Page 143 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me

She quickly turned and walked inside.

With a sigh, I set down my guitar and followed her.

The table on the deck was set for two with a big bowl of pasta in the middle. Two glasses of water with lemon slices. A Ball jar filled with wildflowers. A candle flickering in the breeze.

It was the little things. And it was her.

“I’m not much of a cook,” she apologized. “But I used some of the vegetables you bought so at least it’s healthy.” She propped her elbows on the table, rested her chin in her hands, and watched me take a bite.

No pressure.

Even if it tasted like sawdust, I’d tell her it was delicious. Thankfully, I didn’t have to lie. “Best pasta I ever ate.”

“Okay, now I don’t believe you,” she said, taking a tentative bite. “Oh! Actually, it’s not bad.” She smiled, pleased with herself, and that made me smile. “So how’s the songwriting going?”

“Much better now that my muse is here. Endless inspiration.” The corner of her mouth tugged into a half smile. She was so fucking adorable with a streak of blue paint on her cheek that I didn’t even tell her it was there. “How’s the art coming?”

She sighed. “We’ll see. Right now, it’s a mess. I’m still experimenting, trying to find my way into it.”

We talked about her inspiration. An ode to New York, the city that raised her. More specifically, the Lower East Side she grew up in before gentrification and Wall Street traders started buying up luxury condos. She told me she wanted to honor all the artists and musicians and creatives who had succumbed to AIDS-related illnesses during the height of an epidemic that had a huge impact on the community.

“It still feels personal because we lost so many neighbors and friends, but it’s more of a social commentary addressing stigma and prejudice and the fearmongering of that time,” she said. “Even though so many years have passed, those artists are stillsuch a vital part of the rich tapestry of the Lower East Side. Gone, but not forgotten. So I wanted to commemorate them in some way.”

I was envious of people who had a long, rich history to tap into. Memory plays such a vital role in our lives.

Remember. Commemorate. Memorialize.

Gone, but not forgotten.

That’s what Cleo had done for me with the notebook. She’d given me back a piece of my history.

She told me she borrowed one of the bikes from the front porch this morning and was a bit wobbly when she first set out. “I haven’t ridden a bike in years!” But with a little practice, she felt more confident and didn’t wreck once. A win.

“Did you remember how to ride a bike?” she asked.

I nodded. “And drive a car.”

“So weird.”

The brain was a mysterious place. They say it takes ten thousand hours of practice to become proficient at something.

I’d probably spent more hours practicing guitar than riding a bike or driving a car and yet they came right back to me, whereas the guitar took a lot of work and six, seven hours of practice a day just to get to the level I was at.

I told her about my conversation with Barry. She said he sounded like a “wanker.”

Cleo and I were on the same page, same book.

“I read the notebook,” I said casually, lighting a cigarette after ensuring that she’d finished eating.

“Oh.” She lowered her head and chased a lone piece of corkscrew pasta around her plate. Even in the candlelight, I could see the flush of pink on her cheeks. Embarrassment or self-consciousness, neither of which was warranted. “How much did you read?”

“All of it.”

Her head shot up and her eyes widened in shock. “All of it?”

“Every page, every line, every single beautiful word.” I waved my cigarette across the sky. “All of it.”

“And what did you think?” She bit her lip. “Did it…was it hard to read?”