I flipped through the pages. Suddenly, those indentations, curvy with each letter, were beautiful. Imprints from one of my idols. There wasn’t another scholar like Florence Berkley. And she had written in this. By hand.
It had to be expensive. Really expensive. In a museum. Not with me.
“How…” I stammered, still flipping through the pages, “did you—”
“I bought it off of the winning bidder.” He smiled, then held my back for a moment, looking over my shoulder at the notebook. “It’s yours.”
I pinched the pages in my hand, tightly, as if they might fade away. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll give it back to you once I’m done.”
“It’syours, Mara,” he said.
I stared down at the notebook, one of the most thoughtful gifts I had ever received. But there would be time to read Berkley’s notes, but not now. I went to put the book in my bag but realized I had left it in the bedroom. For the first time in years, I realized I wasn’t interested in burying my grief in academia. I was more interested in spending time with Nate. Growing with him.
“I’ve got to cook dinner,” he said. He squeezed my hand, then let it go, making his way to the hallway. “You said you wanted to try carbonara, right?”
I blushed. How the hell did he know that? But when I tried to ask if he had picked it for me, he was gone.
