Free Seventh Wonder by Renae Kelleigh Page B

the bed without first discussing it, as if they’d simply planned it that way. Meg pushed the book aside and settled against the pillows; John crawled across her lap to sit beside her, propped up against the headboard.
    “What were you reading?” he asked, lifting the book to inspect its cover.
    “Auden,” she said. “I’m assuming you’ve read it? It was on your shelf.”
    “Some of it.” He scooted down a bit, till the top of his head was even with Meg’s. “Read to me?”
    She watched him a moment to verify he was serious. When he didn’t laugh, Meg picked up the book. She took a bite of her dinner before starting:
    “Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
    That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
    But on earth indifference is the least
    We have to dread from man or beast.
    How should we like it were stars to burn
    With a passion for us we could not return?
    If equal affection cannot be,
    Let the more loving one be me.
    Admirer as I think I am
    Of stars that do not give a damn,
    I cannot, now I see them, say
    I missed one terribly all day.
    Were all stars to disappear or die,
    I should learn to look at an empty sky
    And feel its total darkness sublime,
    Though this might take me a little time.”
    As she read, John inscribed feather light circles on the bare expanse of her leg. When she finished, he stilled.
    “Do you feel that way?” he asked.
    “What way?”
    “‘If equal affection cannot be/Let the more loving one be me,’“ he quoted.
    Meg replaced the book on the bed. She cast her eyes downward as she used her spoon to draw figure eights in her stew. “I think I’ve lived it,” she said softly. “It’s what I told myself at the time - that if there couldn’t be balance, I’d rather be the one to give more of myself. In the end... I’m not sure I liked feeling that way anymore.”
    When she looked up, his gaze was attached to her face. “What happened?” His voice was quiet, like an indrawn breath.
    “More than I should’ve stood for,” Meg admitted. “I ought to have seen it coming. He said he loved me, too, and I told myself he did - but now I’m not sure.” She chewed on a piece of bread, not quite able to meet John’s eyes. “Maybe there’s something noble in loving someone more than they love you - something humbling?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t feel good, though. Love... It’s supposed to make you feel good.” She flicked a sheepish glance at John. “At least I think.”
    She hugged her knees to her chest, feeling naïve. No longer hungry.
    John moved his bowl off his lap and grabbed up her hand. “To hell with first love,” he said. Shock held her still as if she’d been captured in the sizzling pop of a flashbulb, immortalized as a picture of incredulity. “They teach you something - that’s the point. You live it, you take a risk. It hurts like hell, and you move on.” He let go of her hand and picked up his food again, perhaps to temper the sudden glare of intensity. “Second loves are the ones worth celebrating.” He was more stoic now. The tip of his spoon scraped against the bottom of his bowl. “They’re the ones who teach you...it isn’t just your body that moves forward. Love goes on, too. Even when you’re convinced it never could again.”
    Meg didn’t know how much time passed before she felt capable of breathing again.
    “Are you speaking from experience?” she asked.
    He turned his face to look at her full-on. “It’s more theory than fact at this point. But my instincts are telling me it’s true.”
    In the space of a second, two dissonant heartbeats found a common rhythm, and both were stronger for it. Call it hope. Call it faith or respite or optimism. In that moment, all were true.
    Meg’s smile was mirthful. “That was very poetic, Mr. Stovall.”
    He shrugged. “Auden must’ve rubbed off on me.” He nudged her leg with his knee. “Or maybe it was Rilke.”
    She giggled. “The bullheaded optimism reminds me