When he first pulled it open, it didn’t strike him as much more than what he saw that night: a name he recognized, a soothingly short number of lines. “Sonnet 98.” Spring, summer, flowers, that sort of thing. He remembered Nora saying it was sad, and Jonah, too. He didn’t know if he was up for sad, but he was up for starting somewhere, and a poem that meant something to his story with Nora, that seemed as good as any idea he had so far and definitely better than Good luck.

So he started to read.

At first it wasn’t easy: words he recognized but that he struggled to make sense of in this context, laid out in an order that seemed unnatural to him. He read it silently twice, all of it swimming together, before he tried it out loud again. One line at a time, making sense of punctuation marks like he never had in his life. He read it and read it, until it got easier, until it got to be like breathing.

“‘From you have I been absent in the spring,’” he read, again and again.

A poem about missing someone.

About moving through the world and missing someone all the time. A few days, or maybe sixteen whole years. Living every spring and summer of your life without really noticing it. Everything you looked at that was beautiful you couldn’t see quite right: figures of delight, all of them an imitation of the person you were missing the most.

“‘Yet seem’d it winter still,’” he read, the phrase like a cold wind across his skin, “‘and you, away, / As with your shadow I with these did play.’”

Jesus Christ, that was a sad poem.

But also . . . also it felt like a start.

He looked at the clock, realized he’d been reading for a long time. Where Nora was, it wasn’t so late. He could have typed it all out right then, probably from memory by now. The next time she checked her phone, she’d find it—this memory of one of the first nights they’d spent together, this written expression of how he’d felt all the time without her. Not since she left.

Since before, since before.

But as he reached for his phone, he had a passing thought for the morning, for the golden hour when Nora would be waking up in California. By that time, he would have already started his day. He’d send it then, he decided, so that she’d know how much he missed her, thought of her, while she was gone.

So she’d know how glad he was that she was coming back.

That, he decided, would be exactly the right start.

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

“He’s going to fight for you, Nora.”