Page 26 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
I tried to sort through it with Vikas when we talked on the phone a month or so ago. I mentioned the jump and the way I keep seeing Presley now, but his response was cryptic. There are always women who flicker in and out of our lives.
“Listen, as I was falling that time, when I was sure the chute wouldn’t deploy, I saw her face.”
Josh stops dribbling, locking eyes with me. “Yeah? Like, as you were hurtling toward death, you mean?”
“Exactly.” The disquiet I’ve kept locked down since that day now strips away any teasing humor. “She was all I was thinking of for those last seconds. Not my dad. Not Vikas. Not my team. Not my mom. Not even Satchel, and I loved that dog fiercely.”
He nods a few times. “That’s heavy, man. Especially since Satchel was a badass mutt, and I loved that scrappy guy too.”
“But it doesn’t stop there. She’s in my head as I work. I see her now at the most random times. When I’m crossing rapids. Or navigating an uncharted cave. I haven’t said a word to anyone. I haven’t told Trevor because I don’t want him to think I’m off my game. But I feel like something in my head is one degree out of sync.” I meet his gaze, feeling unmoored. “What the hell? Why now?”
He smacks my arm. “For a smart guy, you can be pretty dumb.”
I blink. “What did I miss?”
“You had a near-death experience. It’s called regret, man. All your fucking regrets flashed before your eyes. She’s one of your regrets.”
“Yeah, I get that,” I say quickly, because I truly do. “But am I supposed to do something about this regret? I don’t want to get back together with her. So what the hell is the issue?”
He chuckles lightly. “Well, if you’re not trying to bang her, it seems pretty obvious.”
“Enlighten me.”
He tosses the ball at my stomach. “Maybe you’re supposed to say you’re sorry.”
Catching the ball, I consider that. But not for long because I know he’s right. The letter I carry with me from my dad. His advice about regrets. The unease I feel about how I left Presley. It adds up.
It makes perfect sense.
I’m not here to woo her. I’m not here to flirt. I’m here to apologize. I need to man up and say I’m sorry for the way I coldly, cruelly left.
That’s it. I’ll say my piece, then I can be free again. Free to focus, free to work, free to live the life I want.
“You’re brilliant.”
“I know. So say you’re sorry and move on.”
I have the opportunity to put the plan into action later this morning.
The other night, I told her I’d send a limo to pick her up and take her to the job site.
What I didn’t tell her was that I’d be in it.
10
Presley
He’s waiting on my street, leaning against the shiny black door of a limo.
His aviator shades and a crooked grin grace his face, and he has the faintest trace of stubble. Does the man wake up with a five-o’clock shadow?
Probably.
My jaw tightens because I wasn’t expecting him. All he said in his text was that he’d send a car to take me to the estate outside the city.
But then a smile seems to tickle at my lips.
What’s that all about? I don’t want to see him, so I shouldn’t be smiling.
Or . . . do I want to see him?
All that talk the other night of unfinished business has thrown me for a loop. And today the loop-de-loop is in my belly. It’s a freaking roller coaster in there, swooping up, screaming down.
He whips off those shades.
Those eyes.
Those deep, knowing eyes.
Keep it cool.
Keep him at a distance.
I march up to him. “Good morning. I didn’t realize the offer of a car came with a person attached to it.”
“I guess we’re a package deal.”
“Does that mean you have a little black cap and a suit you wear when you moonlight as a chauffeur?”
He laughs, the lines around his face crinkling as he does. “I’m good at many things, but Lenny is a better driver.”
As if on cue, the driver pops out of his side of the car, takes off his cap, and says, “Good morning, Miss Turner. We have a fine selection of all your favorite beverages and snacks for our drive this morning.”
He starts to make his way around the car, but Hunter holds up a big hand. “I’ll get her door. Thanks, Lenny. You’re the best.”
“I hope you two enjoy the ride.”
Hunter turns, opens the door with a flourish, and gestures grandly for me to slide in.
I do, and I’m not going to lie—this is more than nice.
I don’t have many occasions to ride in luxury. None, actually, and this is heavenly. The seats are soft, buttery leather, the air is perfectly modulated with just the right chill, and the side console is stocked with a thermos of presumably hot water and English breakfast tea bags next to cups, as well as a container of yogurt with pineapple chunks. My chest twinges. He remembered my favorite breakfast foods down to the damn tropical fruit.
