"Iñaki," he says, furrowing his brow in confusion. "Why are you asking my name?"

Standing there in complete shock, I look at the man who has just called himself Iñaki. I try to get a good look at his features, at the way he carries himself. Could it be the same Iñaki I knew from our performing arts high school? What are the chances of running into him again? Like one in a million, especially at Mardi Gras, where there are tens of thousands of souls around us.

"Did you go to NOCYA?" I ask as my insides flutter.

I hope this man is not that Iñaki Leblanc. Because if it is, I don't think I will bear seeing him in this way. A sunken, desperate shell of the vibrant and soulful person who once existed inside of him.

"Yeah," he says, stiffening as he crosses his arms against his chest. "Why are you asking?"

My heart squeezes painfully and I frown.

"Come on," he says, glaring at me. "Out with it."

"Iñaki, it's me, Corrie. We were in high school together. What happened to you?"

He turns away and says nothing. I notice that the way his face crumples up, that I have opened Pandora's box. He stands there for what feels like a snail's pace, then looks at me. Iñaki Leblanc was a brilliant pianist who could play with precise perfection whatever he heard, and who won the hearts of many a girl in our music classes. An all A-student with a mom who cheered him on at each one of his recitals.

Seeing him now, it's like looking at a vacant body. No soul inside it at all. I know people change and do things they may not be proud of. I know that. But why Iñaki? Why him? Why did he have to be spun around so hard by life until there is nothing left of the person who once was?

"Corrie," he says, frowning but glaring his eyes. "Seeing you here brings back memories."

"You're better than all of this," I say, gesturing to the stranger, still holding his flute. "Why are you stealing? I thought you went to Juilliard."

"Don't talk to me about Juilliard," he says to me, his voice sharp and tight as he glared at me. "I heard you went to Loyola. Got a full ride, too. Congrats, princess. You got it all." He frowns.

"But you have a daughter now," I say with a smile. "She looks a lot like you."

"Yeah, she does," he says with a smile. "My Mariposa."

"Here," the flutist says. "Take it."

"No," the man says, shaking his head. "I cannot take this from you."

"Don't need it. I'm going back to Spain in a week. I have enough."

"But, sir, this is three-hundred dollars. Aren't you going to press charges?"

The stranger shakes his head. "Take it, on one condition. You'll go directly to your hija with this money and give her a birthday gift from us. Just say it's friends who care very much about her. Give her a new instrument with that money. Will you do that?"

"Yes," he says with a nod.

The thief walks away when an idea strikes me like a ton of bricks.

"Wait," I yell out. "Iñaki, wait!"

He turns around. "Yeah?"

"Here's my dad's number."

"Why do I need his digits?" he asks, shrugging. "You're so strange."

"Dad will remember you. You were always playing Rachmaninov in the piano store. He can train you to fix up pianos and sell them. Do it for your daughter, Iñaki."

"Like he'd hire me with my track record. I've got priors."

"Just talk to him," I say. "Will you do it? Say you'll do it."

He glares at me and chuckles as he shakes his head. "You haven't changed, Corrie. Still as insistent as ever. All right, all right, I'll call him."

Once the stranger and I are alone, I breathe a sigh of relief. Everyone is alive and the stranger got his flute back. But I can't help but think of my old classmate.

We were never especially close, but he was a good friend of Mei, my best friend, who had the biggest crush on him back in high school. She used to write his name in hearts. Heck, she even wrote her own wedding vows to him. I am not sure if Iñaki will change his ways, but at least he got a little something out of the exchange we had. Something for his Mariposa, at least.

"I can't believe we found it," I say.

He smiles at me and speaks. "Thank you for helping me find my flute. Mil gracias. How can I ever repay you?" He opens his arms and pulls me into an embrace.

All at once, something strange happens as he wraps his arms around, pulling me in, closer, tighter. I close my eyes and see myself standing at the edge of a river, nothing but trees and cabins behind me. I feel at peace, just for that moment, something I have not felt. He releases me from his embrace, and I descend back to reality. What just happened to me? My mind is still swimming, and my body is betraying me by wanting to get closer and closer to him.

"You have saved me. I thought my life was over," he says, putting his hands on my shoulders. I nearly collapse from his touch. He smiles at me and takes his flute case, putting the strap over his shoulder. Something about him, as he smiles, stands there in front of me, makes me think that I've met him before. He looks familiar. Why haven't I realized this? He does look familiar.

"I'm sorry, to ask this. I know it sounds random," I say, chuckling as I scratch my neck. "But have ewe ever met before?"

I see now how handsome he is. In the midst of all of that flute drama, I admit I did not really pay much attention to the way he looked. And suddenly, I feel so exposed. He is looking at me with that smile and I bite my lip.

"I don't believe we have." He gestures to his flute case. "Only tonight we have met."

I realize after all this time that the case is a Wiseman case, and my green monster once again takes over, freely flowing through my veins, taking home in my body. No wonder why he tossed out three-hundred dollars like it was nothing.

"It's no problem at all, sir," I say to him, smiling at the thought of a job well done and how easily everything resolved itself, but still, it is bugging me now that I see him better in the lighting.

"No, do not call me sir. I'm only thirty-four. Nicolas is my name. Nicolas Moreno Llosa."

"Your middle name is Moreno?" I ask.

He chuckles. "No, my apellido is Moreno Llosa. My entire last name. I forget people in the United States do not work on the same system we do. What is your name?"

"Corinne Broussard, uh, Johnson."

He laughs at my attempt to double-up my name like the Spanish do, and I admit I quite like the sound of his laugh and the way his dark eyes light up. But then the silence between us courses through us, each of us unable to say any words at all. He brings his case tighter to the side of his rib and looks down, shuffling his feet and clears his throat. My heart pounds when I come to the realization that he is the man I have been dreaming of for the last two years. I am about to open my mouth when I feel a steady vibration in my pants pocket.

My phone rings. I admit the ringtone is a little embarrassing, as I expertly chose Emmanuel Pahud's version of Bach's Partita in A minor. What can I say? I'm a fan.

"Aren't you going to answer your phone?" Nicolas asks, stifling a smile. "Bach doesn't like to wait."

I reach into my pocket and stifle a groan. Why on God's green earth is Jeff calling me right now?