“Another understatement.” I flash him a smirk, then return to the beautiful book babies before me, sliding a copy of Anna Karenina from its proper place.
“As a token of my appreciation, I wanted to bring you here,” he says. “And let you pick out a couple of books. Yours to keep.”
“What?” I close the classic Tolstoy tome and lift my brows. “Are you serious?”
Mason’s lips tug up at one side. “Yeah. Whatever you want.”
I don’t know how I’m going to choose, but I know we don’t have all day, so I’ll try to hurry. Scanning the spines, I realize everything is alphabetized, which should at least make things a bit easier. Within minutes, I find a pristine, first-edition copy of The Great Gatsby, sliding it off the shelf and clutching it against my chest.
Making my way to the other side of the room, I maneuver around an oversized desk centered in the space, pausing when I spot a book lying on top of a ten-year-old calendar that seems to be stuck on the month of March.
Setting Gatsby aside, I inspect the other book, my breath hitching when I realize it’s a first edition of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road.
“Oh, that was my stepfather’s favorite book,” Mason says, his hands in his pockets as he watches me. He hasn’t so much as checked out a single book since we’ve been in here, and I imagine he has no idea how priceless some of these relics are. “He read it all the time. Guess the author used to live on his street or something when he was a kid?”
And now it makes sense, Ford’s love of Kerouac.
Flipping the cover open, my fingers trace the messy, faded ink inscription.
“To Bobby Hawthorne,
All of life is a foreign country.
Jack Kerouac.”
“Can I have this one?” I ask.
Mason nods. “Have whatever you want.”
“Thank you.” I grab Gatsby and hold both books close to my heart. I’m going to give the second one to Ford. He may have hurt me, but this book belonged to his father, and he should have it.
Mason gives me a tour of the place, I suppose for a lack of something better to do or maybe one last attempt to try and impress me. When we’re finished, he orders lunch from a local café and sends the driver out while we wait on the back patio, watching the waves lap onto the shore.
Making myself comfortable on a lounger, I page through my original Great Gatsby, dragging my palms along the creamy paper and inhaling its deliciously musty scent, my gaze landing on a line I’ve always loved: “He looked at her the way all women want to be looked at by a man.”
Exhaling, I feel a bittersweet smile curl across my lips as I think about Ford. He used to look at me like I was the only person in the room, the only thing that mattered. For a brief sliver of my short life, that man wanted me. And for the last five years, all I’ve wanted was to recapture that … to have that one more time.
Closing the book, I resolve to accept my fate: Kerouac doesn’t want me anymore.
It’s time to move on.
Chapter 53
Ford
All eyes are on the bride and groom … except mine.
I can’t take mine off of her. My Absinthe. My intoxicating addiction.
It was only supposed to be sex, but here I am two days later, craving her. Missing her. She’s in every face I see, every thought that occupies my one-track mind, her breathy sighs playing like a loop in my ear.
I so badly wanted to fuel the fire, keep the raging torch burning just as bright as it had been all those years. It was easy to resent her from afar than to accept how empty the last five years have been without her in them.
After the boathouse Thursday night, she left Aunt Cecily’s and went back to the hotel. I didn’t see her once yesterday, and I thought maybe she’d left Sag Harbor altogether. But then Mason walked into the church fifteen minutes before the wedding earlier today, my beautiful Halston draped on his arm in a pale pink dress that hugged her curves, her dark hair swept into a sophisticated bun at her crown.
Almost immediately she saw me.
And just as fast as it happened, she looked away.
I wasn’t able to usher her to her seat; the groom’s second cousin got to her first, but I intend to find her at the reception, to steal her away and find a quiet place to go so we can sort this out, make sense of what remains.
Bristol and Devin kiss, the priest introducing them as “Mr. and Mrs. Hotchkiss” as music begins to play from the organ pipes up front. The two of them dash down the white satin aisle, and I rise, heading to the front to begin dismissing rows.
When I get to Halston’s, she still refuses to meet my penetrating stare, so when she passes, I brush my fingers against her hand.
Our eyes meet for a single unbroken moment before Mason takes her hand and pulls her away. She disappears into the crowd a moment later, and I lose her all over again.
But I’m getting her back tonight.
“Have you seen Mason’s date?” I ask Nicolette a couple of hours later. The reception venue is packed, most people either seated at their assigned tables or mingling at the bar. All I’ve done since we arrived is search for the girl in the pink dress with the sad green eyes.
But she’s not here.
“That’s a weird question.” Nic wrinkles her nose.
I don’t have time to explain.
“I wanted to ask her a question,” I say. It’s the truth. I want to ask her a lot of questions.
“About what?”
I exhale. “I need to find her. I’ll be back.”
She rests her cheek against her fist, studying me. “You’ve been acting so freaking weird ever since we got here.”
Waving her off, I grab my tumbler of Scotch, take a healthy drink, and leave the table.
Circling the room, I check all forty-two tables, the span of the open bar, the backstage area where the wedding band preps, as well as the hall by the restrooms.
She’s nowhere to be found.
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 54
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 fulf
illment 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 55
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 handing 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.”
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