She trudged upstairs and flopped down on her bed, knocking a book to the floor. It was her well-loved sketch journal. She grabbed it, feeling a discomfited prickle. She was almost positive she’d left the sketchbook on the desk, not the bed. Had Ella moved it before she went to Sweden? Had someone else been in here?
The spine cracked as Aria opened to the first page. She’d had this journal since the beginning of sixth grade; one of the first sketches she’d drawn was of Ali the day she’d marched out of Rosewood Day and announced that her brother had told her where a piece of the Time Capsule flag had been hidden. It was eerie how accurately Aria’s younger self had captured the curves of Ali’s heart-shaped face, the wry twist of her smile, the sparkle in her eyes. It was like Ali was staring back at her from the paper.
She turned past sketches of Ali, Spencer, Emily, and Hanna—she’d drawn them hundreds of times after they’d become friends. Then came pictures of Iceland—the cute row houses, a sleeping old man at a coffee shop, a quick sketch of Aria’s parents sitting together on the stone wall outside their house, looking totally in love, and a drawing of Hallbjorn, Aria’s first boyfriend in Iceland.
Aria flipped ahead, the journal opening naturally to a particular page. She drew in a sharp breath. It was a side profile of Ezra Fitz standing at the board in English class. Aria stared longingly at his small, slightly sticky-outy ears. That amazing broad chest she’d loved to run her fingers over. Those full lips she’d kissed countless times.
She flopped back on the pillow. Where was Ezra right now? Celebrating the holidays with his family? Taking a moonlit Christmas Eve walk with a new girlfriend? Tears welled in Aria’s eyes. Part of her wanted to check her email again to see if Ezra had written a Happy Holidays note, but why bother? There wouldn’t be one. Aria didn’t matter to him anymore.
The house let out a creak, followed by a loud thud. Aria sat up straighter and looked around. That didn’t sound like the wind.
Another thud came, and she shot to her feet. She crept out into the hall and peered out the large square window that overlooked the front yard. There were no cars parked at the curb, no figures poised on the street.
Then something started to rattle.
Aria leaned over the stairs and gasped. The doorknob at the front door was wiggling back and forth, like someone was trying to force their way in. “Hello?” she called in an eggshell-thin voice, grabbing a lacrosse stick from Mike’s room. Should she call the police? What if it was Ian, sprung from jail? At his arraignment, he’d whirled around and stared at Aria and her old friends, a look of sheer hatred in his eyes.
“Hello?” Aria cried out again, wielding the lacrosse stick in front of her like a sword as she tiptoed down the stairs. “Who’s there?”
From the foyer, she glanced at the side panel to the left of the front door, her heart in her throat. A shadow shifted on the porch. It was definitely a person.
Knock knock knock.
Aria grabbed the cordless phone in the hall. “I’m calling the police! You’d better get the hell out of here!”
The figure didn’t move. Aria pressed the TALK button on the phone. “I’m dialing!” She shakily hit the digits for 911. The ring tones bleated in her ear.
“Aria?” a muffled voice called from the porch.
Aria lowered the lacrosse stick an inch. The shape shifted in the window. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” a dispatcher’s voice asked on the other end of the phone line.
“Aria?” whoever was outside called again. Aria frowned. It was a familiar guy’s voice. And was that an Icelandic accent?
“Hello?” the 911 operator said, a little more impatiently now. “Is anyone there?”
Aria walked toward the window. Standing on the porch was a tall blond guy with broad shoulders and a square jaw, wearing a navy-blue anorak that said ICELANDIC SKI TEAM on a patch on the chest. She let out an incredulous laugh.
“ . . . Hallbjorn?”
“Yes!” the voice said. “Can you let me in? It’s freezing out here!”
Aria opened the door. A tall figure was standing on her porch, snow all over his head, shoulders, and face. She pressed the red OFF button on the phone. “Hallbjorn,” she whispered again. He was here . . . in Rosewood. At her house.
Aria wouldn’t have been more surprised if it had been Santa Claus.
Chapter 4
Icelandic Boys Are Hot
Hallbjorn stomped into the Montgomerys’ foyer and kicked his snowy boots. “I didn’t know it got this cold in Pennsylvania,” he said in the crisp, jaunty accent Aria had missed since she’d left Iceland. “This feels just like home!”
“W-what are you doing here?” Aria stammered, not having left her post by the door.
Hallbjorn pulled his bottom lip into his mouth playfully. “I missed you. I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“At ten o’clock at night on Christmas Eve?”
“My plane was rerouted here because of weather—I’m trying to get to New York, but there was a bad storm. Flights have already been canceled for tomorrow, too. I tried calling your house from the airport, but there was no answer, and I didn’t know your cell phone number. I thought I’d take a risk and just come.” He looked around. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I? Did I wake your family?”
Aria leaned against the wall, feeling dizzy. “They’re all out of town. It’s just me.”
There were a million questions she wanted to ask him, but her mouth couldn’t form the words. She hadn’t seen Hallbjorn in two years, but he looked even better than she remembered: His tall, reedy body now had a bit more muscle on its frame. His white-blond hair had grown to his chin. He still had the same handsome, angular face, but his eyes seemed even more piercingly blue than ever. And when he smiled, he had perfectly straight, white teeth, the kind that deserved their own Aquafresh commercial. Just looking at him made her heart flutter.
He’d had braces when he and Aria had met. A week after her family had moved to Reykjavík, Aria had taken a bike ride around the town, feeling lonely and displaced and mixed up. It was only a few months after Ali had disappeared, and that still weighed heavily on her mind. She had hoped that getting away from Rosewood would help her recover from everything that had happened, but it still felt so fresh and raw.
She’d heard music playing in a local coffee shop and had wandered in. A band had been playing on a small stage at the back, and a bunch of people were gathered around. During a break in songs, a blond guy had turned to Aria and asked her something in Icelandic. Aria had blushed and said the only two Icelandic words she’d learned so far: English, please. The boy had smiled. “Are you American?” he’d asked in perfect English. When Aria said yes, he’d welcomed her to Iceland and said his name was Hallbjorn.
After a few minutes of exchanging musical tastes and getting Aria’s general impressions of Reykjavík, Hallbjorn had insisted on showing her around the country. The next day, he’d arrived at Aria’s curb in the biggest SUV Aria had ever seen—everyone in Iceland drove massive-tired vehicles that could propel them over lava fields, glaciers, and snow. He’d taken her to see important Icelandic landmarks—the beautiful, clear waterfalls that looked like something out of the Lord of the Rings movies, the giant craters, the burbling volcanoes, and the Akureyri Puffin Island, where puffin colonies spent part of the year before they migrated to Greece. They’d talked during the whole tour, never running out of things to say. Aria had found out that Hallbjorn was two years older than she was and wanted to study architecture, that he’d learned to drive a snowmobile at five years old, that he was a DJ in his spare time, and that he was addicted to American reality shows like Big Brother. In turn, Aria had told him about the boring little suburb she’d come from, how her father was doing a research study here about the Icelandic beliefs in huldufólk—elves—and how, this past summer, her best friend had mysteriously disappeared.
At the end of the day, Aria had suggested going to Blue Lagoon, the all-natural salt hot springs the travel magazines couldn’t stop raving about, but Hallbjorn had scoffed and said that was for tourists. He’d taken her to a secret hot spring instead. As they’d soaked in the warm, sulfuric-smelling water—Hallbjorn told her she’d get used to the smell—he’d leaned in close, took her hand, and kissed her. It had been Aria’s first kiss.
They’d dated for four months, going to concerts, art openings, and Icelandic pony shows. Hallbjorn taught Aria how to drive a snowmobile, and she taught him how to knit and use her prized video camera. The whole thing felt like a dream. Aria might have been in Ali’s cool clique in Rosewood, but boys still hadn’t paid attention to her—they only wanted Ali. In Reykjavík, however, there was no Ali to make her feel like second best. More than that, there was no Ali telling her that she was being too kooky, too unapproachable, and too . . . Aria. Aria hadn’t changed a thing about herself in Iceland, even leaving the pink streaks in her hair and the fake ring in her nose, and Hallbjorn had liked her anyway. In fact, he seemed to like her more for her uniqueness.
In February of that year, something horrible happened: Hallbjorn got a scholarship to a special boarding school in Norway for kids who wanted to study architecture. He’d left on Valentine’s Day, and Aria had cried herself to sleep for months. They’d written back and forth at first, but after a while, Hallbjorn’s letters had stopped coming. Aria had dated other Icelandic boys after him, but none of those relationships had been quite as special.
“How did you know my address?” Aria asked now. When her family had left Iceland, Hallbjorn had still been in Norway.
Hallbjorn peeled off his mittens. “When I got back from boarding school this fall, I stopped by to see you, but the new people who were living in your house said you’d moved back to the States. They gave me your address.”
“Who are you visiting in New York?”
Hallbjorn gave Aria a blank look, almost like he hadn’t expected this question. “Uh, some relatives,” he said distractedly, vigorously rubbing his reddened nose. “But like I said, the plane was rerouted because of weather.” He smiled at her sheepishly. “Do you mind if I stay here for two nights? The next plane to New York isn’t until the twenty-sixth. I can pay you.”
“You don’t need to pay me,” Aria scoffed. “I’m happy for the company.”
She led him down the hall and told him to sit on the family-room couch while she made tea for both of them. As she waited for the water to boil, she called out, “So how is Iceland these days? I miss it so much.”
“It’s okay.” Hallbjorn sounded dismissive. “Not too exciting.”
Aria grabbed two mugs from a high shelf. “Do your parents mind that you’re away for Christmas?”
“Uh, I’m not really sure.”
“Is everything okay with them?” Hallbjorn’s parents were two sturdy, athletic Icelanders who dressed alike and ran ultramarathons together. Aria briefly entertained the notion that Hallbjorn’s parents might be going through the same stuff Ella and Byron were, but she just couldn’t imagine it.
