve got enough for a piece, for a slice of hope, when something shifts in the air and I hear someone coming out of the kitchen at the back, see a black shape appear behind the counter. Then I look up. And everything changes.
    I wasn’t looking for him. I wasn’t looking for anyone like that. Mum always told me — even if I didn’t tell myself — that I didn’t need a boyfriend. Not yet. But maybe it was like the key again. Serendipity; fate. Even though I didn’t believe in it.
    I used to laugh at that stuff in magazines. Love at first sight. That your heart could stop. But I swear in that second, everything stood still. The earth ceased turning, and there was this sucking silence, draining everything around it, drawing the breath out of me. Then suddenly the world switched on again. The Kaiser Chiefs sang “Ruby,” and I could hear the chink of china on china, smell bacon fat and coffee, feel my hand on cold glass. And him.
    He was older. Eighteen, I guessed. Tall, taller than me. And had this grace about him. But strength, too, and confidence, without being arrogant. Like he knew who he was. Like he didn’t care what anyone thought.
    Maybe it wasn’t fate. Maybe I’d willed this. Wanted this to happen. And he was just there at the right time. A coincidence. I’d waited at school. For a knight in shining armor who would ride in and rock my world, take me out of it. But all I got were kids like Ash and Leon, joking and smoking and thinking they’re all that.
    Yet now, here was a knight. And he didn’t ride in. And he had long hair and a faded tour T-shirt instead of armor. But whatever, it happened.
    “All right?” he says. “What can I get you?”
    His voice is soft. The accent is there, but it’s different on him. Makes him sound outdoorsy, a surfer.
    I mumble back, still looking at the counter, unable to meet his eyes. I know I won’t be able to eat shortbread. That it will stick in my throat, dry now from fear, or anticipation.
    “Apple juice,” I say. My voice is cracked. I cough and repeat it. Adding a “Sorry.” “And a pen,” I say, remembering.
    I reach into my pocket for change, and I dump a handful of coins on the counter before he can reach his hand out. Don’t want to touch him, in case he can tell. A fifty-pence piece rolls onto the floor, and I feel my face redden.
    “Sorry,” I say again.
    He laughs. “It’s OK. Really.”
    I turn to glance at the girl. She’s watching me, mouth open slightly, a smile on the edge of her lips, but not a friendly one. A crocodile smile. The kind that comes with a catch.
    When I look back he’s smiling, too. But this one is hiding nothing. This one is true. And it’s meant for me.
    “Here,” he says.
    In his hand is a juice box and a blue Bic pen. I hesitate, hoping he’ll put them down, but instead he reaches farther toward me. I hold my hand out and close it around the pen and carton. Our fingers touch for a second, and I feel it, a burning heat, like he’s some storybook superhero. Except he’s not; he’s real. And in that instant I know, and when I meet his eyes, I see something there. A