P.S. It’s Always Been You: A Second Chance Romance

by Lauren Blakely

  Presley imitates me, turning her voice into a booming call to the gods of secret compartments and trapdoors. “Or please just send us a case of moon pies.”

  She lowers her arm as I lower the sign and tuck it under my arm. “You’re making me sad and hungry. I haven’t had a moon pie in ages.”

  “They don’t have moon pies on Everest?”

  “Hey, I go places other than Everest,” I say as we stroll across the alley. “Don’t make it seem like I’m such a homebody, hanging out on the same peak all the time.” I gesture to a bench outside a café and we grab it, parking ourselves, and I set the sign on the ground.

  “How many times have you climbed it now?”

  I look at the cloudless sea of blue above, considering the question.

  Her jaw unhinges. “Are you kidding me? You have to think? You’ve climbed it so many times you don’t know the number?”

  I arch a brow. “Is four a lot?”

  Her sea-blue eyes widen to teacup-size, and she holds up a finger. “One is a lot, Captain Adventure. One.”

  I grab her finger, bring it to my lips, and nibble on it. “One time up Everest is a piece of . . . moon pie.”

  Yanking her finger back, she laughs then slumps against the bench with a sigh. “Where haven’t you been, Hunter? You’ve seen the world. You’ve visited the sky. Where do you want to go?”

  Scrubbing a hand across my jaw, I click through a mental slideshow of the land I haven’t touched. “Socotra Island in Yemen has these weird plants that look like aliens. I wouldn’t mind checking them out. Or maybe Ittoqqortoormiit, Greenland. It’s this picturesque, tiny town where you go to see the Northern Lights. What about you?”

  “I’m a simpler woman. Take me to Paris and I’d be the happiest camper around. You’d find me lost in the halls of the Louvre or the d’Orsay. Take me to Florence and I’ll spend days in the Uffizi.” Her eyes go a little hazy, and I suspect she’s off in Europe right now, visiting her favorite paintings. She turns to me. “You’d be terribly bored as I stared at art, but I could do it all day.”

  I quash that notion. “I wouldn’t be bored, because you don’t just stare. You study it and soak it all in. It’s fascinating watching your reaction to art and artifacts. Even the hairbrush. You held it like it was a thing of wonder.”

  “It felt that way to me,” she says, then gazes in the distance. “But so many things do. There’s also a part of me that would love to explore this country. Take a road trip. Stop in small towns. See all the little artifacts and art and collectibles that tell you about the people there.”

  The slideshow becomes a movie reel—the open road, a red convertible, the top down. We’d stop in towns with flags hanging above storybook general stores and drive along main streets with fat clocks on green streetlamps. The concrete ribbon would unfurl, and neon signs above diners would beckon from the exit ramp.

  “That sounds exactly like your speed. I can picture it. I can picture us,” I say, because I can.

  She shoots me a curious look but sidesteps my idea, asking, “But what about you? What would you actually do if you visited the plants in Yemen or the tiny town in Greenland? Don’t you like to be moving, going, doing?”

  I noodle on her point for a few seconds, humming. “You may be right. Maybe that’s why I haven’t gone to either place.”

  She sets a hand on my thigh, resting it there, and I can’t look away from her hand on me as she talks. “You don’t want to see things,” she says. “You want to do things. You didn’t go to Svalbard to see polar bears. You went there to trek across icebergs. You didn’t go to Indonesia to take photos of the Mount Kerinci volcano. You went to hike up it, even though it might have erupted. You can’t slow down.”

  “You think I can’t?” I ask as I stare at her hand on my leg, wondering if she placed it there out of a long-ago habit, or if this is our new normal after last night?

  “No. You can’t, and you know it. It’s who you are. It’s your intrinsic core self.”

  “And your intrinsic core self is that woman in the shop, driven to understand the significance of a hairbrush.” I settle my hand over hers, threading our fingers together. She lets me, opening easily, and this feels important. A gesture that means the something between us encompasses more than last night. It’s about holding hands on a bench. It’s about understanding each other. It’s about savoring every second we’re together.

  She gasps, letting go of my hand and snapping me out of my head. “The hairbrush! The globe! How did I not see this at first?” She grabs my arm, squeezing hard. “The globe in the Exploration Society. It has to be the one they talked about in the letter, where they put their hands on the globe and talked about all the places they wanted to go, and then kissed across the world.”

  A smile ignites inside me. This woman. The way her mind works. “You’re brilliant. Everything has been hidden in things that mattered to them. The next one must be too. But in what? Not a moon pie, we’ve learned.”

  “They hid the letters in places that would last. Did you hear Pat say he’d owned the shop forever? I bet they hid it in his shop because they knew he’d never be kicked out, since he owns it. So, the last one has to be someplace similar. Except I don’t think we’ll know till we figure out more of the clue. We’ll put our heads together today as we go to the house. It starts with ‘last show.’ They clearly performed again, no matter what Pat says.” She grabs my knee. “Is this the miracle knee?”

  “It’s magic,” I say with a crooked grin.

  “You are such a lucky bastard. You don’t even have a single wound.”

  “I have scars from plenty of other near misses; rockfalls; and close escapes from bears, gators, and very angry rivers, thank you very much.”

  “Again, lucky bastard.” She takes a beat, then her lips curve up. “But that’s a good thing. I’m glad you’re able to run from bears and rivers. I want you to do those crazy things.”

  “You do?” I ask because . . . holy shit, she does? No one has ever wanted me to. No one in my life sees it this way.

  “Of course.” She’s matter-of-fact about it. “Those crazy things make you happy. They make you you.”

  And that’s when I know.

  That’s when I’m certain. This is my second chance. This is my mulligan, and I can’t let it pass me by.

  “Let’s do the road trip. Then we’ll get on a flight to Paris. We’ll go to Florence.” I swear, a ray of sunlight bursts in my chest. I can see it so clearly, can picture her there, picture us everywhere. I don’t know how, but we’ll figure it out.

  “We?” Her eyes are full of question marks.

  “We. I’ll take you everywhere,” I say, and yes, this is how we do it. We write a new adventure. This is my second chance at what I botched ten years ago.

  “Hunter,” she says, and the message in my name is clear—Don’t go there unless you want to stay there.

  “I mean it,” I say firmly, gripping her hand.

  She shakes her head. “I don’t want to do this right now.”

  “When, then? When can we get into this?”

  She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “You can’t just say all these things. This is crazy. We’re not those people.”

  “We’re different people. We’re these people.” I can’t live without the woman I regret leaving. I can’t stand not loving her. I slide a hand into her hair, look her in the eyes, and say, “We can do this, because I’m in love with you, Presley.”

  31

  Presley

  No way.

  There is no way he said what I think he said.

  I’m dreaming. I’m hallucinating.

  Perhaps I have a fever. I’m a little warm. Maybe my temperature has spiked to 104.

  “How?” I ask, shaky. It’s all I can say. All I can think.

  He grips my hand harder, like he’s trying to impart his certainty to me. “I’m in love with you the way a man loves a woman when he can’t stop thinking about her, when he
can’t stop touching her, when he can’t stop wanting to be with her.” His gaze never strays from mine. “That’s how I’m in love with you.”

  Is this real? Or has New York City turned to an emerald-green land with lush waterfalls and dappled forests? Because his words are as incongruous as a tropical paradise in the middle of Manhattan.

  Yet . . . that’s what he’s offering me, and I’m dying to dive in.

  “In less than a week?” I ask, incredulous. “You fell in love with me in less than a week?”

  He laughs and tucks a strand of hair over my ear. “Ten years, six months, one week, give or take.”

  My heart thunders, a wild herd of horses galloping in my chest, reckless and dangerous. “What are you saying, Hunter?”

  “I’m saying I was in love with you once upon a time, and I’ve fallen in love with you again. Being with you like this, seeing you, spending time with you . . . it reminds me that it’s always been you.”

  My chest swoops. My heart grows wings and soars, luxuriating in this big, wonderful feeling. This foolish and spectacular feeling.

  Be cautious. You’ve been here before.

  I try to tap the brakes. “Are you saying that because of Edward and Greta?”

  “You mean, is the way I feel a side effect of their romance? Like secondhand smoke?”

  “Yes, is this secondhand love?”

  He laughs and rests his forehead against mine, a move that’s so tender, so sweet, I nearly fall apart right here. “Secondhand love has a nice ring to it. But no, this isn’t because of them. It’s because of you. And yes, hearing their story reminds me there are people I don’t want to lose.”

  I feel like I’ve drunk starlight and am glowing from light-years away. I so want to tell him I love him madly too. But I’m petrified that something will go wrong. Something will fall to pieces.

  Because . . . he’s made these promises before. He’s told me before that we can stay on an island, drink from coconuts, and bask in afternoon naps in hammocks.

  How is this different?

  How?

  “Hunter?” I ask, softly, tracing lines down his bare arm. “How is this different than last time?”

  “Because I’m not that stubborn, ambition-or-bust twenty-seven-year-old. Because I know myself now, and I know what I want. I know what it’s like to lose you, and I can’t let that happen again.”

  His words are as beautiful as a picture, but he’s given me words before, and their looks can be deceiving.

  I close my eyes, trying to hold on to intellect, to reason. When I open my eyes, I tell myself to think rationally.

  I survey the scene around me. Caribaldi’s Firelight PlayHouse. Down the street is the Silverlight one. On the next block, just around the corner is The Great Escape Theater.

  I repeat the names in my head, and everything comes into focus.

  I snap my gaze back to Hunter, whispering the words I’ve memorized. “Do you want to know the final chapter of the story? If you do, then you must go to the site of our last show together. You will find it there, but it’s not what you think. It might seem like a grand chronicle, but it’s not a tale of our ride by the silvery light of midnight, nor the story of our daring great escape. It’s something else entirely.”

  “What is it?”

  Standing, I flap my hands wildly. “Silverlight Theater. Great Escape Theater. The Grand Fountain Theater. Those are mentioned in the letter. For all intents and purposes.”

  His eyes pop as the pattern becomes clear, like words levitating from a page and making themselves known. “They named the places where the letter isn’t. We just need to figure out which ones aren’t mentioned.”

  “That’s easy. We’ll Google the theaters they own. Then we’ll have to come up with a plan to . . . canvas a handful of Broadway theaters tonight?” I laugh, floating on the thrill of this new clue revealing where to go next. “But we can do it.”

  “We definitely can. And I bet one of them has a sign in the lobby selling moon pies,” he offers, the corner of his lips hooking into a grin.

  “Yes! That has to be it.”

  “And this . . . this is why I love you. Your brain. Your beautiful, gorgeous brain never stops working, and I love it. I love it, and I love you.” He grabs my face and presses hungry lips to mine like he’s devouring my resistance as he kisses me. He probably is.

  He definitely is.

  I break the kiss, laying a hand on his chest. “You can’t say these things. You’re trying to make me fall in love with you all over again too.”

  “Good. It’s working, then.” His devilish grin makes my stomach flip. “And we need to figure out which theater the last letters are in.”

  “We do. But do you know what this means?” I ask, energized by the chase once more.

  His lips twitch. “I do, smarty-pants. It means Edward and Greta performed again.”

  “That’s the height of romance.” I can feel that swoon coming over me once more as I think about their love story.

  Hunter’s phone trills. He grabs it from his pocket and sighs. “Lenny. He’s looking for me. Driving around, wondering where to pick me up.”

  My eyes widen. “And Daniel wanted to join us at the estate today.”

  “We’ll talk on the way,” Hunter says as he replies to Lenny with our location.

  But talking on the way doesn’t happen. Daniel calls me, asking us to swing by and pick him up.

  We don’t catch a moment alone all day, not with Daniel as our third wheel, and he’s utterly delighted by everything in the home as we finish up the job.

  Later, Daniel slides into the car to return to the city, and I tell my boss I’ll join him shortly.

  Outside the house, I grab a moment with Hunter.

  “I’m going to head to my mom’s house since it’s a few minutes away,” he tells me. “My tux is there. But I’ll see you tonight for the gala. Can you meet me early, in the theater district? We can search there in the three remaining theaters.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” I say with a coy smile, even though I don’t feel coy in the least. I feel buoyant and also terrified. I don’t know which one will win out.

  “Good. And I want to talk tonight. We need to figure out what we’re doing,” he says as a warm breeze blows through the maple trees outside the Valentina estate. “I’m leaving in two days, honey.”

  That’s the problem.

  He’s leaving. He’ll always be leaving.

  And I’ll always be staying.

  And really, nothing has changed.

  He’s still promising we’ll somehow magically make it work.

  I want to believe him, but I’m ten years wiser, and magic doesn’t make love last.

  Work does.

  For now, I give him a professional goodbye and head to the car, where Daniel chats animatedly about how well this project has gone, the calls he’s fielding because of it, how it’s definitely putting Highsmith and us—he keeps saying us—back on the map again.

  “That’s so great,” I say, because it is, because this is what I’ve longed for professionally.

  But personally, my mind is elsewhere.

  Once I’m back in the city at my apartment, I try to breathe, but I’m finding it nearly impossible.

  Not when Hunter’s told me everything my traitorous heart longed to hear.

  I shut and lock the door behind me, march to my bed, yank the nightstand drawer open, and read his note from years ago.

  * * *

  Dear Presley,

  * * *

  You.

  I think of you.

  I dream of you.

  I want so much more of you.

  * * *

  I trace the words, wondering how Greta felt when Edward told her he was coming for her. Is Hunter my Edward? Or is he still the man who broke my heart? Does he simply want more of me, or is he willing to figure out how to have me?

  I have no idea, so I call reinforcements, dialing Truly. When she answ
ers, I blurt out, “Can people change?”

  “What happened, sweetie? Tell me everything.”

  “He said he loves me. He said he’s fallen in love with me again. He said . . .”

  I don’t finish because she tells me she’s already hailing a cab.

  Fifteen minutes later, I buzz her up.

  I’ve never been happier to see my friend, especially because, in a heartbeat, all these emotions bubble up, spill over, and turn into a sea of tears.

  “Do you love him?” she asks as we settle on the couch, a glass of wine in my hand, raspberry tea in hers.

  I lick my lips and shrug.

  “Liar.”

  “Why is that a lie?”

  “You know why. This is not a question you’re unsure about. Do you love him?”

  I gulp in all the air in the city. “I think I do. That’s the problem.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t know if he’s changed. He’s promising the same things he promised ten years ago. It’s all stories and hope. But what if he breaks my heart again?”

  “Only you can decide whether to take that risk. All I can say is cross-examine his ass and make sure he’s changed before you say yes.”

  I don’t know if he has.

  But I know this: I have. I’m going to protect my heart before I give it away again to someone who already has the lock and key.

  First, though, I have to do something.

  After all, there are certain rules a woman should always follow.

  Definitely never show up to see the ex unless you can walk in like you own the place.

  32

  Hunter

  There is hardly time.

  But where there’s a will, there’s a way.

  I adjust my bow tie, bound down the steps, and give my mother, dressed in her champagne gown, a peck on the forehead. “You look beautiful. I’ll see you there, Mom.”