Page 28 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
My heart clenches, and an unexpected tornado of emotions swells inside me. Ripped in half. He’s not supposed to say that.
“It’s . . .” But I don’t know how to finish the thought.
It’s what? It’s nothing? It didn’t hurt? It’s fine?
None of that is true.
Yet his apology unlocks and sets loose something inside me—the idea that he’s the enemy. That he left me callously. Deep down, I think I knew he didn’t mean to hurt me that deeply when he did what we both agreed we’d do all along. But hearing these words ten years later helps me let go of a final shard of anger.
“Listen,” he continues, “I knew leaving was what I had to do. We’d talked about it. I shouldn’t have gotten caught up in imagining any other outcome.”
“It’s easy to get caught up. I was caught up too.” I can admit that now, something I couldn’t do ten years ago, or even a few days ago.
“But I do regret how I handled everything,” he says, his gaze trained on me. “For the longest time, for the whole time we were together, I was so sure we should stick to the original plan—the expiration date. But then I thought we could make it work after all. That was because . . .” He stops to scrub a hand over his jaw. “Because I didn’t want to leave you, Presley. I wanted to believe it could work. But then the expedition with Vikas came up, and I had to just go—cold turkey. I knew the only way I’d get on that plane without you was if I did it clinically. And I had to get on that plane. It was a huge opportunity.”
Tears well in my eyes, and I fight them off. His words dig up so many memories—cruel, yes, but beautiful ones too. “I wanted desperately to make us work too,” I say softly, letting down my guard. “But I understand why you left. I get that it was the chance of a lifetime.” I clear my throat, collecting my emotions. “And you saved someone’s life. It’s the butterfly effect. If you hadn’t taken the job, Vikas Winters might have died. If he’d died, he might not have raised all that money for research. There is great progress being made in the fight against pediatric cancer thanks to him.”
“That’s not what I’m saying, Presley.” He seems firm, resolved.
“What are you saying?”
He lifts a hand, like he’s going to cup my cheek. But he simply takes a deep breath, sets his hands in his lap, and quietly says, “Will you forgive me?”
The earnestness in his eyes breaks apart the remnants of my anger, turning them to dust. “We’re here now. Let’s enjoy it. Let’s put the past behind us.”
“The present. Let’s focus on it,” he repeats. “And maybe we can be friends in the present.”
“Maybe we can.” I inject more hope into my voice than I feel. We won’t become friends, but acting like friends is better than being enemies, and we have to work together after all.
I pour my tea and take a sip, and we spend the rest of the drive planning.
Not once does he flirt, or say I’m pretty, or try to touch my hair.
I hate that I miss all those things.
Once we arrive at the gorgeous home, I stop thinking about Hunter, because the house commands all my attention.
White and stately, with a tall door and classic lines, it speaks of wealth. But the sheer number of windows and the wraparound porch tell me this is a house that must have felt like home to those who lived here.
A caretaker lets us in, with Hunter’s camera crew right behind us.
The home is everything I could want it to be, and I’m sure this project will be the key to turning my career around.
“Let’s start.”
That’s when Hunter starts turning up the charm once again, making me wonder if the charm was ever real to begin with.
11
Hunter
That day, we unearth a whole lot of nothing downstairs, and the crew shoots our finds.
Okay, I might be exaggerating.
It’s not nothing per se.
It’s just not my kind of thing. And I don’t think it’ll make for good TV, which is a wee bit of a problem.
But Presley seems delighted, and I don’t want to rain on her parade, so I do my best to cheerlead.
She catalogs items, including an art nouveau–style bureau, a gilded mirror that looks like it belongs in Jay Gatsby’s home, and a miniature monkey drummer.
“Ooh, that might lure toy collectors,” she says, like she has indeed found gold.
“People collect ancient toys?” I ask, picking up the metal monkey as the crew takes a lunch break. Inspecting it, I find the monkey’s tiny shoe is a perfect circle and inlaid with some sort of raised ribbon etching. I tap it with my fingernail to see what it’s made of. Metal.
