Page 14 of Past Lives
His hair is damp but tidy, his beard at just the right stubble. He’s wearing a sweater the color of steel and the same worn jeans as yesterday. I notice, a little embarrassed, that he looks like someone from an adventure-gear ad —if those ads could also break hearts.
“You’re early,” he says, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
“Scout’s honor,” I say, though I was never a scout.
He buys coffee, nods at the brownie, and suggests we sit by the window. Outside, the city is a stream of black umbrellas. We sit with our knees almost touching.
He speaks first. “You seemed off last night. Are you all right?”
I don’t want to say I’m tired, because I know he’d see through it.
“I had weird dreams,” I admit. “About lighthouses, dead girls, and tea sets.”
He studies me for a moment. Something in his jaw changes, and I realize he’s searching for the right thing to say.
“Was it a bad dream?” he asks.
“It felt real. I woke up crying.” I try to laugh. “I’m not saying your ghost story gave me nightmares, but…”
He smiles, looking almost relieved. “If it helps, I was up half the night reading about Moira Blythe. The local legend says her lover died at sea, and she watched the waves for him for forty years. Like some kind of Victorian WiFi.”
“Brutal.” I sip my coffee, letting the warmth fill my mouth. “Did she ever move on?”
“No,” he says. “People say she did two things: kept the light on and kept waiting. Sometimes she’d walk to the rocks and scream at the sea.”
I nod, trying not to picture my own voice drifting over the waves, thin and tired.
Heath fidgets with his cup, then looks up. “I know we’re strangers, but if you need company...” He pauses, then tries again. “If you need to talk, or just want to feel less alone, I’m good at listening. It comes with the job.”
I want to reach out, but the table between us feels like a chasm. I settle for saying, “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”
He grins, open and unguarded, and for a few seconds, I don’t feel haunted.
After breakfast, we wander the Old Town in a spiral. My mind itches with images from the dream, but I do not tell him anymore. We talk about cities, the difference between travel and running away, and whether ghosts are real or just highly compressed memories. He points out the best spot for friedbread. I show him where Burke and Hare once stashed a body. Our conversation is light. When we walk too close, he brushes my elbow, and it feels deliberate.
At the castle esplanade, we stop, out of breath, and look at the city fading into fog.
“I have to see my brother in Aviemore this afternoon,” he says. “Family obligation.”
“Big family?” I ask.
“One sibling, but he’s enough. You?”
“Only child. That’s probably why I’m emotionally feral.”
He laughs. “You seem pretty well-adjusted to me.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
He hesitates, looking me in the eye. “Will I see you again?”
I don’t want to sound desperate. So I say, “I’m heading north tomorrow. Inverness, maybe the islands.”
“By yourself?”
“For now.” I let my words hang, leaving it open.
He picks up on it. “Maybe I’ll catch up with you.”
