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 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.