Page 43 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
Like Hunter said last night.
You’re going to be a superstar. It will happen. Mark my words.
I don’t believe he’s right, but still—his unwavering faith in me is addictive. I want to inhale it, bathe in it, roll around in it.
Maybe the proposal I should be writing isn’t about heists; maybe it’s about the things we hold precious. If I can nurture that idea, perhaps I can put Highsmith back on the map, and, by extension, myself. Maybe then, when I’ve accomplished something interesting, something fascinating, I’ll start hearing back from places like the Whitney. It’s been radio silence from them, so that’s yet another job I likely won’t nab.
I need to stay the course on this assignment. It’s my first big chance in ages.
All I have to do is keep this uncontrollable heart of mine in its cage a little longer. Because Hunter stands between the present and the future I want.
I center myself, roll my shoulders, and take a deep, fueling breath.
Let go of the kiss. Let go of him.
I reach for another arrow, laser-focused on the center of the target.
The arrow flies, and it misses by a mile.
As I leave my apartment that morning, I run into Francesca on the stairwell.
She purses her ruby-red lips then shoots me a simmering stare, since that’s her favorite kind. “Tonight, tonight,” she sings. “Will I see you tonight at the fiesta of mind-bending art?”
“It’s tonight?”
“Yes, tonight is Friday,” she says, and evidently the days of the week are blending into each other like pools. “You should come. So many single art-loving, brilliant male conversationalists who are exceedingly eager to meet captivating women.”
“Do you run an art gallery or an adjunct arm for a matchmaking site?”
“Perhaps both,” she says coyly.
“Then I really do want to come to your event.”
“Of course you do,” she says, fluttering her hands for dramatic effect, I presume. “It’s good for the brain and the heart, and maybe certain other organs,” she says, her voice low on the last statement.
Figuring it’ll take my mind off Hunter at the very least, I shrug gamely. “I’ll come to your sausage fest, then.”
“You won’t regret it for a second. I’m expecting some rather handsome and cosmopolitan members of the opposite sex. And I’ve no doubt by the end of the night, you’ll have met a delicious creature you want to take home and bang so loudly, I’ll cheer you on from next door.”
I raise a brow. “Will you though? Root for me?”
She nods savagely as we reach the street. “Absolutely. I’ll shout Go, Presley through the paper-thin walls.”
Laughing, I wave goodbye.
With Francesca and her sausage promises in the rearview mirror I head to meet Hunter.
As I picture him, my nerves skyrocket. I’m a jittery, fluttery mess.
But this won’t do. I need to stay the course with him too. So, I turn to someone steady. Truly, texting her as I walk.
* * *
Presley: Sooooo . . . here’s the thing. What’s your advice on how to get my power back after I gave it up last night?
* * *
Truly: Gave it all up? Is there something you’re hiding from me? Because I need to know what you gave up, girl! And was it good, or oh so good?
* * *
Cracking up, I stop at a crosswalk, replying to my friend.
* * *
Presley: Sorry to get your hopes up, pervy girl. That probably sounded tawdrier than it was.
* * *
Truly: I love tawdry tales. Please tell me something thrilling and exciting.
* * *
Presley: As if your life isn’t already thrilling and exciting. You’re about to pop out a baby.
* * *
Truly: That means it was thrilling and exciting eight months ago when this baby was made! I left my tawdry days behind me when my belly started imitating a Mack Truck. But enough about me. Tell me what you gave up last night, and how the hell was it?
* * *
Sighing, I cross the street, marching up Park Avenue as morning rush-hour traffic chugs along.
* * *
Presley: Picture this. The first time I saw him, I was Colonel Badass, keeping all my secrets close to the vest. Last night, I was Sergeant Serve It All Up. I told him that I wasn’t involved, that I don’t have a boyfriend, and that my career hasn’t quite panned out the way I wanted. I told him that he broke my heart. I told him the truth.
* * *
Two seconds later, my phone trills.
I answer.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey.”
“So, what happened?”
“I don’t know, Truly. We started talking and it was always so easy to talk to him, and I tried to be tough and strong and not let him in, but the truth is I kind of like letting him in.” Saying that feels like a crime against my past. But it also feels freeing.
“Oh, sweetie.”
My shoulders sag. “I’m screwed, right?”
