P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

The air in the reception hall is thick and stale, a mix of perfumes and colognes and kitchen fumes. Heading outside so I can fucking breathe, I spot Mason walking toward the building, his chauffeured Escalade driving off.

  “What’s that about?” I keep my cool, pointing to the SUV as it grows smaller in the distance. “You lose your date?”

  Mason’s hands are in his pockets and he shrugs as if he doesn’t care. “Said she didn’t feel well. Wanted to go back to the hotel. Couldn’t even stay past cocktail hour. Fucking women, right?”

  Dragging my palm across my mouth, I suck in a deep breath and let it go. So she doesn’t want to talk to me tonight. That’s fine. I’ll give her space. But tomorrow at brunch, all bets are off. I’ll corner her—I’ll throw her over my shoulder caveman style if that’s what it’s going to take, but I will talk to her.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Halston

  Dear Kerouac,

  When I was a little girl, I didn’t have much. Often times we went without basic necessities like heat and food, running water, or shoes that fit. My parents’ addictions were priority one. I never really knew where I fell in the lineup after that, but it was somewhere toward the bottom.

  Growing up, things like love and trust and healthy, functional relationships were foreign concepts to me. My parents never once told me they loved me. I didn’t have friends because, let’s face it, no kids wanted to hang out with the girl with greasy hair and smelly clothes that fit funny. We weren’t close with extended family. So I mostly kept to myself. Being alone was all I knew. I was all I had, really.

  That and books.

  Losing myself for hours in worlds that only existed in the confines of a paper jacket was my only escape from a life I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. Shunning contemporary stories in favor of classics, I always felt like I was the only one, but I wasn’t interested in reading books that felt like a present-day reality when I wanted nothing to do with my own.

  Anyway, my point is, I never knew what true happiness and fulfillment felt like until you. We had a connection that I know in my heart I’m never going to have with anyone else. You made me laugh. You made me smile. You made me cry (much as I hate to admit). You showed me I was still capable of giving love despite the fact that I’d never learned what it meant to accept it.

  Our time together may have been brief and tragically fleeting, but it left a lasting mark on my heart. I’m the woman I am today because of you, Kerouac. And for that reason alone, I’ll always hold you dear, and I’ll forever regret that it never worked out for us.

  Thank you for everything. I wish you all good things.

  Love,

  Absinthe

  PS – I think you should know that I never stopped loving you, not once. For whatever it’s worth, I just wanted you to know that you were loved.

  I fold the letter into thirds, slipping it inside the front cover of On the Road, and then I carry it to the hotel lobby Sunday morning, lugging my suitcase behind me.

  “Hi. Checking out of four-twenty-seven,” I say to the clerk. It’s eight in the morning, and my flight leaves in three hours. Originally Mason and I were going to fly out tonight on a redeye, but I wanted to get home, lose myself in my work, and try to forget that I wasted the last five years loving a man who, turns out, spent those same five years hating me for reasons I’ve yet to understand.

  “How was your stay, Ms. Kessler?” he asks, sliding the folio toward me. “Initial here and date the bottom, please. The top copy is yours.”

  I scribble my name on the line. “You have a beautiful hotel. My stay was lovely, thank you.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He smiles.

  “Would you mind doing me a favor?” I ask.

  The young man nods. “Not at all.”

  I slide Ford’s book across the counter. “Could you please make sure Ford Hawthorne receives this book before he leaves? I’m not sure which room he’s in, but I know he’s staying here.”

  He studies the cover. It may not be shiny or new or pretty or modern, and I imagine he’s thinking it looks like garage sale junk, but he’s polite enough to smile and tuck the book beneath the counter, scribbling a sticky note and placing it on top.

  “Thank you so much,” I say, slipping my folio into my purse and wheeling my bag outside. My ride should be here any minute.

  It’s time to go.

  It’s time to move on.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Ford

  “Yes, Mr. Hawthorne, how may we help you?” The man at the front desk answers my call.

  “Patch me through to Halston Kessler.”

  “Sure. One moment—oh.” He pauses. “Right. I’m sorry. She just checked out a few minutes ago.”

  Taking a seat on the edge of my hotel bed, I slide my hand along my jaw and breathe out. I have no way of reaching her, no way of telling her to turn around and come back so we can figure out what the hell is going on.

  “She did leave something for you though, sir,” he says. “Would you like someone to deliver it to your room later today?”

  “No. I’ll be right down.” Slamming the receiver, I shove my keys, phone, and wallet in my pocket and head downstairs.

  The man at the front desk smiles when he sees me. “You must be Mr. Hawthorne?”

  “Yes.” I watch as he reaches beneath the counter and retrieves a book.

  But it’s not just any book.

  It’s On the Road.

  And when I flip open the dust jacket and see the inscription, I know it’s not just any On the Road … it’s my father’s.

  A folded piece of hotel monogrammed paper slides out of the book, and I catch it before it lands on the floor.

  I read. And time stands still. There are no sounds around me, no hustle and chatter of guests in the lobby, no dinging of elevators or whooshing of sliding doors.

  It’s just her words on paper.

  My heart sinks as I soak in a portrait of the most beautiful, resilient soul I’ve ever known. Her love for me is sweet and understated yet undeniable present until the very last word on the page.

  And that may be the saddest part of all—she still loves me.

  And she gave up on me.

  Because I let her go.

  With the book gripped beneath my arm, I scan the room in time to spy Mason heading toward the café for breakfast. Within seconds, I’m striding across the lobby, a man on a mission, and he freezes when he sees me.

  “I need to talk to Halston,” I say. “You have her number. Give it to me.”

  Mason’s face morphs from shock to amusement and a Cheshire smirk begins to form. “How about, ‘May I have her number, please?’”

  Rolling my eyes, I’m seconds from slamming him against the wall. He’s lucky he’s not worth the hassle.

  “I need to speak to her,” I say.

  “Why would I give you her number?” he asks, huffing. “You don’t even know her. She was my date. She works with me. Trust me when I say you’re not her type, and no offense.”

  If he had any fucking idea …

  “Mason, where’s that girlfriend of yours?” My father’s cousin, Sherry, ambles our way, wearing a clueless smile and placing her hands on both our shoulders. “Good morning, Ford. Mason, I was hoping to speak to her before she left? I wanted to hire her to do a little PR for my design firm.”

  “I’m sorry, Sherry, she had to head back early today,” Mason says.

  “Well, that’s all right. She gave me her card. I’ll just have to give her a call in the next couple of days. Not a problem.” Sherry shrugs, letting her hands fall.

  “You have her card?” I ask, ensuring I heard her correctly the first time.

  “I do.” She glances down at her quilted Chanel bag, unsnapping the flap and digging until she finds a little white rectangle.

  “Mind if I see that for a minute?” I ask.

  Mason shoots daggers in my direction.

  I take a photo of the card with my phone before han
ding it back. “Thanks, Sherry. Appreciate it.”

  She seems confused, but gracious, and she gives us each a wave before heading into the café.

  From my periphery, I see Mason trying to say something to me, but I’m already across the lobby, intending to claim the parked Yellow Cab in the circle drive before someone else takes it.

  A minute later, I’m en route to the airport. I’m not sure how long ago Halston left, but according to her business card, she’s based out of San Francisco, and the next flight leaving for San Francisco International doesn’t leave for at least two more hours.

  “Can you speed this thing up?” I exhale from the backseat, fishing a twenty from my wallet and passing it over. The driver snatches the bill from my hand, checks his rearview, and veers into the passing lane before gunning it.

  Each mile is endless and excruciating, but the second we arrive, there’s only one thing on my mind. I hand him a fifty and tell him to keep the change before bolting out of the backseat and maneuvering through groups of aimless travelers with entirely too much luggage.

  Once inside, I pass lines upon lines of fliers waiting to check in, but Halston isn’t one of them.

  Heading toward the security line, I dodge between a traveling family of ten and sidestep a woman who feels the need to hold up the flow of pedestrian traffic with her little white dog and incessant need to gawk at every poster, sign, and departure schedule we pass.

  Up ahead a small group of passengers wait their turn for the escalator, and a sign reads, “Only Ticketed Guests Beyond This Point.”

  “Halston!” I yell her name when I spot a woman in a t-shirt and jeans, a mess of dark hair piled on top of her head, begin to step on the moving stairs.

  Several people turn, gawking. I couldn’t care less if I’m making a scene. I need to get to her.

  “Halston!” I yell again, only this time she hears me.

  Turning, her eyes scan the airport until they land on me.

  “What are you doing?” she yells back, turning and shoving past annoyed travelers as she runs the wrong way down the escalator. I wait. And she returns to me, her eyes wild, her forehead covered in lines. “How did you …? Why are you …? What is this?”

  “Thank you for the book,” I say.

  Her arms fold as she lifts a single brow. “You chased me down like some cheesy scene from a romance novel just to thank me for a book?”

  Chuckling, I reach for her, unclasping her arms because she doesn’t need to be so defensive.

  “I read your letter,” I say.

  “Okay …”

  “You still love me.”

  “You act like you didn’t already know that,” she says. “Pretty sure I made that abundantly clear the last several days.”

  “You never stopped,” I add.

  “And your point is what?” She checks her watch, but it’s pointless because I’m not letting her get on that plane. Not until I have my answer.

  “I just need to know,” I say, “if you loved me that much, if you loved me so much you waited for me for five years … why did you betray me?”

  Her expression jerks, and she takes a step back. “Betray you? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The night of the dance,” I say. “You called me from the hotel. You were drunk. We had a fight because you wanted to be with me, and I refused. You were upset with me, and you hung up. The next day, your uncle barged into my house. He knew everything. He knew everything we’d ever talked about.”

  Her full mouth is shaped in an ‘o’, her eyes squinting. “I … didn’t tell him anything, Ford.”

  Hooking my hands on my hips, I tuck my chin. “This makes no sense.”

  “Why would you think I …” Her words trail. “All these years, you thought it was me?”

  Her hand trembles as it stretches across her heart.

  “I told you I would never … I gave you my word,” she says. “The night of the dance, I didn’t come home. The next morning, Uncle Victor flipped out, taking away my phone and my computer, telling me to pack my bags. Bree went through my phone. She saw your email, the last one you sent. Then she went through the Karma app. Long story short, she showed my uncle and told him she suspected it was you, and the next day, I was sitting on a plane, flying to New Hampshire for boarding school. I never knew what happened to you. I never knew he confronted you.”

  “Confronted is a bit of an understatement.” I release a heated breath, my jaw tensing. “I didn’t know his proof was nothing more than a teenage girl’s assumption. He made it sound like he knew, like he had damning evidence.”

  “Sounds like Victor.” She rolls her eyes. “What did he say?”

  “He demanded my resignation, told me he’d personally make sure I never set foot in a school again.”

  Her hand raises to her mouth. “Everything you worked for, just … gone.”

  My lips press together.

  “No wonder you’ve spent the last five years hating me,” she says. “I’d have hated me too.”

  Halston steps into my space, her hand reaching toward my cheek, brushing her fingers tenderly against my skin as her electric eyes soften on mine.

  “I’m so sorry, Ford,” she says. “You didn’t deserve that. You were nothing but professional. I was the one who kept pushing, begging for more.”

  “What’s done is done.” I inhale the faded scent of her sweet perfume, my gaze focused on her rosebud lips.

  “It’s all the same, though. It’s still my fault you lost your job—your career.”

  “I could have kept you at a distance, but I didn’t,” I say. “You may have pushed the line, but I was the one giving you slack. Neither of us are completely at fault here. Neither of us are innocent.”

  “I hate that you thought it was me who told him. Breaks my heart,” she says. We linger here, the buzz of a busy airport filling the silence. “So what now? Where do we go from here?”

  “I say we take it one day at a time.” Cupping her sweet face in my hand, I angle her mouth toward mine, grazing my lips across hers before claiming them as my own. “What are you doing tomorrow?” I kiss her again, my thumb pressed beneath her jaw and my fingers threaded along the nape of her neck. “And the day after that?” My lips dance with hers, our tongues skating, her minty taste invading my senses. “And how about the day after that?”

  Her kiss turns into a smile, and she slinks her arms over my shoulders, rising on her toes.

  “You want to go somewhere?” she asks. “Catch up on the last five years?”

  “I’d fucking love that.” I slip my hand around hers as I take her carry-on and lead her to the nearest exit. We find a cab and ask the driver to drop us off at a little park by the water, just outside Sag Harbor.

  “So, tell me about your travels,” she says as we walk along a little path lined with nothing but blue hydrangeas. She stops to pick one, lifting it to her nose. “Where did you go? What did you do?”

  “Everywhere,” I say. “And everything.”

  Halston elbows me. “Specifics. I want to know everything I missed. Except … you know, girlfriends and stuff. I don’t need to know if you fell in love with someone else.”

  Clearing my throat, I squeeze her hand. “There was no one.”

  “Yeah, right. I find that extremely hard to believe. You’re fucking gorgeous. I’m sure you were dripping in international beauty queens everywhere you went.”

  “Was kind of hard to focus on other women when I couldn’t get the last one out of my head,” I say, glancing down at her. She looks up through her long, dark lashes. “I never wanted to admit it, but I was still hung up on you. Being with anyone else just didn’t appeal to me.”

  Halston cups her hand over her eyes to block the sun, smirking. “Same here.”

  “Really? You went to college—I presume—”

  “I did,” she says.

  “And you never hooked up with anyone? Dated anyone?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “N
o one. I kept looking for someone exactly like you, thinking if I couldn’t have the original, I’d settle for an imitation. Turns out you’re the only damn one, Ford.”

  “That’s probably a good thing. I don’t think the world could handle two of me.” I laugh. “How was boarding school? I had no idea they sent you away. Honestly had no idea what became of you after I left Rosefield.”

  “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be,” she says. “I mean, they made us wear these awful uniforms and we had these ridiculously militant schedules and they made us take etiquette classes that were probably better suited for a housewife in the 1950s, but I secretly kind of liked it.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah. There was no Internet. The house was at least a hundred years old. It was like traveling back in time,” she says. “And for the first time, I felt like I had a place that was mine. It was just a room that I shared with a roommate, but it wasn’t a foster home. It wasn’t my aunt and uncle’s guest room. I had heat and running water and warm meals. Honestly, the hardest part about it was not being able to pick up my phone and message you. I had some major withdrawals those first few weeks.”

  I chuff. “Same. I was pissed at you. But every night, I’d dream about you, and I’d find myself reaching for my phone in the dark, wanting to hear your voice one more time.”

  “I can’t even count how many dreams I had about you.” She presses her cheek against my shoulder for a moment, like she can’t go more than a few minutes without touching me, checking to see if I’m real, if this moment is real.

  “How’s your family? You still keep in touch with anyone?”

  Halston smirks. “Well, Bree flunked out of Northwestern her sophomore year. Turns out when you raise your daughter like a Puritan, it doesn’t exactly prepare her for the real world. She got one taste of freedom that first semester, and it brought out the wild child in her.”

  “Bree?!”

  She laughs. “Yes, Bree. She was partying pretty hardcore, from what I heard. Also heard she slept with half of the Delta Omega Psi frat her freshman year. Had a baby too. The dad’s not in the picture as far as I know. Uncle Vic cut her off financially. She’s waiting tables now and taking night classes.”