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.

“No, no, everything’s fine. I just planned this trip at the last minute.” A bell tinkled from the other room. “Hey!” Hallbjorn exclaimed. “You’ve still got the wind chimes from that shop on Laugavegur!”




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