Page 77 of Memories of the Lost

It was a mean, dark trick, considering how much Krish knew about Liam’s struggle to learn how to have healthy relationships.

Liam didn’t know if he could forgive it. Or maybe he could forgive it, but he couldn’t forget. Which meant that Krish had to go. If that was so, how would the entire machine move forward?

And if it couldn’t, was Liam using this situation to dismantle something he’d grown weary of?

As he circled the room, listening and shaking hands and accepting the loving embrace of the people there, he set the puzzle on a back table of his mind. He made himself focus entirely on the moment, the people here, the offering he could make right here, right now.

But he would have to make some choices. Soon.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed. Walking away from a little crowd, he checked it. Not Tillie.

Not Tillie.

Not Tillie.

A thread of doubt shimmered in the midst of his certainty. Had he gotten it wrong? Was Krish right? Was this just a repeat of a pattern he’d been employing for decades?

He caught his friend’s eye across the room. Sober eyes. Knowing eyes. Until now, Liam had trusted him completely. He’d rescued Liam a half a dozen times, picking him up off the floor when he’d broken up with someone and gone on a bender, poured him into a shower and made him eat. The first time had been at age thirteen, when Belinda Tohu broke up with him after three months with no explanation. Thelast had been two years ago, when Melanie had grown tired of the demands of his career and decided she didn’t want to be a part of it. He’d believed they would marry, and the breakup made him question himself, his choices in women, his ability to be real.

“Liam?” a voice said behind him.

He turned to see a young man, scrubbed and well tended, in a kind of uniform of loose pants and a tight athletic top that showed off his physique. “Yes, hi,” Liam said automatically, and shook the extended hand.

“I’m Gregory Baker. Just wanted to meet you in person. I’ll be in the workshop tomorrow, but I’m really happy to just be able to talk to you in person. Which I guess I already said.”

Liam smiled. “Thanks.” He forced himself to put aside the internal whirl to focus outward, on the people who’d come here to meditate with him, explore their inner world this weekend. He owed them his focused attention. “It’s good to meet you. Tell me about yourself.”

As the man started talking, Liam felt a buzz from his phone. And forced himself not to answer it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

New York City

Back in her apartment, Tillie plugged in her phone, but it was so dead that it took a few minutes for it to go live. Relief flooded through her as the screen lit up at last. She gave it another couple of minutes and then opened the screen, relieved to see the number 13 by the messages. Two were from Jon, checking in on his trip. The rest were all from Liam.

2:15 p.m.—Landed. Didn’t sleep much last night, so jet-lagged as hell. Can’t wait to talk to you.

4:24 p.m.—Checked in to my hotel. Miss you. It’s a big suite, with a gorgeous tub. We could swim in it!

5:10 p.m.—Hoping to hear from you soon. Thinking it’s evening there, but I’ve been known to mix up time zones. Might not last a lot longer, but feel free to text. I’ll see it in the morning. Xoxo

5:45 p.m.I’m out, love. Hope you’re good. Business gets going in the morning at ten, which is insanely early there. Will be finished by around 5:00 p.m., then back at it for dinner at 7:00 p.m. But text me if you want. I’ll be glad to see it whenever it comes in.

She was both disappointed and relieved—wretched that she hadn’t been able to talk to him, but relieved that he’d texted. She checked theworld clock and saw that it was 1:00 a.m. in London, but taking him at his word, she texted:Sorry! Wasn’t ignoring you! I know it sounds lame, but I actually lost my phone! At five London time, it’s noon here, so we should be good. LMK when you’re free, and we can video chat! (And that’s as many exclamation points as I’m allowed, I think.)

She sent it, and then it felt like not enough, so she took a breath for courage and typed:I miss you, too. A lot!! :)

And then she left her phone to charge and started walking circles around the studio. She wondered how to get herself back to herself.

There was really only one answer. She climbed into her painting clothes, turned on some decidedly unromantic music, and focused on painting. Not the angel but the gazelle girl. The painting was strong, and it absorbed her deeply—in a flow way, not a fugue way. She felt stable enough to allow herself to get lost in the colors and the music and the flow of justmaking.

When her shoulders and arms started to protest, she lined up the rest of the paintings side by side to figure out what might be next, what would help round out the series. It was unlike her to be stuck—there were usually more ideas in her mind than she could possibly capture on canvas—but she just wasn’t seeing what the final three paintings should be. Actually, two, because one would obviously be the cat.

Across the worktables, she spread out charcoal drawings she’d made of the cat, and chose two of the strongest to pin to the bulletin boards. Using thick pastels, she sketched him again, one sleepy, one frisky, and one with the girl on his back, a basis for the actual painting, which she would work on tomorrow.

It reminded her of the cat Winnie said she’d painted in school. Picking up her phone, she texted Jon:Do you remember a cat painting I did the year I had my breakdown?

She put the phone down and looked at the paintings. What else?