Page 59 of Old Flames

“Do you believe in time travel?”

That is the question I’m most asked. My answer may disappoint you. But first, some context.

You may know me for my fantasy novels, stories I’ve been working on since I was twelve. A young woman discovers a portal in the woods behind her family home, strikes a deal with the sentinel, and so begins her adventure. As a girl, I was bored and wished life would accelerate, propel me into my future. Now I worry about how quickly time passes, and all that it steals from us, all the last kisses, hugs, glances, and goodbyes.

One day scientists may hack the time-space continuum and make the impossible, possible, but I don’t believe they should. We mortals are not meant to bend time at will. We’re meant to take each precious second as it comes, knowing every breath, every heartbeat, robs us, and one day we all run out of time . . .

L.J. White

We came to Key West for our own reasons. Drawn by the allure of the city, the fabled guarantee of the ultimate summer getaway, something we sorely needed. A daiquiri in one hand, we seized life with the other. Seafood and sea excursions, sun-filled days, nights out, and the promises the city makes to every artist that they will find what they need here—not what they desire or dreamed of, not the fantasies they concocted in college dorms, but what they truly need to work.

My origin story is banal. I could tell you about my late grandfather who encouraged me to read and write, who gave me permission to let my imagination run wild. I could tell you about the Hemingway paperbacks that eventually gave way to thick Stephen King novels. But I’ll tell you this instead. In a crowded bar on Duval late one night, I got to thinking, what is horror? Is it a genre, the stories that I craft and sell? Or is it something deeper?

What is horror if not our demons hunting us down, doubts eating us from the inside, the winds of fate snuffing out our inner light? There is no fate more horrific than to drown in remorse. A lost love will haunt our dreams. The voice in our heads will convince us we can always sink deeper into whatever pit we find ourselves in. Tell me, what is more anguishing than a sleepless night, followed by another, and another . . . ? We don’t create our nightmares, but we have a hand in them. Who do we become when heartbreak sends us prowling into the night in search of satisfaction? And what of the sentinel that guards our hearts, bars passage, condemns us to isolation?

Often, I ask my readers what made them pick up my books. Often they say: I like a good scare. But we are scared all the time, and we don’t necessarily like it. We need the metaphor of a vampire, a werewolf, a ghost, a time traveler, or a hole in the sky, to better contextualize the shadow creatures within.

These questions will dog me, but my work will be better for it. I’m not the same person who rolled into town, looking for fun. My perspective has changed. Here on out, the sky above will always be the shade haint blue . . .

21

After the raucous group book signing at Old Town Books, Emily, Dr. Flores, the expert tour guide at Hemingway House, and nearly everyone they’d met on the island, gathered at the observation deck for one last cocktail party. Then it was off to their farewell dinner at an oceanfront resort. They ended the night around a firepit with prosecco. Leo, who had not been tempted by alcohol all weekend, even as it flowed abundantly around him, craved a touch of Jack London’s white logic, the brutal clarity that only alcohol could provide. He had to speak with July, tell her everything. How his feelings for her had evolved from the day they’d met to this night. He might not go that far, but he’d introduce the conversation. It was now or never. And never meant not just a lifetime but an eternity pursued by the twin hounds of doubt and regret.

The opportunity did not present itself until late in the night, after a fireside chat. Daphne shared her parents’ dream to carve a space for Haitian culture in a city that often overlooked their contributions. The restaurant was just a start. Daphne wanted to expand the business to include an art gallery to showcase the colorful oil paintings and stone sculptures the Caribbean nation was known for. They drank to the ingenuity and traditional craftmanship of the Haitian people.

Sebastien and Alexandre provided a relationship status update, including the terms of their reconciliation, negotiated under specific conditions. The engagement was over, the wedding called off. Alexandre would seek therapy to deal with his attachment issues. Sebastien would do the same to improve his communication skills. They raised their glasses to Alexandre and Sebastien’s future.

Emily voiced her concern that her homage to Richard Carlisle might not have gone over well with the literary society’s top brass. “Do you think I went too hard?” she asked the group. Leo took in Emily’s steely-gray eyes and her honest face. If Daphne had wanted someone to go easy on Carlisle, she would’ve chosen someone else. The consensus, led by Daphne, was “Fuck that!” They toasted opinionated women in the arts.

Vicky canceled the night’s séance. “In light of new information that has surfaced, I don’t think Aurora would allow herself to be manipulated like that. She’s a Latina, after all. She’ll come and go as she pleases.”

“What new information?” Sebastien asked.

Leo didn’t care enough to find out. If he could manipulate time, he would have skipped over the fireside chat entirely. He needed five minutes alone with July before they called it a night. That’s all, five minutes to share the obsessive thoughts he’d been carrying around for a decade, no matter the outcome. She could laugh in his face or walk away. It was better than living like this. He envied the couples wrapped in each other’s arms. He could only steal glances at the woman he wanted from a safe distance. He strained to hear her low laugh and tried his best not to stare at her luminous face. Once, he caught the reflection of the flames leaping in her dark eyes. God, she was beautiful. Her beauty was not an innocent thing. It had him on tenterhooks.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Vicky answered Sebastien.

“Go ahead and tell them,” Ayesha said, resigned to whatever scrutiny she was about to receive with this revelation.

Vicky could not get the words out fast enough. “Ayesha’s heard a knock on her door every night at three on the dot.”

“A soft knock, yet it still manages to wake me up,” Ayesha added. “It’s the most unsettling thing.”

Fueled by this revelation, the chat raged on. Leo despaired they would stay out all night, swapping ghost stories. But then, slowly at first, as if by his machinations alone, the group splintered into twos and threes. Couples left to stroll the beach, and friends took off for a refill of prosecco. July stood, set her glass on a tray and crossed the patio, heading toward the pier.

It was time.

“Got a light?”

She was at the end of the pier. All around them, darkness. The night erased the horizon. The ocean churned underfoot. Leo stepped closer until he saw the curve of her upheld chin, the glint in her eyes. The ocean breeze ruffled her short hair.

Her reply came moments later. “Thought you quit.”

“This is a social experiment,” Leo said.

She reached into the small bag she wore loosely across her body and produced the lighter. Its silver case flashed in the darkness. She tossed it to him without a word. Leo caught it and examined it. Though timeworn and tarnished, it felt the same in his hand. He tested the flame. Just as strong, though it flickered in the wind.

“Do you take this everywhere you go?” he asked. “Does it have some sentimental value?”