Pen Pal(80)

He bends down, picks me up, and throws me over his shoulder, then carries me down the hallway to his bedroom, laughing as I feebly pummel my fists on his muscular butt. He kneels on the mattress and takes us down to the bed.

I flinch and wince. “Ow.”

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s something under my back.”

Aidan lifts himself up to allow me to roll to the side. From underneath me, he pulls out a book.

“Sorry. I was reading.”

He tosses the book aside and kisses me again, but I’m too curious to let this go that easily. “What were you reading?”

“The Divine Comedy.”

He tries to take my mouth, but can’t as I’m still talking. “What’s The Divine Comedy? That sounds interesting.”

Pausing to glower down at me in disapproval, he says drily, “We’re having a book club meeting now?”

I smile and toy with a lock of his dark hair. “We have all the time in the world to do the other stuff, Mr. Lion. Besides, I’m curious about your taste in literature.”

“Apparently, my taste in literature is as odd as my taste in women. We haven’t seen each other in weeks, you’re in my bed, and you’re stalling me getting inside you. What’s wrong with this picture?”

I give him a peck on the lips, then reach over and pick up the book he tossed aside. It’s a black hardback, missing the dust jacket. The title and author name are embossed in gold on the spine.

The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri.

I say, “That sounds like a made up name.”

Aidan scoffs. “He’s only the greatest poet ever.”

“Then how come I’ve never heard of him?”

“Maybe you’re not as smart as you think.”

I make a sour face. He grins.

When I ask, “So what’s this Divine Comedy about?” he sighs and rolls off me, settling on his back.

“It’s an epic poem about one man’s journey through hell.”

I laugh. “Sounds like the perfect light reading before bed.”

He gazes at me with smiling eyes, though his face is attempting to look stern. He wants me to think he’s disappointed that I’m not naked yet, but I know he’s happy just to have me here.

That makes two of us.

I lift up onto an elbow and rest the book on his stomach. “So tell me the story. How does it go? Why is it called a comedy if it’s about hell? And why does the author’s last name have so many Is in it? It’s fake, right?”

Trying to stifle a laugh, he reaches up and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “I never realized how strange you are before now.”

I lightly thump him on the chest with my knuckles. “Like you’re so normal. Tell me.”

With an exaggerated sigh, he pulls me down, sliding an arm under my neck and tucking me against his side. I snuggle there, closing my eyes and breathing in his warm scent of cedar, musk, and wood smoke.

Happiness shimmers inside me, as light and airy as soap bubbles.

“Dante was an Italian poet and scholar who was born in the thirteenth century.”

“No wonder I’ve never heard of him!”

Ignoring that, Aidan continues. “The story is about his soul’s allegorical journey through the three realms of the dead: hell, purgatory, and heaven. He’s accompanied by three spirit guides along the way who help him understand what’s happening. At the end, he enters heaven, gains the knowledge of what God truly is, and achieves eternal salvation.”

After a moment, I say, “And you’re reading it in bed on a Saturday night?”

“It’s considered one of the world’s greatest works of literature.”

“Please refer to my previous question.”

Chuckling, he kisses my forehead. “Not all of us had fancy university educations. I’ve made an ongoing effort to try to make up for lost time.”

I open my eyes and look at him. He gazes back at me with a soft smile. I know he’s talking about the time he spent in prison for what he did to his father, but we haven’t really discussed that yet, so I’m hesitant to ask for details. Like, for example, how long he was there.

Gently stroking my hair, he murmurs, “Seven years.”

Damn. The man can always read my mind.

I whisper, “Was it awful?”

He nods.

My throat closes, but I manage to say, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s in the past. This is what matters now.”

He gives me a squeeze and a smile so tender, it could break my heart in two. Holding back tears, I close my eyes and press my cheek against his chest.

Sensing I’m on the verge of getting overly emotional, he has mercy on me and changes the subject.

“What really blows my mind about Dante—other than his work—is that his name is an anagram for mine.”

“Anagram means what? Like it sounds similar?”

After a pause, he says, “You didn’t really go to college, did you?”

I thump him on the chest again. He chuckles and says, “An anagram is a word formed using all the letters of another word. Like ‘iceman’ and ‘cinema.’ You mix up all the letters and they spell something else.”

I think about it for a moment. “Okay, that’s freaky.”