Page 37

IF YOU CAN’T TAKE THE HEAT

LINCOLN CENTER IN the evening—pink light hitting the white stone across the plaza, flickering across the fountain, anointing the theatergoers dressed in sequins and silks, in thick suits and the air of cultural condescension, their costumes as elaborate as the performers’—was like traveling back, witnessing a time that used to be. Another era that, if not entirely dead, was teetering dangerously in that valley between shadow and death.

Konstantin was teetering, too. Balanced on the edge of the fountain, waiting for Maura, drinking an extremely overpriced espresso and trying not to get his new suit (courtesy of Viktor’s stylist) wet in the spray.

He’d planned a special night out, a big, fancy evening to sweep her off her feet. He’d gotten tickets to Matsukaze (standing room, and in Japanese, and he hated opera, but Maura had been dropping hints about the ghost sisters plot for close to a month), followed by drinks at The Smith (touristy, but part of the whole theater routine), and an evening stroll through Central Park (always a winner), the ideal place for a deep conversation, a romantic encounter, the perfect way—the evening softened by champagne and music and elegance—to finally tell her that he loved her.

He wasn’t sure why this particular confession felt so difficult for him. Especially now that he’d announced his clairgustance—his closely guarded secret of twenty years— to the entire world. Not to mention that, compared to ghost tasting, loving someone was basic stuff. The kind of thing people experienced all the time! And still, the mere thought of saying those three words to Maura dredged Kostya in cold, sticky sweat.

Would she smile politely, then say something soul crushing in return, like aww or thank you or that’s so sweet ? Would she just rush in— oh yeah, me too!— without so much as a thought, a perfunctory exchange no more meaningful than adding fries with that? Would she go the opposite direction and tell him he was rushing things, his feelings completely out of sync with her own? Or, worst of all, would she say it back— I love you, Konstantin— in a way he’d believe, that felt real, but then not actually mean it?

Kostya didn’t know if he could handle that kind of blow.

He was deeply in love with her. Truly. Madly. A kind of love he’d never dared fathom. It hadn’t happened in an instant—a flash in the pan, quick sear, raw within—but over time, his initial wallop of attraction so thin and bland beside the concentrated feeling that consumed him now, this love that had simmered slowly, sauce marrying over long, low heat.

Maura with the tarot, shuffling his cards, dashing his dreams, telling him to quit in a way that only drove him to think about her: the tartness of tomato, stewing over flame .

Maura in the dark, pulling down his mask, kissing him in the stairwell of that strange immersion theater: the heat of hot pepper flakes .

Maura in his bed, in his T-shirt, eating grilled cheese in the middle of the night, feeding it to him, crumbs on the comforter, her fingers in his mouth: the sweet emulsion of butter .

Maura arguing with him, one hand on her hip, pissed the hell off: basil, torn .

Maura working through a problem, her forehead furrowed, eyes in such sharp focus: the concentration of tomato paste .

Maura walking into a room, the air shifting, his eyes finding hers: garlic, caramelized .

Maura when she said his name, when she whispered it, when she traced it into his shoulder, gasped it, screamed it, held it in her mouth like a secret: pepper—red and black and white—grinding in a mill .

Maura in the world, living with so much life, so much yearning, so much hunger, that all he ever wanted to do was feed her, satisfy her, love her, make her feel as full as she made him: streams of salt and salt and salt .

It had all stirred together inside him until there it was—love—and everything else he’d ever tried just fell away, tasteless.

Hence the opera and the uncomfortable shoes and the anxious scanning of the crowd to see if she’d arrived.

When he finally saw her, every other person in that plaza seemed to vanish, his gaze tunneling toward her, the way she looked getting out of the cab, pulling a stray strand of violet hair away from her face, crossing the sidewalk in this unbelievable dress. Having no idea how beautiful she looked.

She started up the ivory stairs—layers of pale lavender tulle floating around her, a long skirt she had gathered in front—like a living confection, a cotton candy dream. The crowd milled, smoking final cigarettes, taking selfies. He was grinning, and when she caught his gaze she beamed back, mouthed, Hey, Chef. A taxi honked and a dozen birds flew overhead. He was making his way toward her across the square, rounding the fountain, snaking past theatergoers. A wind kicked up in the courtyard, unseasonably cold, and as it ruffled the fabric of her dress he saw her stumble, not just her feet but all of her. His heart began to pound and he moved faster, something clearly not right, clearly very, very wrong. And then he saw it—the stutter in her eyes like they were going dark, the same way they had that first night in her bed.

He sprinted down the stairs to catch her as she crumbled.

Instead of a night at the opera, they spent the evening in the ER.

In a moment of adrenaline-sponsored heroism (or rash bravado, depending how you looked at it), he’d scooped her into his arms and sprinted three blocks south to Mount Sinai West, screaming at pedestrians to get out of his way.

“God, please,” he panted as he ran. “Wake up, Maura! Wake up!”

She weighed barely anything, like a bird, all fluff and feather and frail bone beneath. She wouldn’t open her eyes. He was terrified of letting her go, his whole body numb as they wheeled her into the ER and out of sight.

He worried a hole in the lining of his pocket, anxiety manifesting in his fingertips. He tried to get tea from a waiting area vending machine, his normally steady hands—hands that sliced things with sharp knives for a living—trembling so badly he spilled scalding water all over himself. He was reading and rereading the same sentence of a magazine, none of the words coherent, when a nurse came to inform him that Maura was conscious.

SEEING HER IN the hospital bed—a paper gown replacing her dress, an IV braceleting her wrist, the little oxygen tubes dipping into her nose—undid him.

“But what happened?” he asked her again and again. “What do you remember?”

She didn’t have an answer.

The doctors said she had probably fainted. Her glucose levels had been low when he’d brought her in, and it was possible her blood pressure had dipped, and they’d said something about testing her inner ear for vertigo blah blah blah blah blah , but none of them had paid any attention to what Kostya had told them, what he’d shouted as they hovered around her, about the way her eyes had just blinked off, not unconscious but dead.

It had scared the hell out of him.

He held her hand on the thin hospital blanket, tracing his thumb over her fingers, along her wrist, over the old scar tissue there, one of the many things about Maura he still didn’t know, had been too afraid to ask.

“Listen,” he told her, “if there’s something wrong—you can tell me, okay?”

She stiffened.

“I just fainted, Stan. It’s embarrassing. But that’s all it was.”

“Yeah.” He swallowed. “You said that. Except, I—” He frowned at her. “Maura, I’ve seen you do that before. That little—like a little death.”

“ What? When?”

He shrugged. “That first night at your place. A few other times we slept together. Your eyes just go… empty.”

“Maybe you’re just that good.”

“Stop deflecting? Please?”

She looked away, at the hospital monitor, the peaks and valleys of her heart rate, the gentle drip of the saline bag.

“Maur?” he tried again. “I need you to tell me what’s going on.”

She shook her head, strained on a smile. “It’s nothing. You don’t have to worry, okay? I can handle it.”

“Yeah?” He traced her wrist again, the puckered skin, the scars she’d put there. “Then tell me about these. A time when I’m guessing you couldn’t handle it?”

She snatched her hand away. “Those are from a long time ago.”

“No. Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out.” He shifted closer to her, leaning in, as if he could bridge the gap between them all by himself. “I saw something happen to you tonight. I carried you into an emergency room thinking you might die in my arms. I watched a bunch of doctors take you through a swinging door, without any certainty that you were coming back. And I’m still here. I will always be here. But I deserve the truth.”

Maura took a breath. Nodded.

“When this happened,” she said at last, “all I wanted was to die. Things had gotten so out of hand that it felt like my only choice. But now? I’m not that person anymore. I want to live, Stan. I fight every day to make sure I do.”

“What things? Fight what ?”

She stared at the IV entering her vein, the way it bulged the scarred skin. Something had happened to her. Something that was maybe still happening.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine,” Kostya said, setting his jaw. “Then let’s talk about the Reese’s.”

She looked up at him. Deer. Headlights. “The Reese’s?”

He nodded. “I’ve been tasting them again. A lot. Even though I already brought Everleigh back.”

She was breathing fast now, one of the little sensors attached to her beginning to beep.

“You never told me.”

“Because when I raised her you were—I don’t know—weird? Secretive? You didn’t exactly jump at the chance when I first offered, and when you finally did come around, you sent me away.” He could feel it all coming up, vomiting out of him. All these thoughts he’d had for weeks, had shoved down out of respect, a desire to wait till Maura was ready to share. But he couldn’t wait anymore. “Which, okay, I get you needed privacy, but then you never brought it up again! You never told me what you talked about, or if you even got closure. I didn’t want to pry, but—God, Maura, not a word? And you said she’d had issues. That she lived with darkness ? And now I keep tasting her, which hasn’t happened with any of the other ghosts, and you’ve got those scars, and mysterious things from your past, and there’s all these moments when you’re, what? Dead? Dying? Jesus, is she haunting you? Is she”—his voice broke—“ hurting you? Whatever it is—let me help you. Please. ”

Something cold flashed in her eyes. Hard. A wall, slamming back in place.

“Look, Stan,” she said slowly, “what happened is between me and Ev. No one else. That conversation—seeing her again—it’s private. I haven’t asked you—not once!—why you haven’t brought your father back. Because I trust you to handle your grief. And I need you to trust me.”

“But it’s not the same thing! She’s doing something to you!”

“No.” Maura shook her head. “This isn’t Everleigh.”

“Then what is it?”

She gazed out the window, her eyes shining, face resigned, and shrugged.

“You heard the doctors. It could be a lot of things.”

“But you have no idea? None at all?”

She shook her head again.

And Kostya was about to press, to dig further, when he got his own answer. A puff of air in the back of his throat, the flavors warm and unwelcome as they flooded his mouth.

Chocolate and peanut butter, the edge of the cup dented. Like always.

Her sister, right there in the room. Restless. Hungry. Contradicting everything Maura had said.