Page 69 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
He grips my hand harder, like he’s trying to impart his certainty to me. “I’m in love with you the way a man loves a woman when he can’t stop thinking about her, when he can’t stop touching her, when he can’t stop wanting to be with her.” His gaze never strays from mine. “That’s how I’m in love with you.”
Is this real? Or has New York City turned to an emerald-green land with lush waterfalls and dappled forests? Because his words are as incongruous as a tropical paradise in the middle of Manhattan.
Yet . . . that’s what he’s offering me, and I’m dying to dive in.
“In less than a week?” I ask, incredulous. “You fell in love with me in less than a week?”
He laughs and tucks a strand of hair over my ear. “Ten years, six months, one week, give or take.”
My heart thunders, a wild herd of horses galloping in my chest, reckless and dangerous. “What are you saying, Hunter?”
“I’m saying I was in love with you once upon a time, and I’ve fallen in love with you again. Being with you like this, seeing you, spending time with you . . . it reminds me that it’s always been you.”
My chest swoops. My heart grows wings and soars, luxuriating in this big, wonderful feeling. This foolish and spectacular feeling.
Be cautious. You’ve been here before.
I try to tap the brakes. “Are you saying that because of Edward and Greta?”
“You mean, is the way I feel a side effect of their romance? Like secondhand smoke?”
“Yes, is this secondhand love?”
He laughs and rests his forehead against mine, a move that’s so tender, so sweet, I nearly fall apart right here. “Secondhand love has a nice ring to it. But no, this isn’t because of them. It’s because of you. And yes, hearing their story reminds me there are people I don’t want to lose.”
I feel like I’ve drunk starlight and am glowing from light-years away. I so want to tell him I love him madly too. But I’m petrified that something will go wrong. Something will fall to pieces.
Because . . . he’s made these promises before. He’s told me before that we can stay on an island, drink from coconuts, and bask in afternoon naps in hammocks.
How is this different?
How?
“Hunter?” I ask, softly, tracing lines down his bare arm. “How is this different than last time?”
“Because I’m not that stubborn, ambition-or-bust twenty-seven-year-old. Because I know myself now, and I know what I want. I know what it’s like to lose you, and I can’t let that happen again.”
His words are as beautiful as a picture, but he’s given me words before, and their looks can be deceiving.
I close my eyes, trying to hold on to intellect, to reason. When I open my eyes, I tell myself to think rationally.
I survey the scene around me. Caribaldi’s Firelight PlayHouse. Down the street is the Silverlight one. On the next block, just around the corner is The Great Escape Theater.
I repeat the names in my head, and everything comes into focus.
I snap my gaze back to Hunter, whispering the words I’ve memorized. “Do you want to know the final chapter of the story? If you do, then you must go to the site of our last show together. You will find it there, but it’s not what you think. It might seem like a grand chronicle, but it’s not a tale of our ride by the silvery light of midnight, nor the story of our daring great escape. It’s something else entirely.”
“What is it?”
Standing, I flap my hands wildly. “Silverlight Theater. Great Escape Theater. The Grand Fountain Theater. Those are mentioned in the letter. For all intents and purposes.”
His eyes pop as the pattern becomes clear, like words levitating from a page and making themselves known. “They named the places where the letter isn’t. We just need to figure out which ones aren’t mentioned.”
“That’s easy. We’ll Google the theaters they own. Then we’ll have to come up with a plan to . . . canvas a handful of Broadway theaters tonight?” I laugh, floating on the thrill of this new clue revealing where to go next. “But we can do it.”
“We definitely can. And I bet one of them has a sign in the lobby selling moon pies,” he offers, the corner of his lips hooking into a grin.
“Yes! That has to be it.”
“And this . . . this is why I love you. Your brain. Your beautiful, gorgeous brain never stops working, and I love it. I love it, and I love you.” He grabs my face and presses hungry lips to mine like he’s devouring my resistance as he kisses me. He probably is.
He definitely is.
I break the kiss, laying a hand on his chest. “You can’t say these things. You’re trying to make me fall in love with you all over again too.”
