Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
“I wish you were here too.” He doesn’t ask me to join him, and I won’t offer.
“We’ll figure this out,” I say, as much to myself as to him. Isn’t that what he said to me? That we’d figure things out.
“The last book is an old book I’ve had since college.” His tone’s changed. It’s brighter. I can’t tell if he’s pleased that I’ve told him we’ll figure stuff out or if he’s faking it. Somehow it makes me feel farther away from him. “It’s a book of poetry. I had it from the library for an assignment and I must have forgotten to return it.”
“Jack!” I say, half shocked.
“I’ve paid the fine, you don’t need to worry about that.”
“How big was the fine? You’ve been out of college a long time.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. Well, it might have been in the form of a donation. I’m pretty sure I have a building named after me on campus. I’m sure they’re not worried about an overdue library book.”
“You’ve only just found it?”
“I came across it on the bookshelves in my office earlier. It’s a collection of poetry of the British romantics.”
“Like Byron and stuff?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Although Byron was never my favorite—don’t tell his namesake. Coleridge is my favorite.”
“Read me one,” I say.
The sound of him turning the pages of the book between his fingers comforts me somehow. “‘The Nightingale’?” he asks. “Or ‘Frost at Midnight’? They’re probably my two favorites.”
I grin at the idea that Jack would have a favorite poem. My exposure to poetry stopped at Dr. Seuss. “Both of them.”
My limbs sink into the mattress as I listen to him recite first “The Nightingale” and then “Frost at Midnight.”
They’re beautiful, atmospheric poems. I don’t necessarily understand them, but I can appreciate how beautifully the words hang together and how Jack’s voice somehow conveys meaning in the words.
The more of Jack I have, the more of him I want. Seeing the side of him that has a favorite Coleridge poem and wants to learn about fishing… it makes me feel like New York might as well be the moon, he’s so far away. I want him back, here, next to me.
“The next time you read me those poems, I want us to be wrapped in blankets around a fire.”
“That sounds nice,” he says, and I recognize the sound of Jack closing the book and sliding it back onto his nightstand.
He doesn’t tell me he’s going to make that happen. He doesn’t promise that when he gets back to Star Falls, we’re going to drive out to the lake and he’s going to read us poetry while I make us s’mores. He doesn’t counter that he’s going to read it to me in bed before he puts his head between my thighs and makes me come. He doesn’t say anything else at all.
And I can’t help but think that in that silence, he says so much more. The silence is full of doubt and impossibilities. It’s full of I don’t knows and ifs. It feels dangerously like the beginning of the end.
THIRTY-TWO
Jack
I pull my collar tighter as I head up the steps of Worth’s town house. It’s good to get a break from being in the hospital all the time over the last two weeks. I need to recharge.
It’s been a while since the six of us were all together. Through the course of this year, a lot has changed. Even Worth’s town house is now Worth and Sophia’s town house. But my friendships with my five best friends feel as steady as ever. Nothing can shake what the six of us have built together.
“It’s really good to see you, my friend,” Worth says as he opens the door. Alongside me, Worth is probably the most serious of the group. But he’s also intuitive. And such an intense welcome is just what I need.
“It’s good to see you too.” I mean it. It’s times like this that I realize how strong our bond is.
We bundle inside and the chatter of my friends’ voices tells me I’m not the first to arrive.
“How is your father?” Worth asks.
“He’s off the ventilator.”
“Breathing by himself. That’s good.”
I’m not sure good is how I’d describe my father’s condition. Bleak would be more accurate.
We step into the drawing room. Apparently everyone arrived before me. Being the last to arrive is usually Byron’s role. We greet each other with hugs and handshakes, and people retake their seats on the dark red oversized couches either side of the fireplace.
Worth hands me a glass of red wine and gestures for me to sit opposite him. There’s three of us on one couch, three on the other. Soft music plays in the background and all I register is that it’s not Fleetwood Mac. It’s not the song the woman was singing when Iris and I danced together.