P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  “Thank you, Kent,” I say. “I appreciate your help.”

  “Good luck, Halston.”

  Ending the call, I perform a quick Google search on Mason Foster—my last remaining avenue to Kerouac.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Ford

  “I can’t get over how different you look,” my sister says. I’ve been back in Brooklyn forty-eight hours now and she hasn’t stopped staring once. “The longer hair, the scruff. The styled, casual outfits. You remind me of a high fashion model. It’s like you left the states and came back someone else completely.”

  “Are you saying I look like shit?”

  “No. I’m saying it’s taking some time to get used to,” she says. “When you left here, you looked like shit. Now you look like you should be walking runways in Paris.”

  She folds her arms, leaning back against the bench we share outside a little park in her neighborhood. Arlo climbs across playground equipment, stopping to wave when he sees us both watching.

  “Hey, buddy!” Nic yells.

  I give a quick wave and a short smile. I’ve missed this kid something fierce, but Nic’s been good about sending pictures and videos.

  “You doing okay though?” she asks a second later.

  “Of course. Having the time of my life.”

  Shielding her eyes with her hand, she cocks her head. “Really, Ford?”

  I nod, concentrating on my nephew. “Yes, Nic. Really.”

  “I call bullshit.”

  “That’s fine. You can call bullshit.”

  “You’re lonely,” she says. “I can see it in your eyes, the way you talk.”

  “How does the way one talks suggest loneliness?”

  “You sound sad.” Nic shrugs. “And you look sad.”

  “I can assure you you’re wrong,” I say. “I’m not sad. Quite the contrary. I’m free as a fucking bird, living life without a care in the world. That means I’m happy.”

  “Maybe you’re not sad, but you’re definitely lonely,” she says.

  “Why are we talking about this again?” I adjust my position, crossing my legs wide and leaning away from her.

  “Because I’m a good big sister, and I care about you.”

  I say nothing. I can’t argue with those facts.

  “Do you ever think about finding someone and settling down?” she asks. “I mean, we’re both in our thirties now. I’d love to find someone special and share my life with them. I can’t imagine you don’t want the same thing.”

  “My mind doesn’t even go there, Nic,” I lie. “Settling down couldn’t be further from my mind.”

  “I don’t mean right now. I’m talking someday,” she says. “Do you want to settle down someday?”

  Someday is a concept that no longer exists for me. When I think about “someday,” I think about missed opportunities, a future in ruins, and everything I’ve had to sacrifice.

  “Uncle Ford, can you pitch for us?” Arlo runs up to the bench, red-cheeked and out of breath, a ball and mitt in his hand. He points toward a group of boys all his age, setting up a makeshift baseball diamond in a grassy area.

  “Sure,” I say, rising. He runs ahead.

  “What are you going to do, Ford?” Nicolette asks.

  “Right now? I’m going to play baseball with my nephew. Tomorrow? I’m going to Amsterdam.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Halston

  Another Year Later …

  “Yes, can I help you?” A narrow-eyed receptionist with jet black hair pulled into a tight, low bun glances up from a reception desk.

  This is Mason Foster’s administrative assistant.

  His gate-keeper.

  The woman who, allegedly, hasn’t been relaying my messages for the past month.

  “I’m here to see Mason Foster,” I say with gumption.

  She reaches for her phone. “Is he expecting you?”

  “He should be,” I say. “I’ve been trying to reach him for weeks.”

  Placing the phone back in the cradle, she bites her lip. “I’m sorry. Unless you have a scheduled appointment, he can’t see you. We have a strict, no-soliciting policy.”

  “I’m not a solicitor,” I say.

  “Then what’s this meeting in regards to?” She bats her thick, dark lashes.

  “I’m going to change his life,” I say, knowing full well I sound insane, but one of the top rules of marketing is to hook the customer within the first several seconds, and I’m already running out of time.

  The girl laughs. I don’t blame her. I would laugh at me too.

  “Trust me, all I need is five minutes of his time,” I say with a wink. “Then I’ll stop with the phone calls and the emails and crazy ex-girlfriend behavior.”

  Her smile fades the second she glances over my shoulder, and when I turn, I see a tall man, a few years older than me, with sandy blond hair and an overwhelming air of arrogance in his step.

  “Mr. Foster,” the receptionist says, sitting straighter.

  “Ming.” He approaches her desk, glancing over the ledge. “Everything all right?”

  “This is the woman that hasn’t stopped calling all month,” she says. “Says she’s going to change your life if she has five minutes of your time.”

  Mason takes a step back, eyeing me from head to toe before a devilish smirk claims his mouth. “I’m not sure whether to have security escort you out or to insist you join me for sushi so I can get to know you better.”

  I think he’s hitting on me.

  Extending his hand, he says, “And you are?”

  “Halston Kessler,” I say. “Owner of Fusion PR. We specialize in promoting tech companies.”

  “Beautiful name,” he says, “for a beautiful woman.”

  “Flattery is not necessary, Mr. Foster,” I say, releasing his handshake and trying to imagine Mason and Kerouac side by side at Thanksgiving dinner, wondering how they interact and if they keep in touch.

  “So tell me, Halston,” he asks, “would you care to join me for lunch?”

  If it means getting his attention, then yes. “I’d love to.”

  “Perfect. I’ll drive.” Mason nods toward the elevator, and I follow. “We’re in the market for a new PR firm.”

  “I know. I saw the ad in the Silicon Register.” Two months ago, Lila and I graduated from Greatwood, loaded up our little cars, and road tripped it to Silicon Valley to start up our PR firm. We figured a specialized firm in a location with loaded locals was going to be a recipe for success, and with my degree in Public Relations and her degree in Information Technology, our business plan practically wrote itself.

  For now, we work out of a two-bedroom basement apartment we share in a shitty side of town, but our lease is month-to-month and as soon as we land a few contracts, we’re going to upgrade our digs and get an actual office.

  The elevator deposits us in a basement parking garage, and Mason leads us to a parked Ferrari. Bright red. The shiniest thing I’ve ever seen, even in dimly lit surroundings.

  “Hop in,” he says with a wink.

  This was almost too easy.

  My heart races when I think of Kerouac and how insane it is that I’m spending time with his stepbrother or ex-stepbrother or whatever their dynamic is. I’ll figure it all out soon. I don’t want to rush this, don’t want to make it obvious.

  I’ll work for Mason, get to know him, and maybe one of these days I’ll see Kerouac.

  Even if it’s just in passing, even if it’s a photograph or a conversation … I’ll settle for that because it’s better than nothing.

  The never knowing is what kills me.

  And as soon as I know, I can finally move on.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Ford

  If I’m lucky, I won’t remember any of this tomorrow.

  My vision blurs as I scroll through Halston’s Facebook page, one finger on the trackpad of my laptop and the other hand wrapped around a long neck bottle of Guinness as I recline against t
he headboard of a Belfast hotel bed.

  For four years I’ve held strong.

  I haven’t so much as Googled the woman who ruined my life—despite the fact that I’ve thought about her every single fucking day. It has taken all the power I had not to dig anything up on her since leaving Rosefield, not to go down that rabbit hole.

  It was always for the best.

  No good could come from that, from ruminating in what-might-have-been.

  But tonight, on the eve of her twenty-third birthday, I find myself missing her more than usual, unable to stop myself from seeking the answers to the questions I’ve asked for the past four years: What is she up to? How is she? Is she happy? Did she find someone new?

  My self-control is pathetically non-existent, and six beers later, I’ve typed her name into a search engine and found a few limited results.

  Her social media is pretty sparse, her pages private and locked down so tight I can’t even see her friends list or where she lives. Her Facebook profile picture, a photo of her with a grinning dark-haired girl draped around her shoulders, hasn’t been updated in fifteen months, and the rest of her photos are pretty non-telling.

  Halston smiling in front of some sculpture.

  Halston standing in the middle of a group of friends at someone’s wedding.

  Halston volunteering at a soup kitchen.

  She seems happy in all of them, and fuck, is she still just as gorgeous as before, if not more so.

  Her hair is longer, her jade eyes brighter, her bombshell figure just as curvaceous. I can almost taste her berry-sweet lips on my tongue, can almost feel her soft hair in my fingers.

  I take another swig of Guinness, emptying the bottle. My eyes blur, my vision darkening. In a few minutes, I’ll pass out.

  Erasing my internet history, I slam the lid of my laptop down and place the empty bottle on the nightstand. She may have ruined me, but I still love her, and that’s what hurts the most.

  Closing my eyes, I try to relax until I’m overcome with a heavy stupor that sinks me into a black oblivion.

  Here’s to forgetting, if only for a little while.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Ford

  Another Year Later …

  “Lighten up, Fordie.” My sister straightens my tie and dusts specks of invisible lint from my shoulders before smiling.

  We’re in Sag Harbor for our cousin Bristol’s five-day wedding extravaganza, which isn’t exactly my idea of a good time, but she made me an usher and made Arlo a junior groomsman, and she happens to be our only cousin on our father’s side, so here we fucking are.

  “I don’t know how you can be so flippant right now.” My jaw tightens, throbbing as it has been all week. “It’s going to take all the strength I have not to punch him in the face the second I see him.”

  Nicolette laughs. “Not true. I know you, and you’re not going to do that because this is your favorite cousin’s wedding that your favorite aunt and uncle are spending a small fortune on, so you’re not going to cause a scene.”

  “Aunt Cecily ceased to be my favorite aunt when she decided to become best friends with Catherine.” I haven’t said our former stepmother’s name in I don’t know how long.

  Nic rolls her eyes. “Still. You’re a class act, Ford. You always have been. Just go out there, catch up with our old friends and family. And in a few days, you’ll be free to go back to … where are you staying now?”

  “Prague.” I groan. “I’ve told you this. And after that, I’m going to London.”

  “I can barely keep track of my ten-year-old. You expect me to keep track of you?” she asks. Nicolette steps back, inspecting my suit and tie. “You look nice, brother. Still hard to get used to you with the longer hair.”

  I run my fingertips along the sides of my head, combing my hair into place. I’ve grown out my classic crew cut in favor of something a little more relaxed, something I can muss into place in the morning and go. Plus, the shorter hair was a reminder of the life I left behind, and the last thing I need is to be reminded of everything I lost five years ago …

  My house. My job. My reputation. My career.

  Her.

  I’m not sure why Bristol’s wedding has me thinking of Halston, but today she’s particularly prominent in my thoughts. And sometimes those thoughts are so heavy, I can feel them. Physically feel them.

  They’re heavy today.

  “Arlo, you ready yet? We gotta go.” Nic yells toward the hotel bathroom. “God, he takes forever in there and he’s only ten. What’s it going to be like when he’s sixteen?!”

  The lock on the door pops and Arlo steps out in slacks and a cashmere sweater, his blond curls combed straight and parted on the left.

  “My baby.” Nicolette strides toward him, cupping his face in her hands. His eyes widen and he looks to me for help, but all I can do is fight a smirk. “You’re so grown up. Oh, my goodness. Stop growing. Stay little forever.”

  Arlo tries to squirm away when my sister wraps him in her arms.

  Checking my watch, I clear my throat. “We should head down. The mixer started a half hour ago.”

  Only Aunt Cecily could extend an hour-long wedding into a five-day event. Tonight’s the mixer, tomorrow’s the clam bake, Friday’s the rehearsal dinner, Saturday’s the wedding and reception, and Sunday is the wedding brunch, which I didn’t even know was a thing.

  Nic checks her reflection in the mirror, smoothing her hands down her sides before turning to check her ass.

  Shameless.

  “You trying to meet someone tonight?” I ask as we head toward the hallway.

  “You never know who you’re going to meet at these things,” she says. “Five of my friends met their future spouses at other people’s weddings.”

  We stand in front of an elevator bay, watching Arlo press the down button repeatedly.

  “I didn’t know you were looking,” I say. My sister and I are close, but we seldom discuss her love life. I suppose I’ve always assumed she was content to be Arlo’s mom because she never alluded otherwise.

  “I’m always looking, Ford,” she says as the elevator doors ding and slide open. “Isn’t everyone?”

  I frown for a second before shaking my head. “I’m not.”

  “That’s right. You have impossible standards,” she says, exhaling and staring up at the mirrored ceiling as we ride to the bottom floor. “Hate to break it to you, but the girl of your dreams? She doesn’t exist. I’ve yet to meet a feisty, opinionated blonde who reads Proust and swears like a sailor.”

  The elevator slows to a gentle stop and the doors part. Nic and Arlo step off, making a beeline for a table covered in hor d’oeuvres.

  Ahead stands none other than Mason Foster with a beautiful woman draped on his arm. Her curved body wears a slip dress that plunges low in the back and shimmers like diamond dust, and her hair, smooth as glass and the color of melted chocolate, hits just below her collarbone. A champagne glass rests lightly between her delicate fingertips, and she nods when Mason leans close and whispers in her ear.

  But when she turns toward the elevator, her expression disappears the second her wild green gaze lands on mine.

  It’s Halston. All grown up.

  My heart thunders in my chest, but I walk past her. I don’t stop. I can’t.

  I keep moving.

  I may have loved that woman once, but that was a lifetime ago—before she destroyed me. And how she ended up with Mason is none of my fucking concern.

  Removing my gaze from her womanly curves and her juicy mouth the color of ripe strawberries, I make my way to the end of the bar, order a double vodka, and lose myself in the crowded ballroom the rest of the night.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Halston

  It worked.

  I found him.

  I finally found him.

  My skin is flushed, the room feverish. Mason won’t stop touching me. He pulls me from aunt to uncle to cousin to grandmother, introducing me as “
My Halston” despite the fact that we’re not together.

  I’m simply his wedding date, a work colleague he’s been chasing for the better part of a year.

  “Uncle Roger,” Mason says, pulling me by the hand to a cozy corner of a giant ballroom. “Have you met my Halston?”

  Roger is a tall man with slick, silver hair and a devious smirk. He takes my hand from Mason, lifting it to his mouth and depositing a kiss, like I’m some noblewoman.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Halston,” he says. “We hope you’re enjoying yourself so far? I know my daughter, Bristol, was looking forward to meeting you. She’s around here somewhere.”

  “This is a beautiful venue,” I say. “And I look forward to meeting her as well.”

  Mason rests his hands on my hips. I brush them off without making a scene.

  Every few seconds, I can’t help but to scan the room, looking for Kerouac again. I’m not entirely convinced I wasn’t daydreaming a little while ago.

  He was there, stepping off the elevator in a navy suit, his hair slightly grown out. Our eyes locked for an endless second. And then he was gone.

  My body’s acting like I just finished a marathon, heart racing, adrenaline pumping, mouth dry, so I take another sip of champagne to quell my nerves, but I’m going to need something stronger.

  “Mason!” A girl with long auburn hair, dressed in head to toe Lilly Pulitzer, squeals before running toward us and wrapping her arms around him. “How have you been? Oh my gosh. Is this her?”

  I lift a brow while maintaining a graceful smile.

  “Hi, I’m Bristol,” she says, hesitating before giving me a hug. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Shooting Mason a look, I pretend to be amused. “And what exactly has he been saying?”

  “Oh, Aunt Constance!” Bristol rises on her toes, waving to another guest across the room. “I’m so sorry. I’ll catch up with you guys later, okay?”