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I have my favorites to study and my favorites to read for fun. I have books I’d sell my soul to read again for the first time, and books that feel new each time I reread them. I have my favorite book I love to hate, and my favorite book I hate to love.”
“Romance?” “It’s fun and emotionally comforting to know more or less how the story is going to play out. I like knowing what to expect. But I will say that my standards for romantic partners are now impossibly high.” I’m teasing, but his silver-blue eyes feel like they’re burning into me as he says, quietly, leaning in slightly, “Noted.”
I drop my backpack on the ground and power up my computer, noticing a to-go cup of coffee on my desk. On the side, it says “Mac” in black marker and then under it in different handwriting reads, “Not a pumpkin coffee.”
“Though sometimes I get lucky and meet someone who clearly couldn’t care less about either of those things.” I quickly avert my eyes, and he nudges my arm with his elbow. “You, Mac. I was talking about you.”
“Someday, Mac, you’re going to realize exactly how much I enjoy staring at you all day.”
“Mac, that man has a very specific type. There is only one person in that category right now, and that person is you.” She circles a finger at me,
not one of them has talked about my work the way you’ve done. So, I understand if you’re reluctant to jump into whatever this is, but I can assure you there’s nothing about this that feels like a fling to me.”
“For someone who doesn’t believe in happy endings, you are really good at this,” I whisper, breathless, my eyes still closed. I can feel his breath warming me, smelling sweetly of red wine and vaguely of garlic. “I believe in things that are real, and this feels real. Let me kiss you.”
If you tell me to go, I’ll go. I just wanted to be here if you need.
“I want to be what you need today. And if what you need is me to be gone, I’ll leave.” He squeezes my hands lightly. “But I don’t want you to think you’re saving me from something if you send me away. These past few weeks have been an absolute whirlwind, but one thing I know clearly is that I want to be here with you, Mac. With all of you. Even the messy parts.”
I’m standing there, staring at him, becoming more sure by the moment that I’m either (at best) witnessing or (at worst) responsible for Daniel Evans’ mental breakdown.
“I don’t want to be friends, Mac. I want to be fully yours if you’ll have me.”
“I want to be with you, Mac. I belong with you. Please, let me come in.”
To M. M. who taught me I belong.
It is, in short, a love letter to teaching and learning. I think it might be a love letter to me.
This has more heart than anything you’ve ever written.” At that, he slowly looks up at me, his gray-blue eyes full of emotion, his wavy hair tousled as if he has been running his hands through it all evening. “That’s because you’re on every page.”
