“Read a book,” he said. “It’ll be good for you.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
After Clayton left, she took a look around. Unbelievable. As if the day hadn’t already gone off the rails, now she was stranded in the middle of nowhere—no TV, no Wi-Fi, just her and the country bumpkin’s charming lack of amenities.
She opened the fridge and smiled at the sticky notes with her name on them, but she wasn’t hungry—quite the opposite. Starving herself was another defense tactic from her adolescence. It was something she could control when she didn’t want to use a knife.
She turned on her phone and waited as her messages downloaded. Most were from Shorty and Ruth, checking in to make sure she wasn’t about to jump off a bridge. But there was nothing from AJ. Not that she’d expected otherwise. He’d never been there for her—why should today be any different?
Afterseveral failed attempts to stream a movie, she gave up and wandered into the library.
Oh. My. God.
Hundreds, maybe even thousands of books stretched to the ceiling, a built-in ladder standing ready to reach the highest shelves. The sheer volume of them was overwhelming. Had Clayton read all of these? No way. His two greatest passions were baseball and ropes, not late nights spent devouring novels.
She ran her fingers along the spines, noting the neat organization—nonfiction arranged by subject, fiction alphabetized by author. Thank God. At least they weren’t sorted by rainbow colors. Nowthatwould have been an abomination.
A book lay open on the large mahogany desk, so she picked it up and read the spine:selected poetry of lord byron. And here she thought Clayton was borderline illiterate.
Curiosity got the better of her, so she took the book from the desk and curled up with Poppy on the leather couch, wrapping them in a blanket. She’d never read any poetry except for ones that rhymed, which probably didn’t count. She opened the book to the page where Clayton had left it.
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
She read the lines repeatedly, captivated by the beauty of Byron’s words, then continued with the rest of the poem, ending with . . .
In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.
Before Jamie realized it, she was sobbing uncontrollably, using the blanket to hide her face. It had nothing to do with Derrick or his pseudo-girlfriend. They were just background noise, distractions from the ache clawing at her chest.
The poem had shattered something inside her.
