Page 54 of Never Quite Gone

“When was the last time you laughed like that?” Alex asked softly, not pushing, just curious.

I started to say something deflective, but honesty won out. “I don't remember. Before Michael, probably.”

But the admission didn't hurt like it should have. Maybe it was the sunshine, or the excellent food, or the way Alex watched me with warm understanding rather than pity.

“Marcus tried to cook Thai food once,” he said, smoothly changing the subject. “Set off every smoke alarm in the building. The fire department actually showed up.”

“No way.”

“Hand to god. Will still brings it up at family dinners. Though to be fair, Marcus's French cuisine is exceptional.”

I found myself relaxing into the moment – into good food and easy conversation and afternoon light that made everything feel possible. Alex told stories about development projects gone hilariously wrong, about Will's attempts to modernize their family's ancient filing system, about corporate politics that somehow seemed funny rather than cutthroat when he described them.

“You make everything feel so... normal. Even when nothing about this situation is normal.”

He considered this while offering me the last spring roll. “Maybe because normal is overrated. Maybe what feels right is more important than what feels expected.”

“Is that what this feels like to you? Right?”

His eyes met mine, warm with something that made my heart skip. “What does it feel like to you?”

Before I could answer, my pager buzzed – Sofia, probably wondering where I'd disappeared to. Alex started packing up with efficient grace, somehow making even cleanup feel elegant.

I helped him fold the blanket, our hands brushing in a way that sent warmth through my entire body. The afternoon light caught his profile, turning him into something almost painted, but his presence remained solid and real.

“Thank you,” I said as we headed back toward the stairs. “For lunch, for stories, for...”

“For taking chances?” His smile held gentle teasing.

“For making it feel possible,” I finished softly.

He paused at the door, looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. “Possible is good,” he said finally. “Possible is where everything begins.”

I watched him disappear down the stairs, carrying his picnic supplies with the same grace he seemed to do everything. The afternoon stretched ahead – more paperwork, more of Vale's suspicious attention, more questions I wasn't sure I was ready to ask.

The city settled into evening as we walked, streetlights flickering to life one by one. Alex had insisted on accompanying me after my shift ran late, claiming he was headed this direction anyway. We both knew it was a lie – his penthouse was in the opposite direction – but neither of us mentioned it.

Our path took us past the skeleton of a new building, steel beams reaching toward stars just beginning to emerge through Manhattan's light pollution. My steps faltered. Michael would have loved this – would have already had his sketchbook out, explaining about load-bearing walls and aesthetic balance withthat infectious enthusiasm that made even physics sound like poetry.

“Tell me about his work,” Alex said quietly, reading my silence. Not 'are you okay' or 'we can go another way,' but an invitation to remember.

“He loved impossible things,” I found myself saying as we continued walking. “Buildings that shouldn't stand but do. Spaces that feel bigger than they are. He said good architecture was like good magic – it made people believe in the impossible.”

Alex's steps matched mine perfectly, his presence steady but not crowding. “He sounds like he understood something fundamental about spaces.”

“He did. This renovation he was working on, at the Natural History Museum? Everyone said the suspended gallery couldn't work, that the cantilevers would be too unstable. But he proved them wrong. Made something beautiful that shouldn't have been possible.”

We walked in quiet after that.

The restaurant Alex chose was small and private, tucked away in a quiet corner of the Village. No Rothschild ostentation here – just warm lighting, exposed brick, and a quiet table far from curious eyes. Something about the space felt familiar, though I knew I'd never been here before.

“You promised me answers,” I said after our wine arrived. “Real ones this time.”

Alex studied his glass, something ancient flickering across his features. “What do you remember about the dreams? About Greece?”

My hands tightened around my water glass. “Fragments. A battlefield. Healing tents. The smell of herbs I've never used but somehow know how to prepare.”

“There was a war,” he said quietly. “Not the one in the history books – this was smaller, more personal. A territorial dispute that shouldn't have mattered, except...”

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