11. Haunted Pasts

Even at night, humidity hung in the air.

Winter didn't mind it much—in the darkness, the moisture felt good on his skin, and warm breezes combed through his hair as he leaned against his balcony to admire the city beyond the ink-black bay, a seemingly endless expanse of glittering skyscrapers and curving freeways.

It was long past midnight, and Gavi was already asleep in her bed, but Winter's jet lag still hadn't worn off, and Tems's bargain with them hadn't helped stop his mind from whirling. So he found himself out here instead, on a video call with his mother.

This time, at least, she was back in her apartment, and she'd picked up after the first two rings. Winter tapped an option on his screen that broadcast her as a three-dimensional figure from his phone, then set the phone down on the balcony's wide ledge. The image of his mother hovered beside him, as if she were really there.

"I caught up on the news about your book," she said to him. "I'm sorry, baby bear."

She looked healthy today, he thought with relief—her hair was tidily braided over one of her shoulders, and her eyes looked alert, not lost in grief or desperate for distraction.

Winter shrugged and looked out at the city lights. "It's not my book," he said. "But thank you."

"Xiàn zaì zai na? Back in LA?"

He gave her a polite smile and shook his head. "Singapore."

"Singapore? That's lovely."

He'd told her about his upcoming trip on their last call, but she hadn't remembered. "What about you, Mom?" he said instead. "Are you staying home for a bit?"

She shook her head. "Heading to Portugal tomorrow, actually."

That was another thing about his mother. She never stayed put in one place for long—instead always off to some other corner of the globe, whether it be a friend's house in upstate New York or a beach in Thailand, as if running away from the haunting of old memories. It was something she'd done even when he was young.

But he just said, "Have fun. Do you have new cash for the trip?"

"I've got it." She tapped her side where he couldn't see, as if to reassure him.

He nodded. She couldn't bring herself to touch bills with wrinkles in them, something that had once stranded her in Paris until he could fly to her to help out. "What about your medications?"

"I've got everything. You don't need to worry."

"Okay."

"You're there alone?"

He glanced to his side, to the adjacent balcony that led into Sydney's room. "Not exactly."

"I thought I saw someone in the room behind you. Are they nice?"

He looked over his shoulder, realizing that his mother could see the sleeping figure of Gavi in the rumpled bed. He turned the phone a bit. "It's just Gavi. And she's got her own bed. We're not back together."

"Well, you have a nice time there," his mother said, in the way she had of answering him without quite listening to him at all. "Don't worry too much about the book. And be safe."

He smiled a little. "You too."

They hung up without another word. Winter usually tried to say "I love you," although he didn't often hear it back, and tonight, he felt too weary to even try. So instead, he just let his mother hang up first, which she always did. Her virtual figure disappeared, and he was alone again on the balcony.

His gaze went to the glass domes at the bottom of the hotel, the all-indoors botanical gardens called the Gardens by the Bay. By day, he could see the lush field of green beneath the dome, the hundreds of thousands of plants that lived in the futuristic, air-conditioned space. At night, treelike sculptures nearby were lit up, giving him the impression of underwater, bioluminescent creatures.

I'm not really going far,his mother used to say when he was still a kid. She would disappear on her trips and leave him on his own for days. I'll be back in no time.

Then she would be gone, and he would go to school alone, walk home alone, forage for frozen dinners in the fridge and eat alone. Sometimes, he'd sleep over at a friend's house. Other times, he'd bring his blanket and pillow and sleep on the old couch in their backyard, where he would pretend he was camping. Still other times, he would dial his older brother's former phone number, daring to let it ring a couple of times before anyone picked up, then end the call and tell himself that Artie was still alive, still would have answered had he stayed on the line longer.

If Artie hadn't died, would his mother be more attentive to Winter now? Would she be more curious about how he was doing, call him more often, congratulate him instead of needing him to remind her about what was happening in his life?

Maybe not. Artie had always been their mother's favorite, her beloved firstborn, the boy she'd had with a man she'd loved. Then she'd lost that husband and gotten pregnant with a man she'd ended up hating, had married him anyway, and had tumbled into the depression of a new baby and a horrible second husband. That wouldn't have changed, had Artie lived.

But then Artie had died, had been killed overseas, and his mother had lost herself—as well as the shreds of devotion she'd given to Winter.

Winter shook his head and grimaced. It didn't matter, anyway. He knew he loved her all the same, and that she loved him, in her own way. Still, he let himself feel her absence. He let himself feel the absence of his brother. And he let himself feel that familiar suffocation, the feeling of wanting to talk to someone else, to let out some of the emotions bottling up in his chest.

His phone buzzed. He was too scared to look at the screen, for fear it might be Claire warning him about some other bombshell that had been leaked from the tell-all book. Instead, he let it buzz until it went silent again.

A movement in his peripheral vision made him turn his head.

It was Sydney, leaning against her balcony in a T-shirt and baggy shorts.

They looked at each other at the same time, then blinked in unison, surprised. The sight of her cut through Winter's brooding feelings, and he felt himself smile a little.

"Jet lag?" she said.

He shrugged. "You?"

"Checking out the view," she answered, nodding down at the city.

He nodded. "It is nice."

They fell into silence for a beat.

"Gavi's asleep?" Sydney asked.

"She's always been a good sleeper." Winter let out a laugh. "Wish I had that kind of peace of mind."

Sydney smiled. "Niall says sound sleepers make for poor agents. So I suppose it's for the best that you don't."

Winter chuckled, then studied her face. "You don't like that he's retiring."

Something about his words made her shrink inward, as if there were walls going up around her heart. She shrugged. "Just makes my life harder, is all," she said. "I won't know whoever it is that'll replace him, and the thought of getting to know a new analyst makes me feel tired."

"Is that it?"

Sydney said nothing, and for a while, they stood on their separate balconies and just stared out at the nightscape.

"Winter," Sydney said after a while, and he turned to look at her. "Do you remember that night, in London, when you couldn't sleep?"

"You'll have to be more specific. I remember several sleepless nights."

She snorted. "The one where you went downstairs and danced in the living room."

He struggled to remember, and then recalled a night when he'd woken up in the middle of the night and gone downstairs to walk off his insomnia.

"I didn't know you heard me that night," he admitted. "I thought you were still asleep."

She shook her head. "I go, you go. What kind of bodyguard would I be otherwise?"

"Why are you asking about it?"

She hesitated, then looked back at him. "Was that the night when you wrote those song lyrics about me?"

Immediately, he knew what she was talking about. The little leather notebook that always traveled with him had been open on his nightstand that night when he'd returned to his bedroom. And when he'd started writing down lyrics, they had been about Sydney.

The words returned to him, as solidly as if they'd been seared into his mind.

Do you ever feel guilty for everyone's mistakes?

Ever wish you could take someone else's place?

Do you ever feel like dying?

Do you ever want to live forever?

And this hurricane goes on and on

Every time I look at you

You are my meditation

Am I ever yours, too?

He cleared his throat, his cheeks reddening at the realization that Sydney had remembered those lyrics.

"It was," he said slowly. "Why?"

"How did you know that?"

He blinked. "Know what?"

She took a moment to answer. "There was that line… about feeling guilty for others' mistakes. Well, I do."

"Really?"

"When I was a little girl, I thought I was the reason why my mother got sick. She took care of me too much, and it exhausted her, so she went to the hospital. My father used to tell me that she went because of the way me and my brother ran her ragged. I thought I was the reason why my father drank, because I was so much trouble." She paused. "I feel like I'm the reason why Niall was unable to be a part of his own daughter's childhood, because he was too busy training recruits like me, because his job—me—took him away from his real family."

In a flash, Winter understood. "You think Niall leaving Panacea is a punishment that you deserve."

She looked at him, and in her eyes, he thought he saw surprise. It faded away quickly, and she tightened her lips before turning back to the cityscape. "My fault for thinking it," she said. "He's my boss, not my parent."

"There you go, feeling guilty again," he said, and she let out a humorless laugh. Then he added, "It's not you, you know."

"I know," she said. "Still. I can't help thinking it."

"I think my mother is the way she is," he said, "because of me. I think, sometimes, if she could have broken it off with my father before I was born, then she could have healed from him, could have moved on more easily with her life. But here I am." He held his hands out.

Sydney nodded, although she didn't respond. And somehow, Winter was grateful she didn't, that she didn't try to say something reassuring, that she didn't try to sugarcoat his words.

"I didn't know that about you," he explained carefully. "I just knew that about me. And I guess I felt like knowing you made me face those thoughts. You are my meditation, you know?" He smiled a little, apologetically. "You weren't supposed to see those lyrics. They don't mean anything, I promise. They're just for me."

Sydney didn't respond, but in the darkness, he thought he saw a subtle nod of her head. They sank back into silence, the air between them somehow lighter now that they had both gotten something off their chest.

"I've never told anyone that before," Sydney finally said, her eyes turned out to the city.

"Same," Winter replied, his attention also on the nightscape.

And even though they stood on separate balconies, it felt a little like they were side by side, like he could feel the warmth of her nearness. It made him want to stay out there a little longer, want to rack his brain for something else to keep their conversation going, anything to keep her with him a little longer.

"Winter?"

Then he heard Gavi's voice behind him, and when he turned around, he saw her silk-robed figure emerge onto the balcony, her hair in disarray and her eyes sleepy. She glanced over at the adjacent balcony at the same time he did.

But Sydney was already gone, like a ghost, and her balcony looked as if no one had ever been there.

Gavi looked at him with a skeptical smile. "Talking to yourself out here? It's two in the morning."

"Can't sleep," Winter answered, forcing himself not to look back toward Sydney's balcony.

Gavi turned around and put her hands in the pockets of her robe. "Well, you'd better get some rest before tomorrow, unless you want more rumors spreading about what we might be up to at night."

Winter forced himself not to look back toward Sydney's balcony. He hadn't even heard her leave, she was so quiet—even Gavi probably hadn't seen her, even though she must have guessed that Sydney was there. So he followed Gavi inside, his own lyrics haunting his mind.

You are my meditation

Am I ever yours, too?