I don't move.

Not even a twitch.

The phone is still pressed to my cheek like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to Earth. My robe is half-slipped off my shoulder, my toes are pointed dramatically in my sparkly flip-flops, and I'm 90% sure my heart is performing Swan Lake inside my chest.

For one brief, deranged second, I think it might be Theo.

That he'll say something stupid and British like, "Hey, Sticky, sorry I vanished. Got abducted by MI6," and then I'll cry and scream and probably fall in love again.

"...Hello?" I repeat, softer this time. The breeze from the poolside flutters the hem of my...