Page 59 of Never Quite Gone

“Tell me about Will as a kid,” he said suddenly, settling into his chair with natural grace. “I bet he was a handful.”

“Oh god, the stories I could tell you.” I grinned, loving how he'd asked for present-life memories. “Did I ever tell you about the time he decided to 'improve' our mother's prize rose garden?”

We traded stories as we ate – normal ones, current-life ones, creating space that belonged purely to now. I told him about Marcus's disaster with the coffee machine, about Will's corporate takeover of the family holiday party, about the simple joy of building something new in this lifetime.

“Tell me about Marcus,” Eli said suddenly, wine making himbolder with questions. “There's something different about him. Something old.”

I paused, considering how much I could safely share. Marcus's story wasn't mine to tell, but Eli deserved some truth about the man who'd watched over us through centuries.

“Marcus is... complicated,” I said carefully. “He's been with my family for as long as I can remember. And before that.” I smiled at memories too numerous to count. “He's been more than just an employee. A guardian, a friend, a keeper of secrets.”

“How long?” Eli's doctor's mind was working, I could see it in his eyes.

“Longer than should be possible,” I admitted. “Though I've never asked him exactly how. Some mysteries deserve their privacy.”

“But he remembers? Like you do?”

“Differently.” I swirled wine in my glass, watching city lights reflect off the surface. “His memories are... continuous. Unbroken. He's watched over us through every lifetime, though I think sometimes he wishes he couldn't remember them all.”

Eli absorbed this, his healer's instincts picking up on what I wasn't saying. “That sounds lonely.”

“It can be. But he chose this path. Or it chose him. I've never asked which.” I remembered Marcus's face in Greece, the moment he'd made his decision. “He's carried our story through time, made sure we could find each other again when the time was right.”

“And he never told you how?”

“Some gifts come with prices too heavy to discuss.” I reached for a lighter tone. “Though his inability to master modern coffee machines suggests even guardians have their limits.”

Eli laughed at that. He didn't push for more details, seeming to sense that Marcus's secrets weren't mine to share.

When Eli laughed again, it felt like victory. Like proof that hearts could heal while staying whole.

Later, we stood at the rooftop's edge, city lights reflecting in our wine glasses.

“You know what I've learned?” I said softly, watching starlight paint patterns on the city below. “Across all these lives, all these versions of us?”

Eli turned to face me, his wedding ring catching the light. But for once, the sight didn't ache. “What?”

His free hand found mine naturally, without hesitation. The contact sent warmth through my entire being, but it felt new rather than remembered.

“That every time is different,” I said carefully. “Every love unique. What we had in Greece, in Florence, in Paris – they were all real, all precious. But they weren't this.” I squeezed his fingers gently. “This is ours, just for this life.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes – not just of what I was saying, but of what it meant. This wasn't about replacing Michael or recreating past lives. It was about building something new that honored all our stories while writing its own.

When he stepped closer, it felt like choice rather than fate. His free hand came up to touch my face with a surgeon's precision, and I let myself lean into the contact.

“I'm not ready to take off the ring,” he whispered, but the words held no apology.

“I know,” I replied simply. “It's part of who you are. Part of what makes you the person I'm falling in love with in this life.”

His smile bloomed slowly, like sunrise over ancient seas. When he kissed me, it tasted of wine and starlight and possibility – not a memory of past loves, but a promise of future ones.

Later, as we walked through nighttime streets, Eli talked about Michael's favorite buildings, about memories that had shaped him, about dreams for future projects. His wedding ring still caught streetlight, but now it felt like part of our story rather than a barrier to it.

“He would have loved the sustainable materials exhibit,” Eli said thoughtfully. “But not as much as I loved the integration ofold and new elements.” The distinction felt important – honoring memory while claiming his own perspective.

I listened, understanding that love wasn't a fixed quantity but an expanding universe, always making room for more light. Each story Eli shared felt like a gift – trust given freely rather than extracted by fate.

“I don't know if I can do this again,” he whispered, but his hands reached for mine like they'd done in every lifetime. “I don't know if I'm strong enough to love and lose again.”

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