“Now I’ll get the candles.” Alex scoots past me toward the kitchen area and starts rummaging. I can see the big stuff now, though details are still lost in darkness. There’s a small woodstove in one corner. At the opposite end is a twin bed. My stomach does a tiny flip when I see it, and a thousand memories flood me at once—Carol sitting on my bed and telling me, in her measured voice, about the expectations of husband and wife; Jenny sticking her hand on her hip and telling me I won’t know what to do when the time comes; whispered stories of Willow Marks; Hana wondering out loud in the locker room what sex feels like, while I hissed at her to be quiet, checking over my shoulder to make sure no one was listening.
Alex finds a bunch of candles and starts lighting them one by one, and corners of the room flare into focus as he sets the candles carefully around the trailer. What strikes me most are the books: Lumpy shapes that in the half dark appeared to be a part of the furniture now resolve into towering stacks of books—more books than I’ve seen anywhere except for at the library. There are three bookshelves mashed against one wall. Even the refrigerator, whose door has come unhinged, is filled with books.
I take a candle and scan the titles. I don’t recognize any of them.
“What are these?” Some of the books look so old and cracked I’m afraid if I touch them they’ll crumble to bits. I mouth the names I read off the spines, at least the ones I can make out: Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, William Wordsworth.
Alex glances at me. “That’s poetry,” he says.
“What’s poetry?” I’ve never heard the word before, but I like the sound of it. It sounds elegant and easy, somehow, like a beautiful woman turning in a long dress.
Alex lights the last candle. Now the trailer is filled with warm, flickering light. He joins me by the bookshelf and squats, looking for something. He removes a book and stands, passes it to me for inspection.
Famous Love Poetry. My stomach flips as I see that word—Love—printed so brazenly on a book cover. Alex is watching me closely, so to cover up my discomfort I open the book and scan the list of featured authors, listed on the first few pages.
“Shakespeare?” This name I do recognize from health class. “The guy who wrote Romeo and Juliet? The cautionary tale?”
Alex snorts. “It’s not a cautionary tale,” he says. “It’s a great love story.”
I think about that first day at the labs: the first time I ever saw Alex. It seems like a lifetime ago. I remember my mind churning out the word beautiful. I remember thinking something about sacrifice.
“They banned poetry years ago, right after they discovered a cure.” He takes the book back from me and opens it. “Would you like to hear a poem?”
I nod. He coughs, then clears his throat, then squares his shoulders and rolls his neck like he’s about to be let into a soccer game.
“Go on,” I say, laughing. “You’re stalling.”
He clears his throat again and begins to read: “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’”
I close my eyes and listen. The feeling I had before of being surrounded by warmth swells and crests inside of me like a wave. Poetry isn’t like any writing I’ve ever heard before. I don’t understand all of it, just bits of images, sentences that appear half-finished, all fluttering together like brightly colored ribbons in the wind. It reminds me, I realize, of the music that struck me dumb nearly two months ago at the farmhouse. It has the same effect, and makes me feel exhilarated and sad at the same time.
Alex finishes reading. When I open my eyes, he’s staring
at me.
“What?” I ask. The intensity of his gaze nearly knocks the breath out of me—as though he’s staring straight into me.
He doesn’t answer me directly. He flips forward a few pages in the book, but he doesn’t glance down at it. He keeps his eyes on me the whole time. “You want to hear a different one?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer before beginning to recite, “‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.’”
There’s that word again: love. My heart stops when he says it, then stutters into a frantic rhythm.
“‘I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach. . . .’”
I know he’s only speaking someone else’s words, but they seem to come from him anyway. His eyes are dancing with light; in each of them I see a bright point of candlelight reflected.
He takes a step forward and kisses my forehead softly.
“‘I love thee to the level of every day’s most quiet need. . . .’”
It feels as though the floor is swinging—like I’m falling.
“Alex—” I start to say, but the word gets tangled in my throat.
He kisses each cheekbone—a delicious, skimming kiss, barely grazing my skin. “‘I love thee freely. . . .’”
“Alex,” I say, a little louder. My heart is beating so fast I’m afraid it will burst from my ribs.
He pulls back and gives me a small, crooked smile.
“Elizabeth Barrett Browning,” he says, then traces a finger over the bridge of my nose. “You don’t like it?”
The way he says it, so low and serious, still staring into my eyes, makes me feel as though he’s actually asking something else.