Page 48 of Meet Me in Another Life

“Like you’re doing?”

Thora stares. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Santi pauses, as if this is a conversation he doesn’t want to start. “We’ve been given this knowledge for a reason,” he says finally. “What are you using it for? To manipulate Jules into wanting to be with you. Using memories she doesn’t share to make yourself seem like a better person.”

“Excuse me?” Thora draws back.

“I mean—” Santi starts, as Jules’s key sounds in the lock.

They both freeze.

“Fix your face,” hisses Thora as she gets up. “She’s going to think we’re having an affair.”

Jules comes in. “Hi, my love,” she says, as Thora takes her in her arms and kisses her. Jules laughs. “What was that for?”

“Just for my favorite wife,” Thora says, trying to make her voice sound normal.

Jules gives her an indulgent look. “Out of all the wives you’ve had before?”

“Yes,” Thora says without hesitation.

“All right.” Jules scans her face, brow furrowed. Why does she have to be so observant? “Your favorite wife is going to take a quick shower. Hey, Santi,” she says, waving over Thora’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, heartbreak in his eyes.

Thora lets Jules go. As the bathroom door closes, she sits backdown on the sofa. “I’m sorry. You were busy telling me how I’m exploiting my wife?”

Santi rubs his eyes. “Forget it.”

“No. You said it, you don’t get to take it back.” Thora pinches her forehead. “I just want to make sure I understand. Living in a squat and—and scribbling in a book is the right path, but me raising a family with Jules isn’t?” She stares at him, almost laughing in fury. “The way you live isselfish, Santi. You think you’re the hero, the noble martyr sacrificing his comfort so he’ll be found worthy. But you know what? It makes you a shitty friend. Jules and I worry about you constantly. Your poor mum—”

His face closes down. “At least I’m trying to do more than just maximize my own happiness.”

“You’re not even listening.” Thora throws up her hands. “You always know best, don’t you? Honestly, you’re my dadone time—”

“And you still act like my supervisor.” Santi glares at her with the anger he rarely shows, carved into his natural peace like a tracery of scars. She remembers him as her brother, the night she found him in the garage kicking an old washing machine to pieces.

He exhales. “What about next time? What will you do?”

“I told you. I want to do everything. Be everything. Maybe I’ll join the circus. Maybe I’ll get rich and buy a mansion in Rodenkirchen. Maybe I’ll finally become an astronaut.” She watches his face. “What, you disapprove of that too?”

He shakes his head. “It won’t mean anything if we don’t understand.”

Thora laughs. Santi bears her laughter patiently, as he always does. She hates that she remembers that. “Why are you the one who gets to decide what means something and what doesn’t?”

Santi stands up. “There’s no point talking to you when you’re like this.”

“Like what?” Thora feels cold with anger. “You can’t do this. Burst in and tell me my life is meaningless.”

Santi paces across the room. “Let me tell you what you can’t do.”

“Keep your fucking voice down,” she warns him.

But he’s beyond listening. He turns to her, eyes flashing. “You can’t draw a line around me. Say, I want this much of you and no more. We’re beyond that, Thora. We’ve been too much to each other.” She needs to stop him, to shut him up, but he is elemental, uninterruptable as a hurricane. “You don’t get to use me as an accessory for your perfect life. Hushing me when it suits you, listening when you’re bored.”

She hates the way he gets in her head, says the things she barely admits to herself. “I don’t get bored.”

“Liar,” he spits. “You’re like me. You want toknow. You want tounderstand. You want to seek, and find, and—and touch what you can’t explain. Not—bury yourself and hide away from it.” He’s shouting into her face, but she refuses to flinch. “Why are you pretending to be someone else?”

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