Page 30 of The Cost of Love

Dessert comes, shortly followed by the bill. We get in his car, ready to head home at this late hour. I expect the ride to be quiet after our long conversation, but he takes my hand in his, drawing my attention.

“You have made it quite clear what you are looking for, but while we spend time together, I am going to get to know you.” He is telling me what will be happening, leaving me no option but to comply. Still, it seems risky. Alexander is so good at blurring the lines that I’m starting to wonder if we haven’t already stepped into the relationship lane.

“What for?”

“Consider me curious.”

“About what?” I had put my hair up tonight, but at some point during all our activity, a curl shook loose in the front. He tucks that piece behind my ear and grazes his thumb down my jaw.

“Everything that has to do with you.” His words steal mine, and for a moment, I’m silent.

When my brain reboots, I can finally rejoin the conversation.

“Well, what do you want to know tonight?” I ask, the look of skepticism clear on my face.

“Do you enjoy poetry?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t read any since I was in school,” I say, looking at the ground.

He brings my hand up to kiss my knuckle, and right along it he says,

“Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,

Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.

J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.

Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.”

His accent is beautiful and on point for someone from England. Then again, I’ve never been to France, so what do I know?

“What does it mean?” I ask, even though the sound of it seems beautiful enough.

“Tomorrow, at first dawn, when the country starts to whiten,

I will set out. You see, I know you’re waiting for me.

I will go by forest, I will go by mountain,

Away from you I can no longer remain.”

He looks deep into my eyes like he is trying to imprint on me some sort of meaning. I dart to look down at my hands, avoiding his gaze.

“Maybe I do like poetry.” Which is new information for me. I know so little about myself. I never got to explore what I like or who I want to be. Getting the kids at nineteen means my twenties are more for being a parent than a young adult flush in a world full of possibilities. I am only twenty-three, but I feel both so weathered and so naïve at the same time.

I flinch as I think of the reason why that is, and feel his hand come up to lift my chin.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

There is no way for me to do that without explaining a whole lot of stuff. No matter how earnest he looks, he likely doesn’t want to know.

“I just have a lot of baggage that is stopping me from figuring some things out.” I hope he will leave it at that, but he leans closer, like he is inviting me in on a secret.

“So do I. There is nothing wrong with that.” I shrug, and he strokes my cheek. “Maybe you just need someone to help you hold it while you figure out how to let it go.”

I don’t know if it’s an offer or an observation, but I’m determined to ignore it all the same. When the one person who is supposed to love you doesn’t, it makes the idea of trying to get someone else to do it seem unappealing. If he were to step up into that role he is offering, how would I stop myself from falling for him?

“I’m fine,” I say, my voice firmer than he deserves. I probably should have used a different word, since this breaks down to mean feelings inside not expressed. Before he can point this out, we pull up outside Jessie’s place.