Page 9 of Past Lives
We eat quietly, and for a while I drift, caught up in the details of our meal: clotted cream on blood-orange slices, scallops with dill, the way his thumb moves along the spoon. He listens as I tell stories about New York—my mother trying to set me up with every hedge-fund manager, my habit of running until I can’t breathe, the time I lost Blair’s dog in Prospect Park and almost gave it away before she found me. He laughs easily, his voice low and a bit hesitant, like he’s not used to laughing. He makes me want to keep surprising him.
But then the conversation turns, as it always seems to do. I find myself asking what he’s not telling me.
“Why do you really follow me?” I say. “I mean, you said you saw me on TV, but that’s not the whole story. Is it?”
He straightens his fork on the linen, then looks at me squarely. “I Googled you. After seeing you in New York and then again on that interview, I looked up your columns and yourtravel guides. I read your old blog—do you remember the post about the ghost in the Vienna subway?”
I flush, mortified. “Dear god. Nobody was supposed to read that. That was college.”
Heath's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. There's a tension visible in the taut line of his jaw. "Your writing moves me. The way you made yourself vulnerable, admitted when you were wrong or scared. Most travel writers treat cities like conquests, but you..." He pauses, searching for words. "You let places change you." Something shifts in his expression as his voice lowers to nearly a whisper. “Plus, there's this persistent feeling we've crossed paths before."
I fiddle with my napkin, my face hot with confusion. His compliment stirs something vulnerable and raw inside me. Part of me wants to recoil, mapping this honest declaration onto all the dateless creeps who have ever believed they were owed my attention; distrust is an instinct. But Heath’s tone is reverent, almost embarrassed by his own longing, and it reaches that soft, unguarded part of me I work hard to keep protected. It softens me, against my better judgment, and I feel a conflicted gratitude rise up from beneath my doubts.
“That’s…nice,” I manage, and immediately want to die.
He must sense my retreat, because he leans back, giving me space. “Sorry if that’s weird. I just—I’m not good at pretending to be less than I am,” he confesses.
Suddenly, I want to ask him everything: about any potential ex-wives, about the money he claims not to care about, about the scars I glimpsed on the webbing of his hand beneath the tattoos. But I keep my mouth shut, unwilling to tip the balance of the night.
Instead, I steer the conversation back to Galloway—to its moors, faded castles, and the wind that never lets up, even in the middle of July. I tell him about my itinerary and the carefulschedule I’ve built: sourcing local legend, tracing ship manifests, maybe, if I’m lucky, banging out a chapter or two in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage that now doubles as a tiny rental. He is attentive in a way that feels old-world, making mental notes and asking sharp, specific questions: “Do you get lonely on these trips?” “Are you ever scared, out there by yourself?”
Usually, I would lie, deflecting with bravado. But tonight I admit, feeling momentarily exposed: “Sometimes. But the alternative is never leaving New York, and I can’t imagine a death more boring.” I brace myself after admitting so much, heart thumping uncomfortably.
“Me either,” he says. “I think that’s why I like you.”
A comfortable silence settles over the table. For a moment, it feels like the room is outside of time, just the two of us in the soft light. Outside, headlights cut through the fog beyond the window. His hand rests on the table, palm open.
I am the one who crosses the distance, letting my fingers brush his. His skin is fever-warm. Up close, I see the half-moon scars sewn across his knuckles—tiny white threads like the lace on my grandmother’s tablecloth.
“Honestly,” I say, “I probably shouldn’t be here.”
Heath looks down, not withdrawing. “Why not?”
“I barely know you. All the signs say you’re a walking red flag. My mother would faint if she knew I was eating tapas with a stranger who knows my college blog.”
He smiles. “What do you want to do? Leave?”
I shake my head. “No. I want to know how your story ends.”
He thinks about it, then nods, as if he’s accepting a challenge. Outside, the first real rain of the night starts, pouring down the glass. The city blurs, all the neon and streetlights blending together. I think to myself, it’s impossibly, almost comically, perfect.
We split a custard tart and walk out into the rain together, coats too thin, umbrella forgotten. We move down the cobbled street, wet shoes slapping the stones, and for once I don’t walk ahead. He doesn’t offer to walk me home, maybe sensing that I’d hate the implication, so instead we stand under the awning of a shuttered bookshop and huddle out of the wind.
Heath tucks his hands into his pockets. “How early are you leaving tomorrow?”
I tell him eight, and he asks, “Coffee first?”
I nod, and relief blooms in his face. It’s in the unclenching of his jaw, the slow, private smile that starts at the corner of his mouth and catches in the crease under his left eye. The realization that he likes me, really likes me, sweeps through me with a sudden, almost juvenile delight. A sense of reassurance unfurls; he is not going to disappear.
But when I lie awake in the flat white silence of my room, I can’t stop thinking about the way Heath said my name, as if it belonged to him a little. My emotional defenses feel off-balance; after all my caution, what I want most is to see him again in the morning. Wanting this feels both exhilarating and terrifying, as if I’m caught between fear and hope.
At six-fifty-eight, he is already outside the hotel, holding two espressos in compostable cups. He looks nervous, out of place, checking his watch every few seconds. When I arrive, wind-snapped hair and all, he hands me the coffee with a formal, almost courtly precision.
“Would you mind if I came with you to Galloway?” he asks, his voice casual but his eyes anything but.
I consider saying something flippant, but find myself nodding instead. "I would love that," I say, and mean it.
We march down the Royal Mile to his hotel, where he grabs a hastily packed duffel. At Waverley station, Heath buys a ticket on his phone while I pretend not to watch how his fingers tremble slightly. The train is nearly empty when we board. We settle into seats facing each other, knees almost touching across the narrow table.
