Once, before we met, I saw Ashley in the hallway at high school, and I thought he was another half-brother, since so many kept appearing that year, the products of my dads failed marriages and affairs. He looked like a male version of me same thin, muddy-blond hair, ends curling up on the shoulders, gray-blue eyes, baggy jeans and black Chuck Taylor All-Stars, laces worn down to the threads and duct tape across the toes to hold them together where the rubber tips were torn. His skateboard balanced against his left hip, wheels facing out, with a scratched-out and barely visible British flag decal on its underside. When he looked at me, I felt a charge through my whole center, heat shooting down my spine and into my legs. He must have felt the same way, because we both backed away, staring.