Page 34 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
I reach for her hand, the one that’s holding the key. She wraps her fingers around mine.
“Hunter, you called me ‘honey.’”
“Did I?” I ask, surprised, then I turn off the camera.
“You’ve done it a few times.”
“Huh. I guess old habits die hard.” I gaze into her eyes. “Along with kissing you.”
“That was out of habit?”
It’s the first we’ve mentioned the kiss that fell by the wayside when I stumbled into a secret compartment and unearthed a letter from another century.
I shake my head. “Actually, no. It was completely intentional. And it was absolutely incredible.”
“It was,” she says, then her eyes drift to the mirror. “But right now, it’d be incredible to see what’s behind that.”
She raises the key and unlocks it.
Inside on a shelf, another letter awaits.
Dear Children,
* * *
You looked inside. Well done! We’re proud of you, and we want you to know that. You are our greatest accomplishments, our grandest adventure.
* * *
But the adventures aren’t over. We’ve put together a final one just for you . . .
* * *
Follow our story.
* * *
You alone know how it began, and if you want to hear the rest, you’ll find it starts in the heart of Old New York near the five-mile stone, inside a home, up the stairs, and behind a place near and dear to your father.
* * *
But don’t forget what we taught you: research comes before the search.
* * *
Love,
Mom and Dad
15
Presley
I couldn’t stop if I tried.
So I don’t.
We don’t.
Searching for a place to conduct a proper dissection of every single sentence in this letter, we slide into his limo.
Hunter swipes a few keys on his phone, asking Google for the best diner nearby.
“Diner okay?” he asks, then a grin seems to tug at his lips. “Or should I say, are you still the reigning queen of diners?”
That’s what he used to call me. It’s a crown I wear with pride. “I’m still hopelessly devoted to them. They’re my guilty pleasure, given that my normal dinner is a salad.”
He wags a finger. “Never feel guilty about pleasure.”
But I do feel a little guilty about that kiss earlier.
And I feel guilt over something else too.
As he scrolls through options on his screen, I stare out the window of the car, repeating words in my head. “In the heart of Old New York near the five-mile stone, inside a home, up the staircase, then another, and behind a place near and dear to your father . . .”
The answer to this riddle seems to be on the tip of my tongue, but something nags at me.
I’m not sure if it’s our job to play “X marks the spot” through someone’s correspondence, and I need to figure that out before I go into the heart of Old New York.
Lenny whisks us away, taking us to a roadhouse diner where a sign reading Sally’s Sideshow Café blasts in pink neon against the twilight sky.
“Want anything, Lenny?” Hunter asks as we exit the car.
“I’m all good, but I never turn down chocolate milkshakes,” he says.
“Words to live by,” I say, giving the driver a smile as we head inside, grab an empty booth, then scan the menu.
“I’m starving. I can’t think straight without food,” Hunter mutters as he peruses the offerings.
“Starving?” I tease. “Are you sure you’re actually starving?”
His eyes are full of murder as he clasps his belly. “I’m positive. This is complete starvation I’m experiencing.”
“Drama king,” I say as I pore over an encyclopedia’s worth of options on a menu the size of a phone book. “What do you do when you’re out in the wilderness and get hungry?”
“I eat.”
“I figured as much. But what do you eat?”
He smirks. “I don’t eat fries, burgers, and shakes, that’s for sure.” He slaps the menu closed with panache. “Which is why I’m ordering that here.”
“And when you’re trekking across a raging river teeming with piranhas, for instance, what do you eat? Piranhas that you singlehandedly spear for your next meal?”
He whistles in appreciation. “Damn, you make me sound impressive even to myself.”
“And that’s no small feat. So what do you eat in the wild?”
“Bugs,” he says, pushing out his bottom lip and exaggerating the word.
I arch a skeptical brow. “Do you really though?”
He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes narrowed and intense. “You haven’t actually seen my show, have you?”
“Maybe not.”
“Just say it out loud. I won’t be hurt.” He doesn’t sound annoyed. He sounds amused as he raises his right hand. “There are two kinds of people in the world: those who have watched Hunter Armstrong’s show and those who are going to watch it.”
Grabbing a napkin, I ball it up and toss it at him, but I’m laughing.
Like a ballplayer, he catches it smoothly. “I’ll convert you, Presley. I just know I will.”
“Doubtful. Especially if you eat bugs on it. Besides, isn’t that what all you adventurer guys do on your shows? Eat bugs and grab rattlesnakes by the throat then roast them over a barbecue pit?”
