Chapter 17 Maya
Maya
Two Weeks Later, NYC
Manhattan sparkles like a diamond. Taxis, billboards, and apartment windows light up in electric patterns. After so much time away, coming back feels like wearing borrowed clothes.
Mother's Upper East Side brownstone stands tall, its glass entry fogged by her nervous energy and the humidity from her many plants. Every umbrella is packed into a plastic holder, pointless under today’s perfect sky. I step inside, already feeling split between who I was and who I am now.
Inside, Blair’s hair is bright as fire, her face twisted with anticipation. She taps a polished nail on the marble aperitif cart while Mother circles me, looking sharp and watchful. The scent of her perfume, Chanel mixed with a hint of something burnt, reaches me before her hug does.
“My darling girl!” She smothers my cheeks in kisses as if she’s the only person with the authority to bless my pores.
Her eyes, blue and not unlike my own, scan me for signs of disease or men.
“You look thin,” she says, before I can even lie about eating.
“And artistically windblown. Have you been in a cyclone?”
Blair, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, says, “Close. She’s been canoodling with her very own Heathcliff in the wilds of Scotland. Only with fewer murders and more travel insurance. I’ve hardly seen her since she returned four days ago. I’ve been replaced.”
Mother’s eyebrows vault. “Heathcliff?”
“Not his actual name,” I say, though it almost is. “Heath Cameron. He’ll be here in… twenty minutes?” My mouth says it like a threat. “He’s meeting us for lunch.”
Mother nods, lips pulled up in a tentative smile. “Isn’t that nice. I do hope he enjoys salmon.”
“Do you want me to set out the sherry?” Blair asks, because she knows the answer is yes, and because she needs something to do with her hands.
In the kitchen, my mother’s cook, Sonya, is making the world’s most punitive chopped salad, dicing radish and celery into uniform cubes with the efficiency of a Soviet clockmaker.
My mother likes to call her ‘our culinary guardian angel,’ as if Sonya is the only barrier between us and death by carbs.
Mother, suddenly remembering propriety, fixes her hair and claps once for attention. “So! How was Scotland? Did you see the Loch Ness Monster?”
Blair says, “She did. Only he’s American, and six-five, and apparently phenomenal in bed.”
I nearly inhale a crouton. “Blair.”
“What? You said you wanted to get ahead of the rumors.” She pops an olive in her mouth.
Mother’s eyes latch onto mine, question marks dialed to eleven. “So, this… Mr. Cameron. Is it very serious?”
I don’t know how to answer. My mind jumps around.
What does 'serious' even mean now? Heath isn’t just a possibility; he’s here, real.
I keep thinking about how he knows the most personal, even embarrassing, things about me.
That truth runs through me, but Blair’s stare makes me cautious.
I can feel her waiting for me to slip up.
“It’s…” I start, hesitating. I want to be honest—I’m moving in with him tomorrow. I want to say how nervous and excited I am, how strange it feels to imagine sharing daily life with someone. But I can already see my mother’s shock, and I feel panic rising in my chest.
“Very. It’s very serious.”
Mother makes a slow, punctuated sound, then collects herself. “Darling, you’ve always been so… independent. Are you sure—”
“She’s sure,” Blair says, in the tone of someone who has already planned the bachelorette party.
I smile, but my stomach is tight with dread. “We’re taking it slow,” I lie, realizing that in this family, even lies need to be specific.
There is a knock at the vestibule, precise as a heartbeat. Through the glass, I see a silhouette, backlit by afternoon sun. Tall, dark, architectural. Blair whistles a low, appreciative note. “Speak of the devil.”
Mother puts on her best hostess smile, and we walk to the parlor together.
Heath comes in, and for a moment, he doesn’t seem quite real.
He’s wearing a blue shirt and slacks, his hair mostly neat, and an expensive watch on his wrist. For a second, he looks like the most handsome man in the city, and I stop listening to everyone else because he’s giving me that private smile that promises we’ll have time alone later.
Mother offers her hand. “Cecilia Banks,” she says, with the regal ‘Banks’ pitched to ensure he knows I descend from old money and even older disappointment. “Welcome, Heath.”
Heath’s handshake is gentle. “Thank you for having me. Maya’s told me a lot about you.”
“I hope the good things outweighed the—” she begins, but Heath cuts her off, a diplomatic ninja.
“All good things,” he says, eyes flicking to me. “Your daughter is the best storyteller I’ve ever met.”
Blair snorts something that wants to be a laugh, but also maybe a snarl. “That is true. She’s also the best liar.”
Heath’s mouth twitches, not quite smiling. “I think the best storytellers usually are.”
Mother claps her hands again, embarrassed by her own delight. “Well, come sit. You’re just in time for—oh, Sonya, would you bring in the canapés?”
We move to the living room, where the mid-century furniture is carefully arranged. Heath sits in the armchair, looking relaxed and confident. Blair and I sit on the sofa, and Mother sits across from us, studying him closely.
Sonya comes in with a tray full of smoked fish, small quiches, and something tiny and carefully made. She sets it down and leaves, glancing at me with a quick nod that feels like a silent ‘good luck.’
“So, Heath,” Mother says, extracting a segment of cucumber, “what is it you do? Maya said you were in… tech?”
Heath tilts his head, as if the question amuses him.
“I used to work in tech. I retired last year, but now I mostly develop travel apps.” He reaches for a quiche, but doesn’t eat it.
“I’m trying to create something with a lower ecological footprint, so travel isn’t just for people who can afford to ignore climate change.
” He glances at me, and I wonder if he’s posturing, then decide he’s just… truthful.
Blair, arms folded, says, “So you’re some kind of eco-entrepreneur?”
Heath shrugs. “That’s generous. I’m mostly obsessed with logistics. I like the idea of getting people from one place to another as efficiently as possible.”
Mother, nodding approvingly, says, “Isn’t that clever. I’ve always thought the airlines could do with a little disruption.” She leans forward. “Do you travel for pleasure, or just for work?”
Heath looks at me so directly that I am forced to meet his gaze. “Mostly for pleasure, lately. Scotland was…” He pauses, and the pause is heavy, freighted with that neolithic gravity still clinging to us. “Transformative.”
Blair is not impressed. “You know, Maya’s never brought a man to this house before. She used to say it was ‘too loaded’—”
Heath, smiling now, says, “I’m honored to be the first.”
I want to die, or at least melt. Mother saves me: “Blair, would you help me with the wine?”
They sweep out of the room in a cloud of sisterly collusion, leaving me and Heath in the chilled silence. He leans over, hand on my knee, voice low.
“How am I doing?”
“Perfect,” I whisper. “You’ve already outperformed every expectation.”
“Your mother makes me nervous,” he says. “I respect that.”
“She’s gone easy on you. Wait for dessert.”
The girls return with a bottle of Sancerre and four glasses.
We toast to “unexpected encounters,” Blair’s idea, and to “sustainability,” which I think is a dig at Heath, but he doesn’t flinch.
Conversation swerves from politics to art to the concept of soulmates, which Mother introduces with her usual, “I don’t believe in such things, but—”
Blair cuts in. “I think you do, actually. You just refuse to believe anyone could be good enough for Maya.” Her tone is joking, but there’s a sliver of heat in it.
Mother sniffs, “I want her to be happy, and I want her to be safe. Is that so unreasonable?”
Heath, unexpectedly, takes my hand on top of the coffee table. “I want the same thing,” he says, so quietly it could be a prayer.
Mother studies me. “Well, Maya? Are you?”
I look at him. I look at my mother. I look at Blair, who is pretending not to listen, which means she is listening harder than anyone on earth.
“I am,” I say, and it’s so nakedly true that Blair’s mouth opens and then closes. Mother’s eyes go glassy, then she laughs, swift and sharp, and pours more wine.
Lunch passes in a rush of flavors and stories.
Heath tells how he was once stopped at Heathrow because his last name matched someone on a watch list, and Blair almost spits out her wine.
I tell the story of the Orkney standoff, when a sheep hit our rental car and Heath convinced the farmer not to sue.
Each time I tell it, Heath seems taller and the sheep seems bigger.
Sonya brings in the salmon, and for a while, all we hear are forks and the quiet sounds from the street outside.
I notice Blair watching me and Heath, seeing how our chairs lean together and how our fingers touch under the table. She blinks, realizing something she wasn’t prepared for.
After the granita, the plates are cleared and Mother makes a show of sighing, “I ought to let you two get on with your day.” She means, “I’ve interrogated you enough.” Blair stands to help, but I follow her, squeezing her hand in the hallway.
“You okay?” I ask, searching her face for signs of defection.
She nods, eyes brighter than usual. “I’m trying to adjust my expectations, that's all. I thought you’d never—” She breaks off, shakes her head. “I’ll get used to it. I want to.”
I pull her in for a lopsided hug, feeling the bones of her back. “You’re my girl. You know that.”
Blair whispers, “I like him. I do.” But her voice is brittle, a snowflake that could shatter. “It’s just—he’s so much.”
“He is a lot,” I admit, then smile. “Did you see Mom try to seduce him with canapés?”
“I did,” she says, and then, “Don’t let him change you.”
I want to promise her, but I don’t. I just say, “Come visit us. Come over anytime.”
Heath and I walk west, arm-in-arm, between rows of brownstones. My shoes are too tight, but I feel happy. Every few steps, he pulls me closer, as if he’s afraid I might disappear into the crowd.
He’s quiet until we hit the park, then says, “Your friend is very… formidable.”
“She loves me in a weird, invasive way.”
He grunts. “I can see that.”
We sit on a bench in the nearly empty promenade. The city lights shine, distant and beautiful. He turns to me, our fingers laced together.
"I love you, Maya," he says, his voice rough enough to make my skin tingle.
"I've been searching for you across lifetimes.
" He holds my hand so tightly I can feel my pulse against his palm.
"I would walk through fire. I have walked through fire to find you again.
" He kisses the inside of my wrist, his eyes locked on mine, full of longing.
"There is no test I won't endure, no battle I won't fight.
You are mine. You have always been mine. "
I press his hand to my lips, breathing in his scent. "I love you," I whisper, my voice shaking. "Is this real? It feels like I’ve been underwater for years and finally come up for air."
Heath's mouth finds mine, desperate and consuming. When he pulls away, his eyes burn with an intensity that scorches through me. "This is the realest thing I've ever known," he says, voice raw. "And long overdue."