A record quarter of the assembled poets managed to read a few lines before the conversation inevitably devolved into talk of Sir Gareth Jallow, whose newest volume of poetry was to be published the following week.
On this topic, tonight the group was evenly divided. Half believed Jallow the most brilliant mind of the century and couldn’t wait to read the new collection. The other half scoffed that Jallow had become passé and overrated. Now that the common folk could quote him at will, Jallow’s poems were no longer the esoteric domain of the literati.
Eventually the group wandered back on topic and managed to have the rest of the room share a few stanzas each between sips of sherry.
Everyone but Jacob. He’d refused their entreaties for so long, they no longer asked him.
Part of him wished to cling to life as it currently was. Anotherpart of him recognized that Vivian was right. The only way to get what he didn’t have was through change.
A strange, forgotten itch crawled along his skin. An itch to try. To be seen. To be heard.
To prove Vivian wrong about him.
To make her proud.
“Well,” said one of the founding poets as the group finished the last bottle of sherry, “I suppose that’s it until next week.”
Jacob’s friends began to clap each other on their backs and shrug into their coats.
Perhaps he wasn’t ready to tell the whole world the full truth—Jacob might never be ready for that, no matter how idyllic the dream—but these were his colleagues. He’d known them for years.
If Jacob was ever going to fail spectacularly, he might as well do so here. Starting now.
“I could read a few lines,” he blurted out.
The others blinked at him in amazement.
“I didn’t know you were a poet!” said one of the newer members.
Had it been that long since anyone had asked Jacob if he wanted to read? Had the others believed him merely a hanger-on all this time, and not a fellow colleague, as he had felt about them?
“Of course we can take a moment for a junior member,” one of the other poets said expansively, despite Jacob having been present for the original founding of the group, and every meeting since.
“What are you going to read?” asked one of the new faces.
Jacob hadn’t actually prepared anything. He couldn’t quite believe he was even doing this. Did he dare? Once his poetry group knew the truth, regardless of their reaction, the secret would be out there. This could be the beginning of the end.
The others watched him expectantly.
He cleared his throat. The journal in his pocket was full ofunfinished poems—he certainly couldn’t read any of that. But Jallow’s upcoming book of poetry contained lines Jacob had toiled over countless times. He could probably quote all hundred pages by heart.
He decided to go with the two-stanza poem on page sixty-six.
Short. Visceral. Powerful.
“Something I’ve been working on,” he said hoarsely. “It’s called ‘Irrational.’”
When he finished, the room was preternaturally silent. The others regarded him with expressions ranging from confusion to awe.
“Splendid!” The newest poets burst into spontaneous applause.
“Derivative at best,” sniffed one of the old guard as he looked down his nose at Jacob. “It is one thing to admire a better talent, and another entirely to copy Jallow’s style as if it were your own.”
“I did no such thing,” Jacob said evenly.
Those who had praised him before glanced at each other, their smiles fading.
“Rumor has it ‘Sir Gareth Jallow’ is a pseudonym,” their host said with a hearty clap to Jacob’s shoulder. “Maybe Mr. Wynchester really is Jallow.”
