Page 42 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
“Sure. Count me in.”
“If they have an extra ticket, should I hold on to it for you? I could invite Marisa’s daughter. Or Denise’s daughter. Did I tell you she’s a marathoner? Oh! Idea!” She raises her finger in the delight of discovery. “You could take up marathoning. Maybe do all the big marathons in the United States. Boston, New York, Chicago.” She rattles them off. “That sounds quite adventurous.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You already have my yes to the gala.”
Rubbing her hands together, she mutters like a movie villain as she and the dog head to the front door. “I’ll keep working on your other yeses.”
She will. I’m sure of that. She said it herself—she’s on a mission.
And on that count, it’s safe to say I’m a lot like her too.
After I’m showered and dressed, I slide into the back seat of the car and text my cousin on the ride into the city.
* * *
Hunter: Guess what? I did that whole “say you’re sorry” thing and it didn’t work.
* * *
Josh: Did she smack you upside the head like everybody else wants to do?
* * *
Hunter: Good guess. But no. The apology didn’t work FOR ME.
* * *
Josh: What do you mean?
* * *
Hunter: I don’t think that’s my regret—whether I’d said I was sorry. Don’t get me wrong. I needed to say it. But that isn’t what’s messing with my head.
* * *
Josh: Which brings us to “What’s behind door number two?” I suspect I know what it is.
* * *
Hunter: Me too.
* * *
Josh: So you realized you regret ending things because you still have a whole lot of feelings for this woman?
* * *
I lean back against the seat, reading his words, staring at the stark truth of them. Maybe I knew that ever since the near-fatal jump, but perhaps I needed to see it written in black-and-white.
I know now why she won’t leave my head.
Because my heart still beats for this woman. Too bad she made it clear there’s no room in her life for me.
* * *
Hunter: Seems I do. And that’s a whole other kettle of fish.
* * *
Josh: But shouldn’t you know how to catch those?
* * *
Hunter: Trouble is, I don’t think I can catch this one.
* * *
Josh: My condolences, then. Nothing worse than wanting someone you can’t have.
* * *
Hunter: Indeed.
* * *
Soon the car pulls up to a mansion in Lenox Hill.
When Presley comes into view, the words are on the tip of my tongue. I’m not over you.
I’m not over you one bit.
18
Presley
I read the email again, now that I’m wide awake.
Nine in the morning would be perfect, and we’re so delighted to have you visit.
As soon as I saw the message at dawn, I texted Hunter, asking if he could meet me at nine.
He replied with a fast yes, saying he was out for a run but would be ready in time.
Exercise sounds wise to me too.
I get out of bed and go straight to the archery range. Alone, I take aim. My vision narrows to a tight, neat line. Nothing exists but the target in my crosshairs. I am a sniper. This is what I need to do before I see that man.
With the precision that comes from ten years of practice, ten years of habit, I pull back the bow and let the arrow fly. In less than a second, the head of the arrow lodges into the center of the target with a satisfying thwack. I let out a soft “Yes” that only I can hear.
I never set out to be an archer. Archery wasn’t on the long list of things I wanted to learn: how to speak Mandarin (everyone needs to, I’m convinced), how to pick a lock (this would be a fun party trick), and how to do a killer smoky eye (because . . . sexy).
But shooting an arrow? Nope.
Archery found me instead, and I stuck with it because the routine turned out to be the best therapy. I showed up at the range. I learned how to fire an arrow. I refined my technique. Archery gave me structure when I wanted to curl up and cry. I’ve always done well with structure. That’s why I liked school—for the order and the organization.
Nowadays, order is the counterweight to my chaotic, uncontrollable career, and structure balances this wild heart of mine.
I love all stories, because I love understanding human nature. That’s why I studied art history, a prism of real stories. My field shines a light on what makes people tick through the things that they hold precious: their art, their artifacts, and their collectibles.
Like the letter.
The letter from Edward and Greta feels precious.
Just thinking of it sends tingles down my spine.
The letter might lead to some new spark of an idea for a book.
