Page 74 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
If I’ve learned anything from the patron saints of true love, it’s that you have to work for it. It doesn’t arrive packaged on your doorstep. You fight, and you try, and you learn, and you grow.
And you make a choice.
Sometimes all you have is a little something, and you’d be a fool to let that go.
Maybe that’s the lesson of the love letters. We’ll never find that last one, but their story changed my heart.
And now it’s been unlocked, freed from its cage. It flies to him. It’s always been his. Maybe the reason I’ve have bad luck with men is I never wanted to fall for anyone else. Maybe I couldn’t. Because my heart was given a long time ago. It’s been his for years.
I run a hand through his hair. “I’m done thinking,” I say, as the cab slaloms past a bus.
His smile lights up the night. “And your conclusion is?”
“You’re mine. I want more than a weekend with you. But if that’s all I can have, I’ll take what I can get. For now.”
His smile is magnetic, bursting with joy. “And if you liked my love letters before, wait till you see what I deliver now.”
Remembering his swoony words from the first time around makes my insides flutter. “I can’t wait.” I’ve also learned the power of the pen on paper when it comes to holding a couple together.
“And I’ll make those weekends worth your while, I promise.”
“Hell, yeah, you will.”
“I’ll take your ‘Hell, yeah,’ and I’ll raise it to a place in Murray Hill. Josh came through. He already snagged it for me from a realtor friend. I just heard from him. We won’t see each other often enough, but we can make this work. Because you’re mine too.”
“We definitely can,” I say, sending a quiet thank you to two lovers from long ago.
Then Hunter arches a brow. “Actually, I have an idea.”
34
Hunter
When she says we can do anything, it hits me. There’s more we can do. More I can do.
As the cab winds along Central Park, I meet her gaze. “This might be crazy, but would you want to come with me?”
She blinks. “What?”
“On my expeditions. We’ll have a blast. We can be together more than an occasional weekend.”
She shoots me a look like I’ve gone nuts. “I have no interest in Everest or the Bering Sea. No matter how good in bed you are.”
I shake my head quickly. “I know, but you wouldn’t need to climb anything or cross any river or what have you. But we could be together more. We could travel together, and you could work on your next book. You could explore art and artifacts all over the world and write about them. You could go to Paris while I do the Alps.” I smack my forehead. “You could go to Florence, and I’ll do extreme heli-skiing. This is brilliant. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. It solves everything.” She has to say yes. How can she say anything but yes?
She sighs sweetly. “I think that sounds lovely, but I like my job. Highsmith has struggled, but we’re starting to turn it around. I want to keep working in auction houses and museums.”
All the air leaks out of me. “You don’t want to write?”
“I do. Of course I do. But I’ve only wanted to write to further my career as an art historian. A book makes me more credible, increases my value. I’m not like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve done everything. You’ve climbed every mountain, you’ve written massive best sellers, you produce and star in your own TV shows—you’ve left your mark. My God, you’ve saved a life. Probably more than one. But me?” She taps her chest. “I’m still trying to figure out what my mark is. I’ve been radioactive in my field, it feels like, but finally my luck might be turning.”
“We can make new luck together,” I urge, hoping she will reconsider. There has to be a way. Another path. “Maybe you can take a sabbatical. You can do some research from the road. We can be together that way. It’s crazy, but maybe not. Maybe it’s what Edward and Greta would have done. What if my next book is some journey I embark on in the US? Some place you’ve been wanting to go for your research. We can be together more.”
She purses her lips, takes a breath. “I want to be together, Hunter. But this is a lot to think about. You’re asking me to quit.”
“No,” I say, my voice rising in volume because I want to make us work. I need to find a way. “I’m saying maybe take a few months off. We can figure it out.”
She takes my hand. “You live in a world where you have complete control. I live in a world where I get a paycheck. And don’t tell me you’ll provide my paycheck, because neither one of us wants that.”
