The Towering Sky. Катарина Макги

hand. She felt him jolt a little in surprise.

      “I assumed you had a boyfriend back home,” he remarked, as if in answer to some question she’d asked, which perhaps she had.

      “No,” Avery said quietly. “I was just . . . getting over something that I lost.”

      His dark eyes held hers, catching the glow of moonlight. “Are you over it now?”

      “I will be.”

      Now, in the enormous plush seats of her father’s copter, she shifted toward Max. The cushions were upholstered in a scrolling navy-and-gold pattern that, upon closer inspection, revealed itself to be a series of interlocking cursive Fs. Even the carpet below her feet was emblazoned with her family monogram.

      She wondered, not for the first time, what Max thought of it all. How would he handle meeting her parents? She had already met his family, one weekend in Würzburg this summer. Max’s mom was a professor of linguistics and his dad wrote novels, delightfully lurid mysteries where people were murdered at least three times per book. Neither of them spoke much English. They had both just hugged Avery profusely, using their contacts’ funny auto-translate setting, which despite years of upgrades still made people sound like drunken toddlers. “It’s because language has so many musics,” Max’s mom tried to explain, which Avery took to mean nuances of meaning.

      Besides, they had all communicated just fine with gestures and laughter.

      Avery knew that her parents would be nothing like that. She loved them, of course, but there had always been a carefully maintained distance between them and her. Sometimes, when she was younger, Avery used to see her friends with their mothers and feel a sharp stab of jealousy: at the way Eris and her mom romped arm in arm through Bergdorf’s, bent over in conspiratorial giggles, looking more like friends than mother and daughter. Or even Leda and her mom, who had famously explosive fights but always cried and hugged and made up afterward.

      The Fullers didn’t show affection that way. Even when Avery was a toddler, they never cuddled with her or sat near her bedside when she was sick. In their minds, that was what the help was for. Just because they weren’t the touchy-feely type didn’t mean that they loved her any less, Avery reminded herself. And yet—she wondered sometimes what it would be like to have parents she could pal around with, parents she could be irreverent with.

      Avery’s parents knew that she was dating someone, and they had said that they couldn’t wait to meet him. But she couldn’t help worrying that they would take one look at Max, in all his disheveled German glory, and try to send him packing. Now that her dad was running for mayor of New York, he seemed more obsessed than ever with their family image. Whatever that meant.

      “What are you thinking about? Worried your friends won’t like me?” Max asked, cutting surprisingly close to the truth.

      “Of course they will,” she said resolutely. Though she didn’t know what to expect of her friends right now, least of all her best friend, Leda Cole. When Avery left last spring, Leda hadn’t exactly been in a great state of mind.

      “I’m so glad you came with me,” she added. Max would only stay in New York a few days before heading back for the start of his sophomore year at Oxford. It meant a lot that he’d crossed the ocean for her, to meet the people she cared about and see the city she came from.

      “As if I would pass up the chance for more time with you.” Max reached to brush his thumb lightly over Avery’s knuckles. A thin woven bracelet, a memoriam to a childhood friend who had died young, slid down Max’s wrist. Avery squeezed his hand.

      They tipped a few degrees sideways, tilting into the airstream that shot around the edge of the Tower. Even their copter, which was weighted on all sides to prevent turbulence, couldn’t avoid being buffeted in winds this strong. Avery braced herself, and then the gaping mouth of the helipad was before them: sliced from the wall of the Tower in perfect ninety-degree angles, everything stark and flat and gleaming, as if to scream at you that it was new. How different from Oxford, where curved uneven roofs rose into the wine-colored sky.

      Their copter lurched into the helipad, whipping up the hair of the waiting crowds. Avery blinked in surprise. What were all these people doing here? They jostled together, clutching small image capturers, with lenses gleaming in the middle like cyclopean eyes. Probably vloggers or i-Net reporters.

      “Looks like New York is glad you’re back,” Max remarked, sparking a rueful smile from Avery.

      “I’m sorry. I had no idea.” She was used to the occasional fashion bloggers taking snaps of her outfits, but nothing like this.

      Then she caught sight of her parents, and Avery realized exactly whose fault this was. Her dad had decided to make her homecoming a PR moment.

      The copter’s door opened, its staircase unfolding like an accordion. Avery exchanged a final glance with Max before starting down.

      Elizabeth Fuller swept forward, wearing a tailored luncheon dress and heels. “Welcome home, sweetie! We missed you.”

      Avery forgot her irritation that their reunion was happening like this, in the heat and noise of a crowded helipad. She forgot everything except the fact that she was seeing her mom again after so many months apart. “I missed you too!” she exclaimed, pulling her mom into a tight hug.

      “Avery!” Her father turned away from Max, who had been shaking his hand. “I’m so glad you’re back!”

      He hugged Avery too, and she closed her eyes, returning the embrace—until her dad deftly swiveled her around to better angle her toward the cameras. He stepped back, looking sleek and self-satisfied in his crisp white shirt, beaming with pride. Avery tried to hide her disappointment—that her dad had turned her homecoming into a stunt, and that the media had obliged him.

      “Thank you all!” he declared in his booming, charming voice, for the benefit of everyone recording. What he was thanking them for, Avery didn’t exactly understand, but from the nodding faces of the reporters, it didn’t seem to matter. “We are thrilled that our daughter, Avery, has returned from her semester abroad just in time for the election! Avery would be delighted to answer a few questions,” her dad added, nudging her gently forward.

      She wouldn’t, actually, but Avery didn’t have a choice.

      “Avery! What are they wearing in England right now?” one of them cried out, a fashion blogger whom Avery recognized.

      “Um . . .” No matter how many times she said she wasn’t a fashionista, no one seemed to believe her. Avery turned a pleading glance toward Max—not that he would really be any help—and her attention fastened on the neckline of his flannel shirt. Most of the buttons that marched up the collar were dark brown, but one was much lighter, a soft fawn color. He must have lost that button and replaced it with another, not caring that it didn’t go with the others.

      “Clashing buttons,” she heard herself say. “I mean, buttons that don’t match. On purpose.”

      Max caught her eye, one eyebrow lifted in amusement. She forced herself to look away so she wouldn’t burst out laughing.

      “And who is this? Your new boyfriend?” another of the bloggers asked, causing the group’s focus to swerve hungrily toward Max. He gave a genial shrug.

      Avery couldn’t help noticing that her parents’ gazes had hardened as they focused on Max. “Yes. This is my boyfriend, Max,” she declared.

      There was a mild uproar at her words, and before Avery could say anything else, Pierson had put a protective arm around her. “Thank you for your support! We are so glad to have Avery back in New York,” he said again. “And now, if you’ll excuse us, we need some time alone as a family.”

      “Clashing buttons?” Max fell into step alongside her. “Wonder where that came from.”

      “You should be thanking me. I just made you the most stylish guy in New York,” Avery joked, reaching for his hand.

      “Exactly!