Page 62 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Then I would’ve kissed him—then and there.

Something lit in me, and I realized how much Alex means to me.

I wanted him to know me—the real me. And I wanted to give him new memories.

It startled me so much I shuddered. Alex raised an eyebrow, and I raised mine in reply.

No way I’m telling you what I’m thinking .

He shook his head slightly as if clearing a thought and then he continued.

“A couple weeks before the wedding, I sat Simone down and told her that things had to change. We could work it out, but I needed to know if she loved me—without the books, without anything else. And I wanted her to hear about what mattered to me and about how I wanted us to live.”

Alex looked so sad. And I understood why Mrs. Muir gets up from the table and makes tea or pours milk whenever the professor and I talk seriously.

I wanted that distraction too. Not for me; I wanted it for Alex.

He needed space to work through this, but I couldn’t give him any at our small table.

So I simply pushed the cake plate to him.

He took a bite and went back to his memories.

“Simone’s disgust was palpable. She calmly laid down the ring and walked out the door.

I would have preferred her screams. The calm showed a contempt for me that I didn’t know existed.

I couldn’t believe that was the end. I called, she wouldn’t answer.

I went to her apartment, and her doorman wouldn’t let me in.

After a few days, I unraveled our wedding.

My mom offered to help, but Dad wouldn’t let her—said it was my mess.

So I called every guest, every supplier, everyone.

“And on our canceled wedding day, I received a hand-delivered envelope: Simone was engaged. She’d landed some Russian guy and actually sent me an invitation to her wedding.

” He leaned forward and poked at the last bite of cake.

“And that is the story of my one engagement and my last real girlfriend.”

“Whoa. I’m so sorry, Alex.” I sat for a moment absorbing it.

You had to give the girl credit—she knew precisely how to trap him, then destroy him, and that takes skill—disgusting, calculated skill.

I tried to think up a similar character, but couldn’t find one to match—even Edmond Dantes, my paragon of precise ruthlessness, pulled back at the end and found a way to let go and forgive.

“You’ve dated since then . . . that’s . . . what? Four years ago?”

“Three years and seven months ago. But no, I haven’t.

Not really. I’ve dated a couple women here and there, but I don’t know what they want or see now.

” He sat back as if exhausted, and smiled that lopsided, self-deprecating thing he throws out.

“Trust was never my strong suit, and now they see only Cole. They expect me to solve crimes, quote poetry, and play polo. All before drinks.”

“Cole plays polo?”

“He should. He’d be good at it.”

“How long do you plan to live this way?”

Alex laughed. “Typical straightforward newswoman. Not long, I think. My publisher was right. This change was good. I feel better than I’ve felt in years. Probably all this food and the running.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Seriously, I do feel better. And I’m not getting any younger.”

I smirked.

“I mean, I’d love to be married someday. I’d at least like to start dating the right woman . . . I’d love to be a father someday—” He started, like he had surprised himself or me. “That must seem so staid to you.”

“It’s not staid. It’s a great dream, and it’ll come true for you. You just have to let it.”

“You’re sweet.”

“It’s true. You got injured, not ruined. You’re okay, and you deserve better. You simply have to believe it. I see the way women look at you. Not Cole, Alex, you.”

He hiked his eyebrow again, questioning more directly this time. I refused to elaborate.

We had a quiet drive to the Muirs’ house.

The fact that this was the end suffocated me.

I didn’t say much because I didn’t want to appear grasping and foolish, as I had earlier about the airport ride.

And I felt like a fraud. Alex shared a lot of himself tonight, and I never possessed that courage. How much of me have I shown him?

He pulled into the driveway and walked me to the door like a perfect gentleman. He took my hand as I started up the steps.

“Sam?” He gently pulled me back. “I’ve loved our time together. Thank you for everything. You brought out the best in me this summer. I haven’t seen that guy in a long time.”

“My pleasure. He’s a good guy,” I whispered. My throat felt tight. There was so much I wanted to say as the moment slipped by.

“Good night, sweet Samantha. Good-bye.”

There was something in his voice. A sad tone I didn’t like. Is this good-bye? Forever good-bye?

He took my face in his hands and leaned down.

At about two inches away, he stopped and looked into my eyes for eternity—only a few seconds really, but it felt that long.

And with a small soft smile, he closed the gap and touched my lips for the breadth of a second.

Then he left—no words, no last look. A forever good-bye.

So there ends the best summer of my life, Mr. Knightley.

The Tribune internship is over, and that was thrilling enough, but Alex was more so.

He brought out the best in me too. Even though I was never honest about my past, I was myself.

Tonight was the end, though. I get that.

He made no promises, no gestures, nothing.

And he announced that he’s ready to move on with his life.

I’m somehow the closing of the old, the end to one of his books—the soft final denouement.

And now I hurt. Alex was like those dreams I told you about—the ones that disappear if I hold them too tight.

I know I said I’d pitch that theory when Coach Ridley got Kyle, but forget it .

. . I’m Elinor or Charlotte, and for those two reality always wins.

Actually, forget Elinor—she got her man in the end.

I’m Charlotte, and some odious Mr. Collins will be the best I’ll ever get.

Sincerely,

Sam