Page 6 of Past Lives
“You’re a New Yorker,” she says after a full beat, a statement, not a question.
I blink, thrown. “Excuse me?”
She gives a small, sly smile. “I think I saw you at Bemelmans last week. Or maybe you just look a lot like him.”
I stare at her. Her mouth curls up more on the left side. There’s a small white scar above her lip. I make a mental note of it. When I’m caught off guard, I never know what to say, so I say nothing.
She tilts her chin, waiting for me to answer. I try to come up with a believable lie, but the truth slips out, awkward and unfinished.
“I was at Bemelmans,” I admit. “Just meeting a business associate.” I shrug, a little embarrassed. “You looked like you owned the place.”
“I was on a boring date my mother set up. It was a one-time thing.” She laughs, and it’s so endearing I can’t put it into words.
“Lucky for me,” I say it before I realize it might sound awkward.
“For you? Why?” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and squints at me. “There’s something about you. Did you go to Dalton?”
“Brooklyn public. Then Stuyvesant. Then Harvard,” I say, ticking the boxes off on my fingers. “You?”
“Brearley, then Yale,” she says, pretending to be serious and lowering her voice like it’s a secret. “That was my parents’ idea of moving up in the world.”
I meet her gaze, and she holds it, steady and calm. Outside, the city fades into fields covered in fog.
“So,” I say. “What takes you up to Scotland? Another review or guide?”
She shakes her head. “Sometimes I just go to break the routine. Edinburgh for a night, then Galloway. I haven’t decided on the rest, but I’ll probably head north.” She looks out the window, her reflection turning almost wistful. “Sometimes it’s nice not to have a plan.”
“Is it?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” she says, instantly. “Otherwise, you just start to move on autopilot.”
I think about this, tilting my head at her like I would at a tricky spreadsheet or a strange market change. “So you’re hoping to find yourself in the wilds of Scotland?”
She grins. “If I’m lucky, I’ll disappear entirely.”
It’s said as a joke, but her eyes linger on mine just a shade too long, hitting some unguarded part of me. I find the idea unspeakably appealing—not being watched, not being assessed, just existing without expectation. The thought burns through my composure, exposing something I’ve tried for years to keep hidden.
“Are you a runner?” I ask. “Or a hider?”
She thinks for a moment. “Neither. I just like places without people.” She nods at my laptop, now showing a black screensaver. “What about you? Be honest—are you running from a bad relationship?”
“Nothing so interesting. I just go wherever I feel like disappearing.” I nudge the window with a knuckle. “London didn’t stick. Maybe Scotland will.”
We watch each other, caught in the freedom that comes from being strangers with nothing to lose. With friends or coworkers, you fill the silence with small talk or updates. Here, there’s only quiet and anticipation.
She’s the first to break. “Have you ever actually been lost?” she asks.
“Not in years,” I say. “You?”
“I specialize in it,” she says, then sips her coffee, smiling into it.
The train speeds up, the wheels clicking in a steady rhythm that matches our conversation. Sunlight hits her cheekbone, making her look almost carved from glass and quiet longing.
We fall into silence again, but it feels comfortable and full of hope. She closes her laptop, sets it aside, and leans forward, her eyes full of questions.
“I’m Maya. Maya Banks.”
“Heath Cameron,” I say, reaching my hand across the table. She takes it; her skin is warm, her grip both firm and gentle. When her thumb brushes my palm, something electric passes between us and lingers even after she lets go.
