Hourglass (Hourglass 1)

“What language was that?”

“Italian.”

“How did you learn Italian?”

“My grandmother.” Michael put the paper down and leaned across the table toward me, unexpectedly intense. “What do you want?”

“I already ordered an espresso,” I answered, reflexively leaning back.

“No, I mean what do you want from life?”

“Good morning to you, too. Isn’t it a little early for philosophy?” I pushed a stray strand of hair back from my face and shifted in my chair.

“Why does the question make you uncomfortable?”

“I don’t go around discussing my deepest desires with strangers.” The waitress brought my drink and empanada to the table. When she walked away, I continued. “Technically, you might not be a stranger, but still, I just met you yesterday.”

“I’m not so strange.” Another distracting flash of white teeth. “Let’s start with something simpler than what you want from life. What do you want from today?”

I wrapped my hands around the cup I held to blow on the contents, feeling the steam rise to my face. Maybe he would think I was just … warm … instead of blushing.

Michael looked at me as if he had all the time in the world to listen, so genuine he threw me off balance. The butterflies in my stomach stirred. I wasn’t ready to be completely honest with him. Maybe I never would be. I wasn’t a very good liar. But avoidance?

At avoidance I was a master.

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself? I’m sure I would be more comfortable with this whole situation if I knew more about you.” There. He couldn’t argue with that. And I really did want to know more about him. A lot more.

Michael placed his hands on the table. His fingers were long, his nails squared off but a little longer on his right hand, making me wonder if he played the guitar. He wore a silver ring on his left thumb.

“I have a sister; her name is Anna Sophia. My mom is in real estate, high-end historical homes, very successful—a lot like Thomas. She’s also my hero. My dad has been out of the picture since I was eight or so.” He gave me a small smile. I wondered about the rest of the story. “I grew up outside Atlanta, and I’ve been working for the Hourglass for almost a year.”

Since my Internet research returned void, I knew nothing about the Hourglass, but the mental image in my brain involved Marlon Brando in the back room of an Italian restaurant surrounded by cigar smoke and heavily armed men named Paulie and Vito. I needed a clearer picture. Or at least a less frightening one.

“What does the Hourglass do, exactly?” I asked.

“Consulting jobs, mentoring.”

“How did you find them? Or did they find you?”

“They found me. I was assigned a mentor, who helped me learn about my ability. When I came here for college last year, I started doing small consulting jobs. Talking to kids who needed a friend, gathering information, stuff like that. Then things changed. When my mentor died”—he paused, taking a deep breath—“I asked for more responsibility. I wanted to give back what I had been given.”

Michael’s eyes and the set of his mouth expressed pain and something else, maybe anger. I could only guess how much emotion was swirling underneath the surface.

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Life is about gains and losses,” he said, the pain winning out over the anger in his eyes. “You know that firsthand.”

Except my life was too heavy on the losses. “What kind of job am I? Consulting or mentoring?”

“Part of what I do is talk to people who are struggling to accept themselves. I listen.” He shrugged.

“Like you’re listening to me.”

“You’re different.”

“I am?”

“Yep.” He grinned, and the butterflies in my stomach were sucked up into a hurricane. “I’d listen to you anyway.”