On the title page was an inscription: To Steph—Don’t give up on your dreams. I couldn’t read the signature, but it looked like a J followed by a squiggle.

I reached for my phone and texted her: Who gave you the book of Rich poems? Just curious.

As soon as I sent it—part of me pleased that I’d come up with a legitimate reason to text her—I felt stupid and wished I hadn’t.

She didn’t respond immediately. I opened the book again and began to read. “Twenty-One Love Poems” weren’t twenty-one separate poems, but a connected narrative, a story about two women who meet in New York City and fall in love. Their relationship seemed to end ambiguously; I wasn’t entirely sure what happened. One poem was unnumbered and titled “The Floating Poem,” and this was the only one that fit my idea of what a love poem was supposed to be: centered on physical desire. I ran the words around in my mouth as if I were tasting something new. They were lush and round, like berries. If I were to paint them, they would be ripe orange and pomegranate red.

My phone dinged, making my heart race.

Steph wrote: Ms. Silva, my high school English teacher. She gave it to me when I graduated.

I stared at her message for some time before I responded. I’m reading the 21 love poems. Is your song inspired by number 15? The lyrics sound like some of those lines.

Several minutes passed before she replied: Not exactly, but sort of. It’s hard to explain by text. I get off work in an hour. Want to meet up?

A burst of excitement went through me. I forced myself to wait for a minute. While I was counting off seconds, I remembered Joan had gone out for the afternoon, taking her car, and I had promised to walk Analemma. A flash of disappointment was followed by a sudden new idea.

Do you want to come here? Joan’s out and I told her I’d take Analemma on a hike. You could come with us.

I waited, barely breathing, for what felt like the longest thirty seconds of my life. Her response was brief: OK.

—

By the time Steph arrived, I’d put on sneakers and changed my clothes twice. When Analemma started barking, I grabbed her leash and my sunglasses, and we went out to meet Steph.

She was coming up the path and bent down to pet Analemma, who bounded up to her. “You look ready to go,” she said, and Analemma barked. Steph laughed. “Wow, all right,” she said, and then she looked up at me from beneath the brim of her baseball cap, smiling. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I replied. Analemma dashed down to the bottom of the path to wait by the closed gate, her tail whipping back and forth excitedly.