Chapter 30: Out Loud

They climbed the hill at six in the morning, when the tourists were still asleep and the streets smelled of bread.

The bench was at the top, under a tree, facing the whole city.

Red roofs ran down to the river in steps, and the first sun was coming across the water.

Miles sat down and took the page out of his pocket.

He held it for a moment, and then he put it in her hands.

"You don't have to," he said.

"I know."

"I'd like you to."

"I know that too."

She unfolded it one crease at a time, and the paper was warm from being near his chest.

Her own handwriting looked back at her, nineteen years old, then twenty, then twenty-two.

"Dear Miles," Clara read.

Her voice came out as a thread, and she stopped and cleared her throat.

"Dear Miles. You didn't need to be sorry for quoting my paper."

He didn't say a word.

She read the apology and the line about the paper.

She read the line that said please don't stop, and then she had to look up at the river.

"This is harder than the mailroom," she said.

"I know."

"In the mailroom all I had to say was yes."

"It was the wrong answer."

"It was the only one I had."

She looked back down at the page and read the pigeon, and he laughed under his breath.

She read the poem, and the dorm door, and the line about somebody watching her read.

"That was me," Miles said quietly.

"I know it was you. I wrote it hoping it was."

"I saw. I stood behind the periodicals and I saw your shoulders every time you turned a page."