Chapter 25: Over the Water

Miles waited until the coast was gone.

He had told Clara he would read it over the water, and he meant the middle of it, with nothing outside the window but the wing.

The seat beside him was empty, and he was glad.

He took the page out of his blazer, unbuttoned the pocket first, and unfolded it one crease at a time.

There were seven folds, and the paper had worn soft along every one.

It was notebook paper with a torn fringe at the top, covered edge to edge in blue and black ink.

The first lines were neat and round, the handwriting of a nineteen-year-old being careful.

Dear Miles, it began.

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

It was good, and you said so out loud, and nobody has ever done that.

I can't answer your letters, and I can't tell you why.

Please don't stop.

He read that last line twice, and then he had to look at the wing for a while.

After that the margins took over.

She had squeezed every month into whatever space was left, a different pen each time, so the ink told him the order.

October. The pigeon on the shuttle made me laugh so loud in the stacks that the librarian came to look.

December. I have read your poem twelve times and I don't understand it. I'd like you to explain it to me over something hot.

March. I stood outside your dorm door for a full minute today and then went home. You should know I'm a coward.