Chapter 4 Heath
Heath
There aren’t many 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 holds her 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.
“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.
When she pulls her hand away, she almost blushes.
I can’t tell if it’s from the handshake or because she’s noticed something about me she can’t ignore.
’re both New Yorkers,” she says. “Both travelers. Both today’s only company.
” She stacks her hands, flattening them, then looks back at me.
“I don’t mean to be forward so early in the journey, but I have one question. ”
She waits for me to give her the go-ahead.
I nod, sensing the edge coming.
“Were you following me?”
I consider lying. The smart move would be to change the subject and let her think it was all chance. But I want her to see me, and I want her to know I want to see her too.
“What if I was?” I say.
She raises an eyebrow, a quiet dare. “Then I’d want to know why.”
I lean forward, folding my hands in front of me, and say, “You got under my skin last week. You looked at me like you were looking through me. I’ve spent most of my life being the one who does that, not the one it’s done to.
I saw you on the BBC yesterday and heard you were traveling to Scotland.
Coincidentally, so was I. I changed my plans to leave today because I wanted to see if you were real. ”
She stares at me, and in that instant, I can see her recalibrating. The very edges of her mouth crease downward, soft and a little suspicious.
“Blair would say that’s classic New York narcissism,” she says, but her tone is softer now.
“Who’s Blair?”
“My best friend, who cares way too much about my love life.” She grins, making fun of herself, as if she thinks that might scare me off. “She’d have a field day with you.”
She laughs, takes a pack of gum from her bag, and offers me a piece. “That’s the trouble with trains. Nowhere to go when the weirdos show up.”
I accept a piece, the slide of foil against skin briefly electrifying.
“I could move to another car,” I offer, deadpan.
“You’d lose your shot at total transparency,” she fires back. “You might even have to revert to being mysterious, which I’m guessing isn’t your strong suit.”
I let that settle. She’s not wrong. I don’t do mysterious.
I’m an open book, with pages dog-eared and smudged by every analyst or investor who’s taken the time to read.
I watch her consider the possibilities—danger, seduction, companionship, or something less legible—and decide I’m worth the gamble.
We ride in tandem like that for fifty more miles, trading observations, confessions, the occasional dig.
She tells me about the dead weight of deadlines, the artificial cheer demanded by editors who want hot takes on cold towns.
She tells me about falling out of a perfectly good airplane over New Zealand, getting lost in Tangier, and getting found in Tangier by an elderly couple who fed her lentils seasoned with cinnamon and stories.
She talks about Dublin and Dubrovnik, about a night in Reykjavik where she lost three hours and woke up in a stranger’s parka.
“No regrets,” she says, “except maybe the parka.”
I tell her about business deals, the year I spent in Mumbai, and the summer in Berlin when I survived on cigarettes and currywurst while working through endless spreadsheets.
I talk about my mother, who taught me to find flaws, and my father, who taught me to always be ready for bad news.
We both act like we don’t notice how bare our stories sound, sitting here as the train rattles into another country.
Lunch arrives: smoked salmon, a lukewarm salad, and tart apple cider that burns as I swallow. We eat like soldiers in a foxhole, aware of every bite and every sound of our forks.
By noon, she leans her head against the window.
Her eyelashes cast pale shadows on her skin.
The train rocks gently, and I imagine us both leaving parts of ourselves behind as we travel.
There’s a German word for missing a place you’ve never seen.
Whatever it is, it hangs between us, heavy and uncertain.
When she finally speaks again, her voice is so soft it nearly disappears under the sound of the train. “Are you going to follow me to Galloway?”
Two weeks ago, I would have said no without thinking. But after looking into her pale blue eyes and seeing so much there, I feel like I could follow her anywhere. “Yeah, I think I will.”