Page 18 of Night Shift

Except he didn’t bring me here for that. He brought me here to tutor him.

So how fucking dare he flirt with me?

I take a gulp of my (free) ice-cold coffee and clear my throat. “What do you need help with? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Because you’re bad with your words.”

Vincent’s bravado falters. I refuse to feel guilty about it.

Thankfully, the insult seems to flick a switch in him. Vincent clears his throat and reaches for his backpack, suddenly all business. “I have to write an in-class essay next week on this tiger poem”—his biceps flex against his sleeves, but I absolutely do not stare—“and honest to God, I’m lost. I told you I suck at poetry. And I figured, you know, you’re brilliant.”

“Obviously,” I murmur into my cold brew.

His lips twitch. “And humble about it. Which is why you’re going to help me figure out what the fuck this Blake guy was trying to say.”

Vincent pulls out a book, flips it open to a dog-eared page, and passes it to me. I put down my coffee and wipe my damp palms on my shorts, eager for something to do and something to distract me from the boy across the table. It appears our subject matter for the day is a William Blake poem—arguably his most famous.

“Oh,” I say, “I know this one. I’ve gone over this in, like, four different classes.”

“Of course you have.”

“It’s a classic. I had to memorize it my sophomore year of high school. Tyger Tyger, burning bright—”

Vincent shifts in his chair. The leather creaks under him. I’m suddenly and violently reminded of the fact that the last time I read poetry aloud to him, we mauled each other.

“—and, you know, the rest of it.”

“Right,” he says. “Give me your translation, Holiday.”

There it is again—my last name. He’s used it twice now, and I can’t decide if I like it or if I want to grab him by the front of his shirt and demand he stop with the nicknames. I tuck my hair behind my ears and scoot forward in my seat. When my knee bumps Vincent’s, I immediately angle my legs to one side and pretend nothing happened.

“So,” I begin, clearing my throat, “Blake published two companion collections: Songs of Innocence and then, a few years later, Songs of Experience. Have you covered any of his other work in your class?”

“We read the child labor one, I think.”

I snort. “It’s called ‘The Chimney Sweeper.’ That poem has two parts: one in Songs of Innocence and another in Songs of Experience. Blake was really interested in dichotomies—good and evil, heaven and hell—so he did a lot of companion pieces across the two collections. This one”—I tap the page—“has a sister poem in Songs of Innocence called ‘The Lamb.’”

Vincent nods. “This one’s about violence, and the other one is about peace?”

“In essence, yes. But Blake’s not just contrasting two animals. If you look at the way he’s framing it and how he’s using repetitive questions, it’s more than just setting up a dichotomy.” I open my mouth to start reading, then stop and press my lips together. I’m suddenly self-conscious about my own voice—and not entirely sure if I’ll make it through the poem without combusting. So, I shove the book at Vincent and say, “Read the first stanza for me.”

It comes out more brusque and demanding than I meant it to, but he doesn’t even flinch. Vincent dutifully takes the book from my hand, flips it around, and starts to read the poem aloud.

I immediately regret asking.

Nine

The sound of Vincent’s voice makes my entire body clench.

We’re tucked in a somewhat secluded corner of the coffee shop, and the gentle indie music playing over the speakers is quiet, so Vincent doesn’t have to project all that much. He reads softly and deliberately. His voice is a low, rumbling, intimate thing. It reminds me that on the Friday night we met, when I was still thinking about a sex scene in The Mafia’s Princess and was struck dumb by the tall and brooding stranger who needed a reading recommendation, I briefly imagined Vincent reciting poetry to me. It seemed like a nice fantasy. Now I realize I was Icarus: an absolute fucking fool hauling ass toward the sun, completely unaware that the heights I sought would wreck me.

And oh, it’s wrecking me—the way his mouth forms the words. The way his wide palms and long fingers cradle the book. The way a stray piece of his dark hair drapes romantically over his forehead.

“Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”

Vincent lifts his eyes expectantly. I try to reconcile myself to the fact that my insides have melted and my underwear is a little bit damp.

“Keep reading. I mean, in your head, if you—if you want, just to speed things up.”

Vincent, a man of no mercy, shrugs. “I don’t mind reading it out loud.”

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