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landed on the advice column. A guilty pleasure of mine, the advice column always made me think that there was no question in this world that did not have an answer. A man had written in about a woman he'd just started dating.
    "She's a wonderful person," he wrote, "but she keeps giving me books to read. I have a pile of books now on my night stand, and a to-read list that's a mile long. Have you ever heard of a relationship that came with a reading list attached?"
    The advice columnist wrote back: "I have never heard of a relationship that didn't."
    Sharing books is one of the most personal, most frightening things you can do, after all. When you give somebody else a story that you have loved, you are risking so much. Will they like the story as much as you? Will they take the same meaning from it? And yet, the reward if they understand the book you love, if they love it as much as you!
    There are studies that say that reading fiction makes you a better person. More empathetic. When you read a novel, you become the main character, if only for a while. Living in someone else's shoes makes people more generous with each other. And when you read the same book as another person, you are becoming the same character. When your lover reads a book you have read, you are sharing another experience, in a way, one that you might never get to share in real life.
    I bugged Eliot to tell me stories because I wanted to understand him. But there was one story he didn't tell me until much later, and now I know why. It would have given up too much of his heart to me, and he was not ready to do that. Not yet.
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Eliot
    Eliot woke up earlier than the sun, but when he rolled over he found the other side of his bed empty.
    "Brynn?" He wiped at his eyes and looked around. The thin light of dawn filtered through the curtains of his windows, illuminating the dust that hung in the quiet air of morning.
    He quickly pulled on a robe and went across the hallway, but she was not in her bedroom either. He wasn't about to scream her name from the rooftops, but a small ringing of panic sent its way through his body. His feet padded down the stairs one at a time, but with some measure of quickness that was not normal for him so early in the morning.
    The kitchen light was on, and when he passed through the entryway Lucky jumped down from the counter where he had been licking at the saucer of cream to rub against his ankles. Eliot's mind was still fuzzy with sleep, but he saw the kettle on the stove still steaming and recognized that Brynn must be close.
    Out in the backyard, the air was still cool from the night. Brynn sat alone at the patio table, sipping a cup of tea and reading a book. She looked up when he opened the door and smiled sweetly.
    "Good morning," she said.
    "Good morning," Eliot said, walking over and leaning down to kiss her lightly on the lips. "It's early, isn't it?"
    "A little early," Brynn admitted. "I slept well, though."
    "I'm glad," Eliot said, pressing his hand on top of hers as he sat down next to her. They sat there for a minute in silence, enjoying the morning. The forest was bright and alive with birdcall, and two sparrows bathed themselves on the step of the pool, splashing water with ruffled feathers and tumbling over each other in play. The rose garden was in full bloom, and stripes of red and yellow and white lined the edges of the garden. From so far away the colors blended together in an impressionist muddle.
    "What's the book?" he asked, leaning over.
    "It's a book of legends," Brynn said. "My mom used to tell me the stories when I was a little girl, just before bedtime. I thought about it when you were talking about the other book. The Little Prince ." Brynn held out the book of legends, waving it in the air. "But this book of legends—this was my favorite book when I was a kid."
    "What legend are you reading now?" he asked.
    "Orpheus and Eurydice. Do you know the story?"
    "No," Eliot said, leaning back in