Page 110 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me

She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. “Why are you here, Gabriel?”

“I’m here to see you and to see your art.”

“You never returned my calls.”

She must have been referring to the messages she left when I was out.One daybefore the local deputy slapped a manila envelope against my chest and crowed, “You’ve been served.” He’d gloated like he got a real kick out of it. As if he’d been waiting his whole life for that special task.

“Have you signed the papers yet?” She looked me up and down, searching, as if she expected me to produce them on the spot, signed, sealed, and delivered.

“Nope.” My gaze lowered to her ring finger. It was bare. I looked more closely at the canvas on the wall. They weren’t cherries in the snow; they were rubies. “Did you stab the canvas?”

She nodded. “Thirteen times.”

“You can’t kill a ghost, Cleo. It’s just the lingering spirit of someone who’s already dead.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “I wasn’t trying to kill it. I was just trying to be free of it.”

Free ofme. I rubbed my hand over my chest, trying to ease the ache that wouldn’t subside.

A few months ago, I went to the doctor, convinced I had a heart problem. Another ticking bomb just waiting to go off. After running all the tests, the doctor confirmed that my heart was strong and healthy, no cause for concern. But it didn’t feel that way to me.

So I came up with my own non-medical diagnosis: my heart remembered Cleo even though my brain didn’t.

This strange phenomenon, an intense longing for someone I barely knew, hadn’t happened overnight. It grew gradually. First, when I found my way back to music, a lost piece of myself. Then, when the dreams started…

“And how did that go? Did you banish the ghost?”

She opened her mouth to speak but I never got to hear her answer.

“Hi. Sorry to interrupt, but can I have your autograph?” The girl with pink hair gave me an apologetic smile as she thrust a program and a pen into my hand.

Did I have a choice? Sure. But I didn’t want to be a dick about it, so I scrawled my name across the front on a slant. The S at the end of my name kissed the N at the end of Cleo Babington.

“Thanks so much,” she said when I handed it back to her. “Would you mind signing one for my boyfriend too? He was too shy to ask.”

By the time I finished signing autographs and posing for a photo with the girl and her shy boyfriend, Cleo was gone.

I spotted her talking to a group in the back of the gallery, so I slipped out the front door, undetected.

Thirty minutes later, after the show had ended and the crowd had dispersed, I was leaning against a brick wall, hidden in the shadows. When Greer and Cleo walked out of the gallery, I crossed the street and joined them by the front door while Greer locked up.

“You again,” Cleo said with a sigh.

“How about dinner?”

She gestured to Greer. “We already have dinner plans.”

“I’m going to take a rain check,” Greer said, stashing the keys in her tote bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “I’m sure you two have plenty to catch up on.”

Before Cleo could protest, Greer hailed a taxi and hopped in, leaving us alone.

“Looks like you’re free.” I clapped my hands together. “What are you hungry for?”

Cleo pressed her lips together and planted her hands on her hips. “No. You can’t just show up at my opening night uninvited and expect me to drop everything to have dinner with you.” She stabbed her finger at me. “You don’t get to do this to me. Not after....” Cleo sucked in a breath and shook her head then turned on her heel and hurried away like she couldn’t get away fast enough.

I debated for all of thirty seconds before chasing after her. If she really wanted to get away from me, she would have taken a taxi. I caught up to her outside a retro diner on 22nd Street and put my hand on her arm to stop her from running.

A car sped past, windows down, music blasting. Tupac’s “Holler If Ya Hear Me.”