Page 25 of Past Lives
He grins. “Good. Because I want all of that. All the weird. All the chaos. All of you.”
His hand drifts to my face, thumb brushing a spot below my eye. I rest my palm flat over his heart, feeling the echoing pulse.
“I want you everywhere,” he says, quietly. “Every room, every city. Every minute I can have.”
I tuck my chin and close my eyes. “You will.”
Chapter 17
Maya
Two Weeks Later, NYC
Manhattan sparkles like a diamond.Taxis, billboards, and apartment windows light up in electric patterns. After so much time away, coming back feels like wearing borrowed clothes.
Mother's Upper East Side brownstone stands tall, its glass entry fogged by her nervous energy and the humidity from her many plants. Every umbrella is packed into a plastic holder, pointless under today’s perfect sky. I step inside, already feeling split between who I was and who I am now.
Inside, Blair’s hair is bright as fire, her face twisted with anticipation. She taps a polished nail on the marble aperitif cart while Mother circles me, looking sharp and watchful. The scent of her perfume, Chanel mixed with a hint of something burnt, reaches me before her hug does.
“My darling girl!” She smothers my cheeks in kisses as if she’s the only person with the authority to bless my pores. Her eyes, blue and not unlike my own, scan me for signs of disease or men. “You look thin,” she says, before I can even lie about eating. “And artistically windblown. Have you been in a cyclone?”
Blair, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, says, “Close. She’s been canoodling with her very own Heathcliff in the wilds of Scotland. Only with fewer murders and more travel insurance.I’ve hardly seen her since she returned four days ago. I’ve been replaced.”
Mother’s eyebrows vault. “Heathcliff?”
“Not his actual name,” I say, though it almost is. “Heath Cameron. He’ll be here in… twenty minutes?” My mouth says it like a threat. “He’s meeting us for lunch.”
Mother nods, lips pulled up in a tentative smile. “Isn’t that nice. I do hope he enjoys salmon.”
“Do you want me to set out the sherry?” Blair asks, because she knows the answer is yes, and because she needs something to do with her hands.
In the kitchen, my mother’s cook, Sonya, is making the world’s most punitive chopped salad, dicing radish and celery into uniform cubes with the efficiency of a Soviet clockmaker. My mother likes to call her ‘our culinary guardian angel,’ as if Sonya is the only barrier between us and death by carbs.
Mother, suddenly remembering propriety, fixes her hair and claps once for attention. “So! How was Scotland? Did you see the Loch Ness Monster?”
Blair says, “She did. Only he’s American, and six-five, and apparently phenomenal in bed.”
I nearly inhale a crouton. “Blair.”
“What? You said you wanted to get ahead of the rumors.” She pops an olive in her mouth.
Mother’s eyes latch onto mine, question marks dialed to eleven. “So, this… Mr. Cameron. Is it very serious?”
I don’t know how to answer. My mind jumps around. What does 'serious' even mean now? Heath isn’t just a possibility; he’s here, real. I keep thinking about how he knows the most personal, even embarrassing, things about me. That truth runs through me, but Blair’s stare makes me cautious. I can feel her waiting for me to slip up.
“It’s…” I start, hesitating. I want to be honest—I’m moving in with him tomorrow. I want to say how nervous and excited I am, how strange it feels to imagine sharing daily life with someone. But I can already see my mother’s shock, and I feel panic rising in my chest.
“Very. It’s very serious.”
Mother makes a slow, punctuated sound, then collects herself. “Darling, you’ve always been so… independent. Are you sure?—”
“She’s sure,” Blair says, in the tone of someone who has already planned the bachelorette party.
I smile, but my stomach is tight with dread. “We’re taking it slow,” I lie, realizing that in this family, even lies need to be specific.
There is a knock at the vestibule, precise as a heartbeat. Through the glass, I see a silhouette, backlit by afternoon sun. Tall, dark, architectural. Blair whistles a low, appreciative note. “Speak of the devil.”
Mother puts on her best hostess smile, and we walk to the parlor together. Heath comes in, and for a moment, he doesn’t seem quite real. He’s wearing a blue shirt and slacks, his hair mostly neat, and an expensive watch on his wrist. For a second, he looks like the most handsome man in the city, and I stop listening to everyone else because he’s giving me that private smile that promises we’ll have time alone later.
