She wheeled herself the three quarters of a mile to the local T stop, and, blinking rapidly to keep the stinging sweat out of her eyes, boarded the screeching subway into Boston—the Haymarket stop on the Orange line, to be exact. Then after taking the elevator up to the ground floor, she wheeled herself another half mile to the Faneuil Hall Marketplace, beads of sweat forming almost instantly on her forehead and soon tasting salty on her lips.

  It had been a favorite trip she’d made often with Shawn before everything changed. This would be the first time she dared return. But she’d been spooked from the start, surely a bad omen. On the way from her apartment to the T station, she’d noticed a tall, thin man walking briskly behind her for several blocks, sure he meant her harm even though it was broad daylight. He’d slowed when she slowed. He’d picked up the pace when she did. Her heart had pounded and her palms had grown moist, but then he’d suddenly walked briskly right past her, paying her no attention at all.

  Then after she got off at Haymarket and took the elevator to the ground floor, she’d wheeled herself along the god-awful bumpy, brick walkway, and once again became sure she was being followed, this time by a short, squat, middle-aged man she’d seen eyeing her on the train. Her chair placed a big bulls-eye on her back as an easy mark, she knew, and she felt her mouth go dry and her pulse again quicken. But he’d turned off a side street, and she never saw him again.

  Good grief, she thought. You’re acting like a four-year-old in bed, pulling the blankets over her head, convinced there’s a boogeyman in the closet. Grow up! The whole world isn’t out to get you.

  Julie tried to laugh it off—silly me!—and mostly succeeded. Except her heart kept pounding, as if to call her own bluff.

  So when the crooked-nosed creep in the sunglasses, faded jeans, and gray hoodie strode beside her for a few heart-stopping seconds before moving quickly past as she approached the section of the Faneuil Hall Marketplace known as Quincy Market—a fifty-foot high, forty-foot wide, granite edifice to overeating and shopping—Julie decided she’d been weirded out twice already and she wasn’t going for the hat trick. Maybe the guy, thirty or so, scrawny and a shade under six feet tall with a nose that clearly had been broken in the past multiple times and never set, was trying to sweat off a few pounds.

  Whatever. It wasn’t her concern.

  As the wheelchair clattered along the brick walkway and she neared the entrance, laughter and applause erupted off to her right where a street performer rocked back and forth on a ten-foot-high unicycle, juggling four flaming torches.

  For just the slightest nanosecond, Julie turned away, mentally yawning at a juggler on a unicycle. Big deal. Eye roll material.

  Then she looked again.

  Ho-leee crap!

  Sitting high atop on the unicycle was the most gorgeous man she had ever seen. Dark, thick, wavy hair. Probably Italian, she guessed. Maybe Greek, as in the Greek God Adonis, but her money was on Italian. Piercing blue eyes and a killer smile he was sending her way.

  But what made her stop short—making a pedestrian behind her bump into her chair, knock it forward, and then rush away, apologizing profusely—was the performer’s perfect body, one straight off a fitness magazine cover. His bare chest—tanned, chiseled, and undoubtedly shaved—glistened with sweat in the noonday sun. Julie didn’t find attractive the excessive, vein-popping musculature of a competitive bodybuilder, but this...this Italian Stallion was perfection at just the right notch lower! He wore only red, white, and blue starred shorts, appropriate for the holiday, showcasing legs like tree trunks, tanned and strong, just like his gorgeous inverted triangle of a chest.

  Wow.

  Julie’s legs didn’t work anymore, but everything else down there did, and everything else down there liked what she saw.

  “Hey, pretty lady,” he called out and waved. “Come over and join us.”

  Julie looked around. Who was he talking to?

  Was he...?

  “Yes, you,” the Italian Stallion said, again flashing the killer smile.

  Julie felt her eyes go wide and her face grow hot, even hotter than it had been wheeling her chair over half a mile of brick sidewalks. She realized for the first time that the crowd circled around this...this Adonis...was five or six deep.

  And almost all of their faces had turned to see her, eager with anticipation, until—

  Until they saw the object of the Italian Stallion’s attention—they saw her—and their smiles froze. Their faces fell and they looked away, uncomfortable. And what Julie saw in almost every single eye was what she hated most about what she had become. What she feared seeing more than anything else.

  Pity.

  Even before the accident, she’d never been comfortable in the limelight. In high school, she’d always played team sports, never individual, blending in with her teammates, instinctively deferring to the stars. In college, the very thought of a presentation in front of a classroom caused her to break into a cold sweat. So she chose team projects in which she could do the grunt work and someone else presented it, getting the attention she wanted no part of.

  After the accident, that need to blend in grew even more intense. She didn’t want to be seen.

  And she definitely didn’t want to be stared at, like now, by close to a hundred people.

  Julie shot the wheelchair forward as fast as she could get it to go, bumping across the dark red brick surface, hearing the Italian Stallion call out after her, “No, don’t go, don’t go! Come back.”

  She got to the foot of the granite stairs and froze.

  There was no handicapped ramp! The landing in front of the double doors had to be thirty feet wide with four steps leading up to it. But there was no way for her to get up there. One of the most popular locations in downtown Boston, and there was no way for her to get inside.

  Could that be?

  Humiliation and anger washed over her. She barely realized that the street performer had fallen silent, or rather, had continued on with his act and thankfully taken her out of his sights.

  But she still felt all eyes on her. On her helplessness.

  And when an unseen man behind her with a deep, Southern voice, said softly, his mint-scented mouth next to her ear, “I could lift you up there, miss, if you’d like,” she almost screamed.

  Julie shook her head violently, unable to speak as the tears welled up within her. She closed her eyes and tried to calm her shaking hands.

  It was probably only a second or two before she realized the building’s wheelchair ramps must be on the sides, but it felt like forever.

  * * *

  Tony Gianino felt awful. He’d spotted the cute redhead in the wheelchair looking at him, and instantly been struck by something about her. Not just her petite beauty, though he was a sucker for redheads, especially ones with bright cinnamon-colored hair like hers.

  There was something about how she carried herself. An almost contradictory mix of toughness and fragility. And even at a distance of twenty yards, he was sure her eyes were emerald green.

  Definitely Irish. Probably a Shannon or an Erin.

  Whatever it was, something about her hit him between the eyes. It was like in The Godfather. (What Italian boy from the North End didn’t know at least the first two movies by heart even if they reinforced the stereotype that all Italians were gangsters, not just the few guys from the neighborhood like Vinnie Sarducci and Paulie Numnuts who really were connected?) There was that scene when Michael Corleone sees for the first time the Sicilian girl who will become his wife, and he’s instantly thunderstruck.

  Yeah, thunderstruck. That was how Tony felt about this girl. This Shannon or Erin or Kellie or whatever her name was. This girl he’d embarrassed without intending to, an outrageous blunder, pushing her away when he’d only wanted to draw her near, so he could perform for her and maybe even....

  What? Win her heart?

  How silly was that? He’d seen her all of fifteen seconds, twenty-five tops, and sent her rushing away. Yet here he was thinking of winning her heart? What was wrong with him?

  And an Irish-looking girl, no less. Of course, not every redhead is Irish, but this was Boston, and if she wasn’t Irish, he’d eat his unicycle. More to the point, she sure wasn’t Italian. And his old-school mother had a bird anytime he got serious with any girl who wasn’t Italian. (God forbid if she were anything but a Catholic, though surely that wouldn’t be a problem for this Shannon or Erin or Kellie; all the Irish here were Catholics.) But his mother had a bird over lots of things these days. Especially him trying to make it as a full-time street performer instead of getting “a real job.”

  “You have so much potential!” she whined. “You can do so much better than this!”

  Mio Dio. Tony almost crossed himself, although that would have been disastrous, what with him juggling four flaming torches atop his ten-foot high unicycle.

  Get your act together, he told himself, and brought his focus back to his performance and the hundred or so people surrounding him in a wide circle, five or six deep.

  Normally, he could go through the whole act purely on instinct, and get automatic laughter from all his punch lines even while entertaining the silliest of ideas, of a lasting love with an Irish beauty he didn’t even know. And most of the times while performing, he wanted to stick with all his instinctive moves, burned into muscle memory, instead of consciously thinking about them, which was always a disaster.

  Normally, he could think of this Shannon or Erin—could he stop thinking about her?—and only the most perceptive audience member would notice the slightest lost edge in his delivery. But he’d hit a rocky patch the last few weeks, what with a string of mean-spirited hecklers and even a slashed tire on his unicycle. This wasn’t a time to be distracted.

  Besides, every audience still deserved his total focus. He would give it to them.

  Unless, of course, the Irish beauty returned, and he got the chance to make up for his blunder, and maybe get her real name so when he thought of her again she wouldn’t be Shannon or Erin or Kellie. She’d be the real her.

  * * *

  Inside the building was even worse than outside. Julie found a side, wheelchair-accessible entrance, but soon found herself in a sort of pedestrian gridlock. The main aisle here was wide enough for perhaps five people total going in the two directions, but between people standing in line at the most popular food kiosks like Pizzeria Regina, Boston & Maine Fish Company, and MM Mac N’Cheese, others just stood there trying to decide between what were probably fifty eating choices spread out over a length of about a hundred yards.

  Julie would creep forward a couple inches, then have to stop and wait.

  A few more inches.

  Stop.

  Wait.

  It was worse stop-and-go traffic than on the Southeast Expressway at rush hour. Julie felt like honking a horn, if only her wheelchair had one. This was what it must be like to be a sardine. It took what felt like half a lifetime to make two purchases.

  She bought an outrageously priced lobster roll at a place that pandered to the tourists, exaggerating the Boston accent on their menu so, according to it, she had actually purchased a lobstah roll. She could have alternatively chosen the combo with clam chowdah, corn chowdah, or even lobstah chowdah. Julie didn’t think she or her fellow Bostonians actually sounded like that, but figured she probably was tone deaf to it all, having lived in neighboring Somerville—Summahville—all twenty-two years of her life.

  She salivated thinking about her lobster roll, remembering its succulent taste from a little over a year ago, big chunks of fresh lobster with just enough mayo and little bits of celery, all on a bed of crisp lettuce inside a fresh, soft roll. She’d eat it outside along with Galactobouriko, a Greek custard-filled pastry with a soft, flaky crust, topped with honey that was her old favorite among the many sweet treats.

  She bought the Galactobouriko, and wheeled herself toward the front door, the two small, white bags of food on her lap.

  Inch forward. Stop. Wait.

  Inch forward. Stop. Wait.

  She pushed through the doors, felt the blast of heat hit her in the face, and saw the crooked-nosed creep with the gray hoodie and sunglasses.

  He was standing on the thirty-foot wide landing off to the side, watching the bare-chested street performer with the perfect body. Maybe, Julie thought, the guy was admiring the hunky view, which was perfectly fine with her. She could understand anyone staring at the Italian Stallion.

  But why was the creep sweating his ass off in the thick hoodie, even to the point of having the hood pulled up, covering tufts of brown hair sticking out on the sides? And that frown on his face was intimating, if not menacing. Maybe this guy wasn’t appreciating her Stallion at all.

  Realizing she was holding up foot traffic, Julie pushed further out on the landing before realizing she’d come out the same door she’d originally tried to enter, only to find no ramp. Any further and she’d go tumbling down the steps. For a brief moment, she panicked that someone would accidentally bump into her and send her sprawling down every last hard, granite step.

  But people brushed past her on both sides and others came up the steps as well. Face burning, Julie turned to reenter the building and play stop-and-go for the next five minutes until she got to the side wheelchair ramps. She scolded herself for her stupidity in coming out here. How had she forgotten that there wasn’t a ramp? Hadn’t that fact been memorable enough?

  Only then, as she moved back inside the doors did she realize the creep was gone.

  * * *

  When Tony saw her emerge from around the corner off to his right, the side where the Cheers replica bar extended a hundred feet toward the back, he bolted from inside the circle of onlookers awaiting his next show. He had just finished drumming up interest, clapping his hands above his head and calling out to passing pedestrians to join in the circle; the show was about to start, and the circle had begun to form.

  “This will be the high point of your day,” he had called out. “The high point of your year. The high point of your life! If you keep on walking and miss this opportunity, you will never forgive yourself!”

  It was the kind of bombast that got people, especially those conditioned to watch street performers in this square, to at least consider joining the audience.

  As he sprinted toward the girl in the wheelchair, some onlookers broke into expectant smiles, sure this was a part of the show.

  But this was no show.

  “I am so very, very sorry,” he said when he got to within fifteen feet of her. At first, she seemed to shrink away from him, and that made him despair that he’d ever make things right. “My name is Tony Gianino, and I never, ever meant to embarrass you.”

  He held out his hand, but she just looked at it warily so after a few uncomfortable seconds, he put it down.

  “I’d like to make it up to you,” he said. “Please come watch my show.” A wave of inspiration hit. “Be my assistant.”

  Astonishment came over her face. “Your assistant?”

  “Sure! It’ll be fun!”

  “What...would I do?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  * * *

  She almost told him to leave her alone. She didn’t want his attention or anyone else’s. Or at least that’s what she’d thought.

  But the truth was, she did like his attention, this Tony Gianino, even if she wanted no one else’s. Just wanted to blend into the background and be no different than anyone else. She didn’t have to be pretty and admired and flirted with like before the accident. She just wanted to be normal, and not a spectacle for others to see.

  But that ship had sailed, hadn’t it? She and her bleeping wheelchair weren’t going to blend into the background. Not now. Not ever.

  So maybe she should just see what this gorgeous hunk was all about, him and his glistening sweat covering that most magnificent tanned, shaved chest of his.

  Did that make her shallow? She supposed it did.

  Perhaps it even made her as shallow as Shawn had been eight months ago, dropping her like a hot potato after just one visit to see her in the hospital. It’s not like we’re married, he had said as he cast her aside. We were probably going to break up anyway when I leave for grad school. And then he’d coldly taken up with Katie Flowers with scarcely a guilty look behind.

  Behind at what he clearly considered damaged goods.

  No, she wasn’t being that shallow, not even close. After all, wasn’t this how relationships often started? Two people mutually attracted to each other, at least partially based on superficial, purely physical attraction? And then something more substantial forms from that?

  Not that she and the Italian Stallion were going to have a relationship, of course. She wasn’t that foolish. What was there for him in all this? The wheelchair was just the beginning of her baggage.

  And maybe he, too, was just showing her all this attention out of pity.

  Julie felt like spitting the word out. Of course he was. He wasn’t thinking, geez, she reminds me of Gisele Bündchen. I’ve got to get to know her!