Page 69 of Only Lovers in the Building

He didn’t have to buy her books. She could easily download the e-book on her device. In fact, she already had. But what if this was his love language? Who was she to deprive him?

She accepted the gift. “Thank you.”

He moved to the couch. “Come. Read to me.”

If he’d asked her to kiss him, whip him, strip off her clothes, it wouldn’t have been as erotically charged.

She joined him on the couch. He rested his head on her lap. In the soft light of a lamp, her fingers in his hair, she opened the book to the prologue.

Neither of them was dying alone tonight.

Sabato

B.R. Journal Entry, May 19

Born in a remote town in Cuba, sent away to boarding school in Havana, and all but abandoned by his mother, these were the events that marked the early years of Sabato Romero’s life. Clever and resourceful, he never went without. Twenty years later, when he landed in Florida, the conditions were ripe for his rise. Tall and handsome, with a weakness for women and cigars. His love was a firefly trapped in a jar: it would not survive the night. By dawn he was gone, searching for another pair of arms that could offer more. He did not confide in anyone, but he bled in blue ink on the page. A lover published one of his poems in a paper. From then on, his influence only grew.

I was born in Miami. Where my mother struggled and often failed, my grandmother and aunts stepped in. Much is written about the tragedy of absentee fathers, but I can’t speak to that. I was surrounded by women who kept me warm, safe, and fed. I was loved, my achievements were celebrated, and my every dream encouraged. Even with all that, I knew there were things only he could teach me. Not how to shave or tie a tie—I’d managed on my own. I had bigger questions. How to enter spaces where I clearly did not belong and claim them as my own. How to chart my destiny with only words on a page. How to leave my mark on this world.

The answers may well be buried in the box you left me, filled with your notes and papers. But how can I build on your foundation without destroying my own? Each day, I grow more into you than myself as it is.

Chapter Nineteen

After a day at the beach with Kylie, Lily returned home to wash the sand out of her hair. From the shower, she replied to a text from her brother and left the phone on the ledge in case Patrick had more to say about his efforts to placate their mother. He didn’t, but her phone buzzed with a FaceTime request from Ben, who was back from an interview with the local public radio station. She accepted the request from the shower, keeping her phone propped on the ledge, to keep the image rated PG-13.

“Are we still on for tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes, we are.” They were to resume poolside reading in the morning. The goal was to finish Around Midnight, post a review, and head out to lunch. Lily wanted to tie up loose ends before they started on the podcast next week. “How did the interview go?”

“Grueling.”

She massaged her scalp, working the shampoo to a lather. “Let me guess. They mostly asked about your dad.”

“You guessed right.” He was at his desk, sifting papers. “Um, Lily . . . ¿Qué haces?”

“Washing my hair.”

“Need a hand?”

“I can manage, thanks.”

“I see.”

She paused, frowned. “How much can you see?”

“Not enough. Step back from the camera.”

“You’re adorable.”

“Not as much as you.” He held up his copy of Around Midnight. “How far along are you with this? Did you get to the fun stuff?”

“Not yet. Soon, though,” Lily said. They’d read the first chapters together; since then, she hadn’t picked it up. She wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but now that life was more interesting than fiction, her need to lose herself in books had waned.

“You need to catch up,” he said.

“Why? Was it good for you?”

“I don’t know.” Ben moved from his desk to his bed. He grabbed a pillow and propped it under his head. “I was like . . . he’s putting his cock where?”