Page 23 of Exquisite Things

he’s been. He follows behind me. Argues as he chases me. “But anything can’t happen! That’s the whole point. The only time

we have is the time we live in. And right now, Cyril is dead, Brendan is expelled, Mother is overworked.”

I could keep arguing. But my mouth feels too dry to speak. Our conversation and our kisses have left me parched. I desperately

need water. I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass.

He hovers at the kitchen door. “Being ourselves is a crime!” His sharp gaze challenges me to contradict him.

I’m so nervous that I spill the water on myself. “Oh, come on.” I’m soaked. I remember the fire is still raging in the living

room.

I head there. Sit in front of the fireplace to dry my shirt. Oliver sits next to me. Leans his head on my shoulder lovingly.

He whispers sadly into the flames. “Mother will be home soon.”

I look into his eyes. Illuminated by the glow. “Tell me one last time. Do you love me, sincerely and eternally?”

“I do.” He bites his lip. “I can’t be with you, but I’ll always carry you in my heart.”

“And if you could be with me in some other world—”

“Stop with the fantasies. Of course I want that. Of course I do. I would do anything if I were a magician.”

He kisses me on the lips gently. I pull him close feverishly.

“I don’t want to stop.” He scrunches his face up into a mask of torment. “I don’t know what to do, Shams. Tell me what to

do.”

“Shh.” I can feel the crumpled remaining pages of Wilde’s manuscript in my pocket.

They seem to be vibrating. Telling me to pull them out.

The pages have remained with me since that day in 1895 when I saved them from burning.

Parting with them would be like parting with a piece of myself.

I often wondered about their power. Could they do to others what was done to me?

I never burned them, though. Because I never found someone I wanted to join me in this journey.

Not until Oliver. Immortality has been like a curse without him.

But to be immortal together with the one you love.

.. eternal love... isn’t that what we all dream of?

“Let’s not rush the best thing either of us will ever find.

” I take a breath. “Oliver, there’s something I need to tell you. ”

He stares at the pages in my hand. Tries to make out the handwriting. “Are those pages from your journal?”

I shake my head. “This isn’t easy to explain.”

“Is it a love letter you wrote and never sent?” I try to find the words to begin telling him what I am. What these pages can

do for him. For us. But he keeps talking and I love the sound of his voice too much to stop him. “It’s a poem you wrote for

me! Do you know something? A street poet in Provincetown wrote a poem for me and Mother. We haven’t opened it yet. We’re saving

it for a time when we need poetry, I think. That’s something Mother and I have in common, I suppose. Always living for the

future, putting others first and our own little pleasures last.”

“Oliver, please. Listen to me. We don’t have much time. These pages—”

“BOYS!” The front door creaks open. Slams shut. She’s home. I missed my chance to tell him.

We need more time.

We deserve more time.

From the foyer, his mother loudly explains what took so long. “Would you believe there was an accident involving a truck full of peaches? Peaches everywhere. I had to take a detour.”

I frantically turn to Oliver again. I can hear his mother’s footsteps. There’s no time. I ask him urgently: “Oliver, tell

me the truth. Would you want to be with me in a different, better time and place?”

“Yes, yes, a million times yes.” He scoots a little farther away from me. Anticipating his mother’s entry.

I can’t lose him. His mother approaches. She’s seconds away from the living room. This could be the last time I see Oliver.

I want to tell him my name isn’t Shams. That I’m immortal. Eternally young.

But there’s no time.

We need more time.

And this must be a sign. That he and I are in front of a fire in this very moment. The fates are sending me a message. Make him immortal , they’re telling me. We provided the fire. Now do your part.

And so I do what I think I must. I throw one of the pages into the fire. I watch as Wilde’s words burn: “ The basis of optimism is sheer terror. ”

Sheer terror. That’s what I feel as the page burns. “Say it again, Oliver. Tell me you wish you were born in another time, a time when

your love isn’t a crime. Please. Say it.”

His eyes are moist as he says, “I wish we could be alive in a time when our love isn’t a crime.”

I sigh. He did it. He made his wish as the page burns. I’m not even certain it will work. But if it does...

His mother enters. Oliver turns to her. A nervous smile on his face. “Hello, Mother.”

His mother squints. “Son, how long have you been staring at that fire? Your eyes look positively aflame.”

Oliver looks at me. That’s when I know it worked. He’s like me now. “I feel different, Shams.”

Optimism. That’s what I feel as I lose myself in his fiery gaze. Our eyes are the same now. Our fates forever tied. I have to tell

him that I made his wish come true. Granted him the fantasy life he dreamed of. We have no limits any longer. We’re not stuck

in this horrible time and place. But there’s time to explain all that. An eternity of time and an eternity of love.