Page 2 of Past Lives
It is Hugh's hand, unmistakable. The envelope trembles between her fingers, battered like something that has crossed oceans. It is Hugh's handwriting, clear and familiar. The envelope shakes in her hands, battered as if it has traveled far, the postmark unreadable. The stamp shows a Queen she doesn't know, her face set against mountains Margaret has never seen but now wants to.I do not know if this will reach you. I do not know if it is wise to write at all, but the not-writing is worse. I want to say that I have been faithful to your memory, if nothing else. There are things I can't speak of—things I am not supposed to remember. I think of you always. If I make it back, you'll be the only reason why.
It is unsigned, but the last line is so clearly Hugh that she presses her lips to it, tasting ink, paper, and the memory of his skin:
I’ll find you, my love. And I’ll always come back to you.
She cries now, her body shaking as a year's worth of fear leaves her. The ache is still there, but now it feels like a lifeline reaching across the distance between them. She sleeps that night holding his jumper, the letter pressed to her chest, and wakes with a stronger, painful hope that some promises can survive even war.
But she is wrong.
Years later, when the city is full of new buildings and her hair has turned gray, Margaret stands in Euston Station on the anniversary of his departure, wearing her best coat. She stands in the crowd, watching strangers meet and part, waiting for something that will never come. Sometimes, in the winter light, she sees a man in uniform by the arrivals, cap low over green eyes she still longs for but cannot reach.
It doesn't matter if he is a ghost or just her longing. What matters is that she walks toward him every year, as if this is her only journey. Her hands reach out for him, her heart still holding the promise: I'll always come back to you.
Chapter 1
Maya
Every musclein my calves feels ready to cramp as I push up Fifth Avenue, the world still tinted by the early morning light. The city feels empty and mine; doormen nap in warm entryways, dog-walkers shuffle past in thick coats, and tall buildings block out even the light. All I hear is my sneakers hitting the pavement and the steady beat in my ears.
I love New York best in this moment between night and day, before the street carts start up and the bakery fills with early customers. Each breath is sharp and cold, clearing my mind. I run for the feeling of being nothing but breath, a heartbeat, and the next step. No worries, just moving forward.
Even as I try to settle into my running rhythm, counting my breaths, I can already feel the day demanding my attention. In a week, I’ll be in London, dealing with jet lag and the BBC as they discuss my new book. They want to talk about modern England and the "secret soul of a changing nation,” as my publisher says. But I keep thinking about how, after the interview, I’ll get two days to disappear into the Highlands with just a rental car, a haunted castle, some good whisky, and no emails from my mother.
My phone buzzes at my side, but I ignore it. It’s still dark, so it’s probably my mother. If she’s not reminding me about my flight, she’s adding old social plans to my schedule. That reminds me: I need to cancel my date with Jamie Rutherford. According to Mom, he still has that crooked smile and "has not been married recently, which is an improvement over your last three prospects.” She says Jamie runs a tech startup and just moved back to Manhattan. She’s been pushing this every week since May. I finally agreed last week because she threatened to visit my apartment “just to check on the plants,” which really means “inspect your fridge and judge your personal life.”
As I run down East 79th, I try to figure out how to cancel without being rude. Maybe I could blame a sudden Covid exposure? No, that excuse is outdated. I could pretend to have a minor illness. Jamie was always careful about health, so he’d understand. While I think about what to text, I notice I have three voicemails and two unread messages from Blair, the only friend as persistent as my mother.
Blair’s first voicemail is nearly three minutes of breathless banter: “M, I just finished your book. I read the last seventy pages in the bath, and now I might have hypothermia but also a raging crush on your glossary. WHERE do you find these pubs? Also, you need to call me before London. I have wardrobe thoughts. And feelings. Also, did you see what’s trending about the BBC interviewer? Call me!” The last time I trusted Blair’s feelings, I ended up in Budapest with a Croatian bouncer’s number sharpied on my forearm and a hangover that lasted into March.
When I reach the reservoir in Central Park, the sun is finally starting to rise. I slow down to a jog, then walk, hands on my hips, steam rising from my skin. Faint pop music plays nearby from another runner. The city feels full of possibility, the air coldand full of anticipation. My heart pounds in my chest, but I’m not worried.
I stop at the water’s edge and study my reflection, less a face and more a smudge: flushed, slick with sweat, hair pulled tight from a forehead already reddened with exertion. It isn’t beautiful, not the way my mother would approve, but it’s my best version—raw and unbreakable. I check my pulse, count to thirty; when it steadies, I pull up Jamie’s number, ready to compose the gentlest lethal rejection texting affords.
Instead, I hesitate, thumb hovering. Across the park, the skyline is melting into gold; the promise of a new day, as every inspirational calendar insists. I have never found these promises especially reliable. No matter what Blair claims, I have not given up on men, or at least not on the idea of them. I have simply failed to encounter the kind who rearranges your molecules, who makes your mother’s fussing seem charming instead of cataclysmic. The last three dates were less like falling in love and more like earnest job interviews, leaving us both quietly rooting for the other to get hired elsewhere.
Even so, the phrase “maybe just one drink” slides unbidden into my mind, its warmth a betrayal of my earlier resolve. It’s probably the endorphins leaking through, or Blair’s faith in romance echoing insistently in my ear—her belief that possibility lurks in every book signing, every scone in every little bakery. Shifting from thought to action, I type a neutral “How about Wednesday at 8pm? Early drinks at Bemelmans?” and hit send before I can regret it. The message lands in Jamie’s inbox like a time bomb, set to detonate in awkward silence.
I take a seat on a stone bench, calves still quivering, and let the world catch up. My itinerary: run, shower, coffee, then pack for a week in England. My secrets: I never unpacked from my last trip. I sleep in my running clothes more than I care to admit.I read Blair’s romance novels as a guilty pleasure, hidden where my mother will never find them.
Most of all, I want to believe the world still has surprises for me. Maybe somewhere—across the ocean, on a first date, or with the right beer—the next big thing will find me when I least expect it.
I tie my sneakers tighter and text Blair quickly: “Alive. Will call after coffee. London is still on. Dress ideas?” She replies right away: “YES TO ALL. Tell me about the date. Also, I picked up another bottle of that peaty scotch from Olav’s. Emergency nightcap Friday?”
I smile, my teeth chattering, and jog home slowly. The city is waking up, ready to pull me into the busy, lively day. I hear my footsteps echo on the sidewalk, a small sign of defiance against whatever comes next. If the world is uncertain, I’ll face it running, breathing deep.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll keep saying yes.
Chapter 2
Heath
Sometimes,it feels like I’ve spent my whole life in bars with men like Jude. He’s not bad company. Actually, he’s the opposite. If Manhattan real estate were a person, with hand-stitched leather boots, a jacket from a hard-to-find tailor, and a laugh that sounds like a power tool, it would be Jude. He acts the part of a venture capitalist with the flair of an aging movie star. He’s all bravado and charm. I respect that, the way you might respect a poisonous beetle: striking to look at, but best kept behind glass.
Bemelman’s feels like a monument to people like Jude. The lampshades glow butter-yellow, and the walls are covered in murals that, in this light, seem dreamlike. Piano jazz drifts from the corner. I let Jude buy us a pair of whiskies, but I’m not letting him invest in my app.Not yet.We sit at a low table, gold leaf flaking off the edges like falling snow, and he spends ten minutes telling me why he should fund my next round instead of someone with less 'skin in the digital game.' He gestures a lot as he talks. I nod and make the right encouraging noises. When I catch the bartender’s eye, he tips his chin at me as if to ask, 'Need rescuing?' I almost smile.
I do not need rescuing. I just need a goddamn minute to think, to breathe, to remember why I wanted to start overas a one-man company in the first place. Jude’s voice is an instrument, meant for selling. I let him play for a while, watching the way the couples at the next table lean in together, three inches apart at most, talking like there’s nothing else happening in the world. I envy them. I always have. My relationships never made it past the second or third movement; the music died, and we found ourselves staring at sheet music for a symphony we didn’t know how to play.
“So,” Jude says, dropping his hand onto my sleeve, “what are you afraid of, Heath? You want to work on this thing for three years, perfect it, then what? Die in your sleep with an open laptop in your lap? If it’s the press you’re dodging, don’t. The right story only burns for a week. Then it’s someone else’s turn.”
