She gives me a dry look and darts away, presumably to turn our food order in. She’s back within a minute with a bottle of wine and she settles into the chair across from me. The candlelight flickering on our table casts a soft light onto her face.
“Wine?” she asks as she pours me a glass of red. I nod, which is good, because she’s already pouring.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”
I glance out the windows, at the lake that is calm and dark in the night. Mila follows my gaze.
“I love the lake,” she tells me quietly. “I know that most of us do that live here, but I really love it. It’s so comforting. It’s always the same no matter what else changes in my life.”
I have to stare at her, because I feel exactly the same way. It’s one of the reasons that I choose to live here, perched on the very edge of it. The lake symbolizes continuity to me. And it is comforting.
Mila stares at me, her gaze pensive. I notice now that her eyes are the softest shade of green, almost like jade.
“Tell me about yourself,” she instructs softly as she sips from her wine. Her fingers almost stroke the wine glass and I find that I am jealous of it. I also notice that she’s wearing a deep red ring on her middle finger that is the exact shade of the wine. I take a breath.
“Well, my name is Pax Alexander Tate. You know where I live now, but you probably don’t know that I grew up in Connecticut and we moved to Chicago when I was seven. My father is still there. He’s an attorney downtown. But I moved here a few years back. I love the lake, just like you. I love the peace and quiet and the solitude. I’m not the most social person, and I knew that people in lake towns are used to leaving other people alone. Locals know that sometimes people come here for exactly that reason—to be alone, away from the noise of the city. That’s why I chose to move to Angel Bay.”
Mila smiles encouragingly, as if she knows how hard it is for me to talk about myself. And honestly, I don’t know why it is. What I’m doing right now is just rattling off facts. It’s not like I’m getting into anything deeply personal.
“What about your mom?” she asks curiously. “Are your parents divorced? Is that why you moved to Chicago?”
And now we’re in deeply personal territory. I inhale again and realize that my hand is clenched tightly against my thigh. I relax my fingers. This is just a conversation. No big deal.
“My mom died years ago. When I was seven. My dad and I moved to Chicago to get away from the memories.”
Mila freezes, her gorgeous green eyes glued to mine.
“I’m…I… I didn’t know that,” she finally stammers. “I’m really sorry. You didn’t say anything earlier at the hospital when I told you about my parents.”
I stare at her. “I know. I don’t usually talk about it.”
“Was she sick?” Mila asks. “Did you have a chance to say goodbye? I think that was the worst thing about my parents’ deaths. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. It was so sudden. So shocking. The shock of it was the worst.”
I try to think back to when my mom died, and like always, I draw a big blank. The only thing I ever see when I try to think on it is a bunch of vague whiteness. No memories.
“Do you ever remember things by colors?” I ask her off-handedly. “See, because I was so young, I apparently blocked all the memories of my mother’s death. She died suddenly, also in a car crash, like your parents. But I can’t remember anything about it. When I think about it, all I see is a big whiteness, like a blank screen, almost.”
Mila seems shocked. “I do that too,” she whispers. “I associate colors with pretty much everything. I think it’s because I’m an artist. I paint for a living, so I naturally see things in paint. I don’t know how to explain you, though.”
I smile. “No one knows how to explain me,” I tell her wryly.
“So, you were a little boy when your mom died,” Mila says slowly. “That must have been horrible for you. No wonder you suppressed the memories. How did your dad handle it? Do you have any other family?”
Normally, I would be put off by someone probing into my personal life. But I know that Mila doesn’t mean any harm. I think she’s just trying to figure me out, to see what makes me tick. I almost laugh, because that’s pretty impossible to do, I think.
“I was a little boy,” I confirm. “And I think it probably was horrible. But like I said, I pretty much don’t have any memories of it at all. I don’t remember much until I turned nine or so. My old therapist, the one I had when I was a kid, said that it was my brain’s way of protecting itself from the trauma. My dad didn’t handle it well, either. It’s one of the reasons that we moved away. He’s never been the same. My mom took a little piece of him when she died. And no. I don’t have any family other than him. My grandfather, my mother’s father, is still alive. But he was pretty pissed when we moved and stopped talking to me. He runs an oil company, which is how I make my living. I inherited my mother’s shares.”
And just like that, I’ve shared more with Mila than I’ve shared with anyone in a long time. I guess I really hadn’t realized how secluded I’ve become until this moment. It’s pretty sad. I’ve never really had a use for anyone else. Until now.
I stare at Mila.
“So, now you have my life’s story. What about you? I know your parents died. What else is there to know about you?”
I reach for the bottle of wine and fill our glasses up again. I have a feeling that we’ll both need it by the time the evening is out. I glance around and find that the restaurant has pretty much cleared out, except for some clattering in the kitchen.
“Well, I’m still fascinated by the fact that we have more in common that I had thought,” Mila admits, her cheeks flushed from the wine.
“Yeah, we belong to an elite club,” I roll my eyes. “We know what it’s like to lose a parent at a young age. Lucky us.”