Page 3 of Past Lives
I swirl the cherry at the bottom of my glass. “I’m not afraid, Jude. I just want to see if it’s worth building before I let the world set it on fire.”
“Dramatic,” he says, but he’s smiling. “Alright, chief. I’ll keep my checkbook zipped up. For now.” He signals the server, who glides over and delivers our second round with a solemn wink in my direction.
Above the piano, a woman’s laughter trills—high, clear, a bell in the fog. I glance up. There, in the gilded mirror, I catch the sharp cut of a suit jacket, the line of a woman’s jaw. She’s entering at the side door, a man trailing her, but she’s the kind who naturally leads. Her hair is dark, but the light catches it, revealing copper at the ends. She says something to the host, and for a second, her eyes scan the room. I mark the moment she sees me. Nothing in her expression shifts. But she knows. I’m looking at her, and she’s looking back.
Jude follows my gaze and grins. “Is she your type?” He gestures. “I could introduce you.”
“You know everybody,” I say, reflexively. I don’t say yes. I don’t say no.
I can’t stop watching her. She guides her companion to a table two down from ours, drops her bag on the banquette, and slides into the seat. He’s already talking. She scans the mural—rabbits, hedgehogs, canaries. All painted in a lost palette of the thirties. She looks like she’s memorizing them.
Jude keeps talking, asking if I plan to travel or stay in New York this season. I tell him I’ll spend a week in London first, then take a train north to Edinburgh, where my brother lives. We’re meeting at the house our grandparents left us, out in the middle of Leith. I turn to Jude. 'You ever been to Scotland?'
“I don’t travel,” he says. “Not unless there’s a reason.” He gives me a pointed look, as if to say, "Remember that about people."
I drain my glass. The warmth of the rye crawls into my muscles, softening the impatient ache of being alive. I watch the woman in the mirror, but she’s gotten clever. Now she stares directly at me, bypassing the reflection, like a person who’s never been afraid to ask for what she wants. Her companion is oblivious. He checks his phone, bored or nervous, a man losing an argument with reality.
I imagine walking over and saying something bold and simple. I imagine her reply—sharp, sparring. I know it’s fiction; for all I know, she’s married, this is their anniversary, breakup, or business meeting. But still, I can’t stop wanting to know.
But for the first time in a long time, I feel the static charge of wanting to know.
“We should go,” I say, standing. “I’ve got a meeting in the morning.”
Jude looks surprised but pleased. He picks up the tab, says, “You know where to find me when you’re ready.” He claps my back, leaves me at the door.
I linger by the coat check, shoulders hunched, thumbs moving quickly across my phone screen as if I’m cracking asecret code. The woman now sits in profile, her jawline sharp in the amber light, her hair falling in a dark curtain that glows at the edges. I watch as she lifts a slender hand and tucks a stray strand behind her ear, revealing a small gold earring. Her eyes, pale blue, flick up to meet mine through the haze of piano notes and quiet conversations. This time, she smiles, just the corner of her mouth lifting, like a secret message sent across the crowded room.
It’s nothing. It’s everything. It’s a collision of atoms that shouldn’t meet, a possibility as dense as a black hole. It feels like a beginning I’ve been circling without realizing, like a moth drawn to the bright center of a flame.
The words come up on their own, rising like bubbles through dark water, echoing in my head as clear as a bell at midnight: I’ll find you. It’s crazy, but the thought keeps nagging at me, breaking through the hard shell of my daily life. Wasted longing drifts and piles up, gathering like dust in forgotten corners. I step into the lobby. Light from the crystal chandeliers falls thick and precise across the marble floors. The night is crisp. The October air is sharp, full of woodsmoke and possibility, and for the first time in months, the air feels less like armor and more like a silk sheet on bare skin.
I walk home with a steadier pulse, hope for a conversation I haven’t had yet humming in my bones. Maybe it will happen. Maybe it won’t. But I’ll keep showing up, first in this city, then somewhere else, even in another time if I have to. I’ll keep saying yes until something finally says yes to me.
Chapter 3
Maya
Packing always feelslike a challenge I set for myself. How many shirts can I fit into one carry-on? How few shoes can I bring without risking blisters, embarrassment, or freezing? This time, it matters more than usual. I have two days packed with book signings, radio interviews, and even a spot on the BBC. Everything will happen under the sharp eyes of the international publishing world. I’ve already had a glass of wine too many to trust myself with eyebrow scissors.
Blair sits cross-legged on the bed, her bare feet painted a bright yellow. She spins her wine glass by the stem and watches me with quiet patience. She doesn’t help, just moves the pile of clothes away when it gets too close. Her phone keeps buzzing with group texts, but she ignores them, focusing on my suitcase as if it’s her only job.
Blair asks, "Have you heard from Joel?" after I’ve folded and unfolded the same black wrap dress for the third time.
It takes me a moment to understand what she means. Joel used to be just someone we both knew, but lately he’s become a ghost in my social life. His dinner invite last week was so awkward that I’m still feeling the effects. "He texted," I say,trying to sound casual. "But I think he realized pretty quickly that it was doomed."
Blair laughs into her wine. "You say doomed like it’s nothing. You’re supposed to let him down gently, not send him out into space," she jokes.
"We spent forty minutes talking about his cat’s gluten allergy," I reply. "If that’s not a sign from the universe, I don’t know what is."
She grins, showing the lipstick stain that always ends up on her canine teeth. "Universe or not, Maya, you’re not even trying. When was the last time you let someone surprise you?"
I ignore her challenge. Blair’s surprises usually mean we end up in random cities or, even worse, bump into her exes at yard sales. I frown at a badly folded sweater and change the subject. "I’m more interested in your date last week," I say. "The hot one with the tattoo. Did you ever find out what it was?"
She holds up two fingers in a peace sign, then makes a face. "His mother’s initials. That would be fine, except he kept calling her from the bathroom. During dinner." Blair groans.
"Maybe he’s an only child."
"Maybe he’s a serial killer."
