Page 23 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
She laughs. When she answers, her voice sounds a bit more echoey. “Yes! Because he was touching you. Because he was asking you questions. Look, I’m not the only one who thinks this.”
“I completely agree with her,” a cheery voice chimes in, letting me know she’s put her husband on speakerphone. Truly is happily in love with her brother’s best friend, a charming Brit who adores her. If she weren’t my closest friend, I’d hate that pairing on account of it being a textbook rom-com scenario.
“Truly! You sneak attacked me with a man.”
“Well, Jason does understand men, and I wanted a guy’s perspective.”
“And it sounds like someone isn’t quite over you,” Jason adds. “Just as my brilliant wife said.”
But that doesn’t compute. “I don’t think that’s the case,” I say as I climb the rickety steps to my apartment, enter, and flop onto my couch. “He’s been out of my life for ten years. He’s had a ton of women. He dates models and actresses, not struggling art historians who auction off love letters from has-been Goobers! stars.”
“Yet he touched you, put you in a cab, made sure he had your number, and tried to find out if you had a boyfriend,” Jason points out.
“Yes,” I admit, a little begrudgingly.
“Also, Goobers! was a great flick.”
“I did love Goobers!” Truly agrees. “But more importantly, how was it for you seeing Hunter?”
That’s a great question.
And I have the answer already.
Hard.
It was incredibly hard.
I’d love to put off talking to him as long as possible, but I still have to thank him for paying the cab fare.
That’s the right thing to do. I can’t start this project on the wrong foot with him. Manners matter, so later that night I send a text thanking him.
The second the text hurtles into the ether of the cellular network, I turn my phone to silent, because I can’t bear wanting a reply.
I know what it’s like to want a reply from him.
I won’t get it, and I definitely shouldn’t expect it from a simple thanks.
But even so, it’s best to stay busy.
I strip out of my jeans and Truly’s top, and pull on exercise pants and a sports bra. Determined to keep him out of the endcap display in my mind—because he’s as tantalizing as the packs of M&M’s at the checkout counter—I rap on my neighbor’s door. Company will take my mind off craving the dopamine hit of him.
Francesca answers with a killer eyebrow arc as she regards my workout outfit, a fat glass of red wine in her hand. “Please tell me you aren’t here to attempt the impossible.”
I give her a playful arm-punch. “You know you want to go for a run with me.”
She scoffs, dragging the long red nails of her free hand through her wild mane of black curls. “I despise running.”
“That’s only what you tell yourself on days you don’t want to run with me.”
“Like today.” She gestures to her clothes—a red cami and linen pajama pants. “I had the longest day of absurd client requests, plus I already showered to get the scent of crazy off me.”
“It’s only eight. It’ll be fun, and just think how good that wine will taste after a run. Plus, you can tell me all your crazy client tales.”
She growls. “You are evil with your enticements.”
“I’m terrible. I also know how you love to tell me work stories.” I jerk my head toward the hall. “Now, come along. I want to hear everything.”
Sighing heavily, she takes a slug of the red before setting it on the kitchen counter. “I’ll walk. No running. Deal?”
“Deal,” I say, since I want companionship more than hard-core exercise.
She changes into yoga pants and sneakers, and for the next thirty minutes, we meander through our neighborhood while she tells me about her latest client requests. She runs an art gallery in SoHo that caters to collectors with eclectic taste, including a Pulitzer Prize–winning playwright who requested that the new abstract painting he’d purchased be wrapped in old parchment paper and blessed three times by a shaman before he brought it home.
When we return to our building, the stairs groaning loudly, she tells me she’s staging an exhibit this weekend that I might like. “You should come by. One of the artists makes sculpture solely with wire, and it’s fascinating. It makes your brain bend as you try to figure out where and how all the wires connect.”
That does sound insanely cool, and I do love brain twisters. “I can try, but my sister wants me to Skype her to help decorate her walls with kid photos.”
“And is she going to administer her subtle pressure on you to procreate too?”
“Isn’t that what all happily married parents do? But seriously, Holly’s not like that. She’s just sort of . . . grotesquely happy.”
