Page 97 of The Pairing

“Emergency medicine,” Ginger Calum says with a fond laugh, as if revealing this is one of his favorite activities. “You should askhim about it. He loves telling horror stories.”

Water splashes over my feet, and I peer over my book to see Theo poolside, elbows propped near a tray of sweating cheese and fruit.

“Don’t get the crostini wet,” I say.

Theo snaps off a branch of grapes and lowers one into their mouth like a Roman emperor.

“You’re really not getting in?”

I hold up my book. “I’m on the last chapter. Lucy’s going to admit she’s in love with George.”

“Oh, well”—they push up an invisible pair of glasses—“if Lucy’s going to admit she’s in love with George.”

They kick away, grapes held over their head, and I smile.

When we were in Paris, I watched Theo striding down Boulevard Saint-Germain and wondered if I was seeing what it would have been like if we’d gone on the tour like we planned. I held them beside the image that’s lived in my head all these years, the Theo in a parallel life who came with me to France.

But here, in Chianti, I see only what is, not what could have been. Us, in two arcs bent toward each other. Theo in the water, me content to sit by the pool with a book and a view.

For the first time, it seems better this way.

I continue reading, watching Lucy and George come back together, confess their love, and return to Florence to marry. By the time I reach the last page, emotion tingles sweet in my sinuses like prosecco bubbles. A droplet of water lands on my page, and I think I’ve summoned an actual tear until I hear Theo’s voice above.

“You done yet?”

They’re standing beside my chair, rivulets of water running down their body. I didn’t notice them getting out, but I’m very much noticing now.

“Come on,” they say, finishing my wine. “I want to see what they have for lunch.”

“Almost finished.” A slight wobble in my voice. “One more minute?”

They lower my empty glass to regard me properly.

“Are youcrying?”

“It’s a beautiful story!”

“Oh, no, he’s crying!” Theo crows, and then they’re climbing onto the lounger, shaking their damp head over my pages, dripping with malicious intent. Their wet skin skids against mine, cold where mine is warm. I hold the book over my head and settle them with a hand at the small of their back. They wind up half folded across my lap, their knees hooked around my thighs, laughing.

“I’m not embarrassed,” I say.

“I know.”

“I’m allowing art to touch my soul.”

“Okay,” Theo says, doing a jerk-off hand gesture, still smiling.

“I’m being transported. I’m experiencing.”

“Go on.” Theo tugs my book down. “Experience.”

They’re teasing, but I decide to be earnest. I smooth the page with my free hand and pick up at the final passage, the one smudged with Theo’s pool water.

“‘Youth enwrapped them,’” I read aloud, keeping my voice low. “‘The song of Phaethon announced passion requited, love attained. But they were conscious of a love more mysterious than this. The song died away; they heard the river, bearing down the snows of winter into the Mediterranean.’”

For a moment, Theo is quiet. Then they sit up, take a bottle from a nearby ice bucket, and replenish my glass before handing it to me.

“Okay, that was actually really nice.” Their eyes are a little soft, faraway. “Will you come to lunch with me?”

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