Tucked under Eliot’s arm was a record; he placed it on the old-fashioned player in the corner of the room.
“I thought we could use some inspiration,” Eliot said. I closed my eyes and heard the familiar strains of the Gymnopedie amplified in the air.
“Do you want to take a break?” Eliot sat next to me, moving my half-eaten plate to the nightstand.
“No,” I said. “I mean, maybe just for a minute.” I put my hand over his, praying that I was not too presumptuous. My heart soared when his fingers twined themselves into mine. We rested, listening to the dissonant chords, the elongated coda, the resolution in the last few phrases.
“Brynn.”
“I love you too,” I said, turning my eyes down to my notebook. My heart twisted inside my chest. I had never allowed myself to hope, but Eliot was here and real and not at all a fantasy.
“Are you reading that out of your notes?”
“Sure am,” I said, chuckling lightly. “Right under the section on equivalence relations.”
“Is love an equivalence relation?” Eliot put on his serious lecturer’s voice, and I could not help but laugh.
“You tell me.”
“What does it mean to be an equivalence relation?” Eliot asked me, leading me on.
“It must be symmetric, transitive, and reflexive.”
“Let’s take the first one. If love has the symmetric property…” His silence hung purposefully, and I swallowed at his meaning.
“If I love you, then you love me.”
Eliot’s lips turned up into a sly smile.
“Not always true, but it is in this case. Carry on. The transitive property.”
I only had to think for a second to find an example. “If I love you, and you love Satie, then I love Satie.”
Eliot laughed appreciatively. “And don’t you love him?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Two of three already. And now?”
“Now…”
“The reflexive property.”
I swallowed. My voice was softer than before. There was only one example possible here, and I did not know if I could bring myself to say it until I opened my mouth, turning my head back to the notes.
“I love myself.”
“Yes?” Eliot took my hands in his; his blood pumped fast through his veins and his skin was hot on mine.
“Yes,” I said, and for the first time in a long, long time, I really did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Perfect numbers, like perfect men, are very rare.” - Descartes
Eliot insisted that Brynn take her time before getting up and about, and while she protested, he could tell that she was glad for the forced rest that day. He made her a hot tomato bisque for lunch and stayed by her side when she napped. Her dreams were fitful, and she woke up with a scream.
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
“The hunter! Where is he? Where is he?” Her eyes were wild.
“Shh, Brynn, it’s alright. He’s gone, remember?” Eliot smoothed her hair with his hand and kissed her forehead.
“He’s gone?”
“Gone far away. You’re safe now.”
Brynn swallowed water from the glass at her bedside table, her eyes still troubled and distant.
“Can I do anything?” Eliot asked. Brynn shook her head and lay silent for a moment, her breathing returning to normal.
“That book,” Brynn said finally. “The one you’re reading. It has an English title.”
“It’s poetry,” Eliot said. She was so attentive. “It’s one of the first books I was able to read in English.”
“Will you read me something?”
Eliot began to object, but thought better of it. He brought the book over to her side and flipped to the last page he had been reading. Self-consciously he began to speak, but as the poem went on his voice fell into a natural speaking rhythm. Brynn closed her eyes to listen.
“When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.”
“That’s beautiful.” A tear had slipped down Brynn’s cheek, and she wiped it away with her finger. “Thank you.”
“Anything for you.” He put his hand on hers. “Even a poorly done poetry reading.”