Page 81 of Fated

I press my hand to the cool paper, keeping the pages beneath me.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers?—

That perches in the soul?—

My eyes fly to the man’s and he nods. “She’ll like it.”

“Yes. She will.”

I smile then and buy a book for a girl who doesn’t exist.

On the walk to the ice-cream shop Mila runs ahead, hopping over the cracks, skipping through the swathes of lamplight flickering on now that dusk is here.

In the cool summer breeze, and the gray dusk scented with old stone roads warmed in the setting sun, Max reaches over and gently takes my hand.

My heart taps out a cautious, worrying beat.

He glances down at me, dark and austere in the shadows, until he steps under a streetlight, and then he’s smiling again.

“Can I take you to dinner Friday, when I’m home from Paris?” He runs his thumb over the back of my hand carefully, slowly, like Mila petting Gilbert.

The light in his eyes?—

It reminds me of the poem.

Hope is a feathered thing.

I choose to trust. I choose to give it wings.

“Yes.”

27

I tumble into my dream.My mum would laugh to hear me say it’s like sliding down a moonbeam.

My namesake, given life.

Yet there’s a sliding, falling sensation and wind rushing in my ears. My stomach rises and falls, shooting down, down, until?—

I open my eyes.

The wind rushing in my ears is the noise of morning waves, slate-gray and crashing over the sandy shore. White gulls sweep overhead, calling out a harsh, querulous morning alarm. I blink into the dawn light. The sky is half-dark, half-pink, and gold and orange as the sun slips along the water’s edge. The gold light reflects in the wavy surface.

I stretch, my muscles sore and my neck pinchy. Cold, shaded sand shifts under me and sticks to my bare legs.

I’m thirsty. I have to pee. Yet I don’t want to get up, because I’m lying on the beach, my head on Aaron’s chest, his arms wrapped around me. I have one leg thrown over his. He’s warm and his chest moves in a lulling rhythm as steady as the rolling waves.

“Do you think we should get up?” he asks, his voice sleep-roughened. “Or should we sneak inside and try to sleep for another fifteen?”

His hand drifts over my back, tracing a slow circle at the base of my spine. A tingle rides over my skin. I lift my head then and peer down at him.

He gives me a sleepy smile and I’m reminded of the day I first woke to find him. He smiled at me then too. Although, now that I know him better, I think I misread the situation.

“Last Saturday ...”

His hand pauses on my spine. “Yeah?”

“When I woke up and you told me we still had a few minutes ... what did you mean?”

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