Page 47 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
* * *
I expected doe eyes and a quiet disposition.
* * *
You had neither. Your sharp blue eyes were shrewd and clever.
* * *
The ringmaster introduced you. You nodded, said hello, and parked your hands on your hips. On your lips you wore the reddest gloss; in your eyes sparked a fire burning brightly like I’d never seen. You were so determined, and later I learned why.
* * *
You held up your wrist with a slim silver bracelet on it. “This was my brother’s. It means a lot to me. Don’t slice it off.”
* * *
I gulped. Not because I was scared of hurting you. I knew I wouldn’t. I was precise. I swallowed roughly because, in those first words you uttered, I was struck with the realization that I had to make you mine. You were so fearless.
* * *
“I won’t take a thing that you don’t want to lose,” I said, and your lips twitched in the hint of a smile.
* * *
You arched a brow. “Good. That’s the way I like it. It should be my choice.” So challenging you were.
* * *
“Always,” I replied. “Always your choice.”
* * *
“As choices should be.” You winked, turned around, and marched in your high heels, wearing your silver-sequined leotard and a crisp pink ribbon tied in your hair. At the wall, you turned, raised your hands above your head, and said, “Let’s see what you have.”
* * *
I’d never been so enthralled. I imagined the crowd on your first night. I imagined they would be equally captivated by your nerves of steel.
* * *
Was that even possible though? Could anyone be as captivated as I? Because I was entirely taken with my target girl. You were so confident, so daring.
* * *
I needed to show you that I was worthy, that I alone was the sharpest, most precise knife-thrower you’d ever worked with. All my years as a boy learning from my best friend Jack would pay off.
* * *
I would be your match, the Silver Blade to your Pink Ribbon Girl.
* * *
I lined up my knife, sharp and glittery-edged, took ten paces, narrowed my eyes, raised my arm, cocked my wrist, and then one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.
* * *
I threw each one at you, my intrepid Greta.
* * *
One lodged next to your thigh. Another between your legs. Still another by your shoulder, stabbing a neat line into the wood behind you. You were a statue, a gorgeous, implacable statue.
* * *
And one more. I threw the tenth blade cleanly into the pink ribbon above your beautiful blonde head.
* * *
When I was through, I walked over to you, removing each blade one by one. I met your eyes, those gleaming irises, and you whispered to me, “Do it again.”
* * *
I shuddered. That was the only time I shuddered, and it was from you. Never from the knives, never from the risk. But from your fire, your daring heart, your adventuresome spirit.
* * *
I was determined to find a way to make you mine forever. I still am.
* * *
Do you remember that night too?
* * *
Love,
Your Edward
September 1920
* * *
My Dearest Edward,
* * *
Do you have any idea how strong my nerves of steel truly are? Did you know that the moment I met you, the second you accepted my challenge, I trembled?
* * *
Because of you. I knew from your eyes, your fearlessness, and your will that I would fall for you, and that was the only thing that ever scared me.
* * *
But I had to stay strong. I’d only ever worked with my brother, and when he passed, I had to be stronger, tougher, able to pair up with someone new. Someone I’d never known. For a woman to support her family was unheard of. But that was my purpose there, to take care of Claudia. Who else could but me? Our parents are gone.
* * *
You needed a new target girl; I needed someone who’d throw blades at me without nicking an eyelash. It wasn’t your skill that won me over. It was your heart, later that night, so tender and so freely given.
* * *
You might remember how you didn’t slice off my bracelet, but I recall the moment when I learned you did indeed have nerves. You came to my trailer, knocked on the door, and said hello.
* * *
I opened the door. Your hands were behind your back, and when you revealed them, you held a bouquet of daisies, and your fingers shook the slightest bit. That was the only time I ever saw your hands shake, when you said, “Good evening, Greta. I would like to take you to dinner.” And that—that little shudder in your wrist—was what told me that you had both the fearlessness that I longed for and the heart I never knew I wanted.
