Page 5 of Past Lives
Inside, the house is quiet and cold, filled with the smell of unfamiliar cleaning products and something herbal, maybe sage. My publisher won’t be here for another two hours, so I go to the guest room, drop my suitcase, and take off my boots.
I find myself at a window, staring out at the wet garden and the silent, expectant street.
It’s too early for nerves, but I have them anyway.
I pour myself coffee in the shared kitchen and sit at the table, legs tucked under, trying to breathe through the heavy jet lag. I open my book again, but the words fade in and out, replaced bymemories from last night and the week before: Blair’s laughter, city lights blurring past a cab window, and the stranger at the bar who watched me like we were having a private conversation I couldn’t quite hear.
I close my eyes until the world swims and resolve to try harder, to say yes at least once.
And if a man with haunted eyes and a cold voice finds me at a party, in a bar, or even in an old Scottish ruin, I promise myself I’ll let the conversation happen, even if it only leads to another dream.
Chapter 4
Heath
There aren’tmany things I hate more than rain in London. Diplomatic summits, cheap gin, and the color mauve make the short list. Here, the rain never comes straight at you. It spits, mists, and seeps in, pooling between the cobblestones and sneaking behind your collar, as sly as a Wall Street analyst skimming quarterlies. By the time I reach the marble lobby of the Savoy, water has darkened my trouser cuffs and the shoulders of my coat, and my hair curls at the edges. I probably look like a corporate Dracula, in need of a valet and maybe an exorcist.
My suite comes with bourbon, black granite, and an onyx bowl of figs. I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and look out the window at the city. The river is smug and brown, and history seems to hum through the building. The silence here is made for people who like their privacy and distance. The world feels far away, and I prefer it that way.
I’m halfway through taking off my wet shirt when my phone buzzes. It’s a familiar Chicago number—my partner in the States, Eisenberg.
“Albert,” I say, putting the call on speaker as I pace. The Savoy carpet feels soft and damp under my feet.
“Heath. You’re late. I don’t give a damn about the time difference. Where are we with Juniper’s pilot rollout?”
I let Eisenberg talk about revenue projections and acquisition plans. There’s something comforting in the routine: the sound of keys, the straightforward business talk. He’s all numbers, not interested in London, my mother, or what I eat.
I answer him, keeping my voice steady, but my thoughts drift. Last week, in some bar without a name, I saw a woman who felt like a ghost. She had secrets in her smile, hair that caught the light, and eyes that seemed to see right through me. I’m used to seeing through people, but for the time it took to finish a scotch, she saw through me instead.
While Eisenberg keeps talking, I pick up the TV remote, hoping for some background noise to drown him out. The hotel’s satellite feed shows the usual: politicians in sharp focus, fashion hosts in perfect outfits, and drone shots of the Thames. One channel has a travel show, with retro suitcases and decorative lights meant to look stylish.
The camera closes in on the host, whose tan looks unnatural and whose teeth seem too large for his face. “Next up,” he says, “we hear from trailblazing travel writer, Maya Banks, whose unconventional guides to the British Isles?—”
It’s her.
I almost drop the phone.
Eisenberg keeps talking, unaware, but I mute him. The screen splits, and there she is—my ghost—sitting in a vintage chair with her knees tucked up. Her hair is darker than I remembered, falling in loose waves. She looks nervous, but completely in control.
Her voice is calm and steady, making ordinary things sound almost magical. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, forgetting my bourbon as she smoothly steers the conversation away from the host’s awkwardness, like a sailor catching the wind.
“Don’t you ever get lonely?” the host asks, with the fake sympathy of a man who’s never dined alone.
Maya flicks her eyes sideways, lips curling up. “Lonely is a word people use to explain the spaces in themselves. I like my space,” she says, “and if there are empty corners, I fill them with new places or people or stories. The world is enormous. When I’m bored with myself, I just find a new vantage point.”
My chest tightens with a sharp, unfamiliar ache. I’ve spent my life keeping people at a distance, but now, for the first time in years, I want someone to notice me—her. I want to matter, to be seen, even if it’s just for a moment. The feeling surprises me, mixing hope and fear in a way I haven’t felt before.
She mentions she’ll be traveling to Scotland next. A train, the old route north, “the one the Victorians built so they could run away from their own mistakes.” She laughs softly. “If you see me, say hi. I’m good with strangers. Sometimes better than with friends.”
I’m not someone who usually chases after people. But before the segment ends, I text an old contact who owes me a favor. Ten minutes later, I have Maya’s itinerary and her latest travel guide.
I excuse myself, put on my coat, and walk through the city until the rain soaks me all over again.
The next morning, the train to Scotland smells like espresso, polished wood, and a hint of money. First class feels separate from the noisy cars behind. I walk through the carriage, ignoring the surprised looks from other passengers, and sit across from Maya Banks.
She looks smaller than I remembered, almost hidden in a turtleneck the color of wet ash. Her laptop is open, and she holdsher coffee in delicate hands. Up close, her eyes are pale blue, not the gray I expected, and they look tired—maybe from her work or from traveling so much.
She doesn’t look up, not immediately. I fish out my own laptop, feigning disinterest, but she glances up eventually, catching me watching her reflection in the window rather than staring straight. She studies me with the kind of amusement reserved for street performers or ventriloquist dummies.
