The One That Got Away Read Online Free

sapphire-blue sea.
    I was only a few pages in, somewhere between the fancy rugs and the fancier watches, when I saw it. Or rather, him.
    There on the party page, looking slightly uncomfortable at having his photo taken, but very comfortable in his perfectly tailored tuxedo, was Alexander Collier van Holt. His smile was straight andwide, his hair thick and dark, his eyes as blue as I remembered. Pulled apart, each feature was impressive, but together they created an image so rare among the scruffy, bearded looks of today—the traditionally handsome man. The kind you might see advertising cologne or watches, not sneakers. Beside him were two women in plain gowns, one older, one younger, but each with hair and eyes the same color as his. Their hands placed protectively on his arms told me they recognized his uniqueness too.
    I leaned in and peered at his face, then let my thoughts escape out loud: “Oh my God,” I said to anyone listening.
    This man, who I knew simply as Alex, had worked in the same building as I when I was a year out of college. He had been interning at Philadelphia First, a big foundation that gave away tons of money to the arts, schools, and health care. My employers at the time, a small PR firm run by two ex–
Philadelphia Inquirer
reporters, shared a floor with the foundation, and we often benefited from the proximity. Many of our firm’s clients were recipients of Philadelphia First grants, eager to give us at least part of their new capital in exchange for some media recognition.
    It had mostly been grunt work, but I loved Sharon and Barbara, my smart and sarcastic bosses. I had learned more on my first day with them than in a whole semester’s worth of Image versus Morality: Best Practices in Media Relations, even if I was just typing up media lists, faxing press releases, and pasting newspaper clips in spiral-bound books. I also loved the building, a former nineteenth-century department store once known for its elaborate window displays. Walking through the lobby each morning, I hunted for the peeling gold cherubs who peeked down from the ornately carved ceiling. At one time they presided over shoppers buying bowler hats and rose-water perfume, but that summer they watched, chortling, as a young blonde in an Ann Taylor suit and Payless heels shuffled by each day.
    It was on a warm day in late April, while waiting in the line at the lobby coffee cart, that I first saw Alex. The morning sun threw curved patches of yellow across the lobby, lighting up women’s stockings and men’s briefcases as they crossed. He stood behind the crowd, at the farthest elevator, hitting the up button over and over and looking around for help.
    He was tall and angular and boyish, his looks still a rough draft of the masterpiece they would become. His cheeks and nose were tanned, as if he had just stepped off the slopes, and his thick dark hair had loosened from the grip of its pomade, falling into his startlingly blue eyes. He wore a classic navy blazer, crisp white shirt, and tan pants, all expensive looking and well tailored, but with contrasting muddy boat shoes and a fraying red-and-black REI backpack. The overall look was one of Outward Bound counselor turned management trainee, the kind of young man who made both mothers and daughters swoon.
    Still befuddled by the elevators, he looked up with anxious eyes as I walked up, attempting to be cool and nonchalant. “Need some help?”
    “Thanks,” he said, smiling with relief. “It’s my first day today, and I can’t figure out how to make this thing open.”
    “You need a key card,” I told him. “They’re locked.”
    Juggling my coffee and my bag, I tried to slap my electronic card against the keypad nonchalantly, but it slipped from my grip and went flying. I watched as it hit him squarely in the groin and then dropped to the ground with a clatter.
    He cringed for a second and then bent to retrieve it. Too mortified to speak, I stepped into the elevator,