[2018] PS I Hate You Read online

  Stopping outside the door, she stands to face me, squaring her shoulders with mine.

  “I had fun stargazing tonight,” she says. “Thank you for showing me Leo.”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  Maritza lingers, like she’s waiting for me to cap the night off with a kiss, but I refuse. It was fun earlier this week, but somewhere along the line, shit threatened to get real and now I have to draw a hard line.

  “Tomorrow’s our last Saturday,” she says. It’s got to be the second or third time she’s brought it up tonight, as if I could possibly forget. But as much as I want to spend another day with her, part of me thinks it might only make this harder … and it might defeat the entire point of spending the week with a girl I thought I could walk away from in the end.

  After getting to know her and spending day in and day out with all of her idiosyncrasies, I’ve realized she’s funny and witty and sarcastic. She’s genuine and honest and kind. She’s unapologetic and charismatic.

  If I were the committed type, I’d lock her down in a heartbeat.

  I’d make her mine and never let her go.

  But it doesn’t work that way. I’m leaving and she’ll be here. We’ll be worlds apart. And commitment was something I longed for a lifetime ago. It doesn’t mean a damn thing to me now.

  “I had fun with you this week,” she says, voice soft and low. “I’m kind of sad for it to end.”

  “Goodnight, Maritza.” Forcing a quick smile, I leave before it gets too deep.

  Returning to my car, I fire up the engine and get the hell out of there before I say or do something I might regret.

  It’s only when I’m several blocks away that I glance at my phone for the first time all night and find seven missed calls in a row, all of them from my sister.

  Saturday #7

  “NOT HANGING OUT WITH lover boy today?” Melrose is lying by Gram’s pool, removing the two cucumber slices from her eyes when I take a seat beside her. “Where’s your bikini? Why are you dressed like that?”

  She squints at my getup, one of our grandmother’s vintage Pucci cover ups and an oversized, floppy hat.

  “Does Gram know you raided her closet?” she asks.

  “Haven’t you heard? The sun causes wrinkles.” I cross my legs. “I’m surprised you’re not more concerned. Your skin is your canvas, right?”

  “Sweets, I’ve been using retinols since sixteen and getting Botox since twenty-one. Nothing’s going to crack this glass.” She reaches for an issue of Elle magazine and pages through it, skipping all the ads, and her oil-slicked skin glistens in the sunlight. “Anyway, why aren’t you with Isaiah?”

  I bite my lip, trying to ignore that sunken-in feeling in my chest that’s resided there since he texted me this morning and told me he wasn’t sure he’d be able to see me today.

  “Something came up,” he texted me several hours ago, nothing more, nothing less.

  But I don’t know what to believe.

  There’s not much about last night that I remember up until the time he took me home. And now, all I keep picturing is that look on his face as he stood across from me by the front door. It’s like he was placing this extra distance between us, and I’m not talking physical.

  It was emotional.

  And he didn’t so much as try to kiss me. Maybe part of that reason was because I was pretty freaking tipsy, but still. There was just something different in his eyes last night, something stiff and armored about his tone.

  I grab a spare magazine and lean back on the rattan lounger. It’s a balmy eighty degrees without a cloud in sight, weather that all but demands a good mood. But I’m nothing but sullen, riddled with emptiness. I wanted to see him today. I wanted our last Saturday to mean something. I wanted to go out with a bang.

  Instead, he blew me off.

  Like I mean absolutely nothing.

  There’s a chance he’s telling the truth. And he should be. That was the agreement. But at the end of the day, I really don’t know him. And at the end of the day he doesn’t owe me a damn thing, not even the truth.

  Maybe I’m naïve. Maybe he was looking for a week of sex and debauchery only to find himself sorely disappointed. Maybe he was hoping one thing would lead to another and I would be a crazy fling that he could walk away from, but somewhere along the line I think he realized that in a perfect world we would be good for each other.

  Not that I’m in the market for a boyfriend.

  But if the stars aligned and the opportunity was there and he wasn’t about to leave the country, I might have been willing to explore the possibility of something more.

  “So what are you going to do today?” Melrose asks. “I mean, you took the day off. I guess that’s what happens when you drop everything for a stranger with a pretty smile.”

  Today of all days I’m not in the mood for her snide comments and signature snark.

  “What are you going to do if he calls you and changes his mind? Like do you really think something came up or do you think he’s just blowing you off?” she asks a moment later, tossing her magazine aside.

  “I don’t know what I think.”

  “I don’t know why you’re feeling sorry for yourself. You knew he was just some charismatic ass like the rest of them.” She sighs. “Maritza, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but he just wanted a piece.”

  I exhale. Melrose and her lack of compassion are getting on my nerves and I’m two seconds from going back inside the house, changing into sweats, and watching Netflix by myself.

  “I don’t need a lecture, Mel. Believe it or not, I don’t regret the time I spent with him. I told him from day one I didn’t want a relationship, that I didn’t want romance or attachment of any kind. If he’s done with me, I have no right to be upset with him—and I’m not upset with him. Just disappointed.”

  Melrose exhales, grabbing a Vogue next and flipping it open before reaching for a bottle of Fiji water on the table beside her. “All lecturing aside, he is really fucking hot and it would’ve required superhero strength to turn down the chance to spend a week with him. Anyway, I’m not judging you. I’m just protective of you. And I hate to see you sad.”

  I stand, eyeing the house.

  “You going back inside?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t want to sit around being annoyed. I need to do something. I thought I’d feel better if I sat by the pool and relaxed, but I’m just sitting here stewing.”

  “You’re upset.”

  “I’m not upset,” I say.

  She laughs. “Yes, you are. And it’s fine. You should be upset. He’s a jerk for cancelling your plans.”

  “I’m going to head inside and see what Gram’s up to.” I toss a magazine on the lounge chair and head toward the sliding glass door just off my grandmother’s kitchen.

  “Maritza!” Seated at her kitchen table, dressed in a Versace caftan and sipping her signature oolong from a floral tea cup, she lights up when I walk in the door. “I haven’t seen you all week, love. Come have a seat.”

  I take the chair beside her, feeling the weight of her stare as she examines me.

  “Something’s off,” she says, taking a sip, eyes focused in my direction. She’s always been good at picking up on non-verbal cues and nuances, which is probably why she’s had a decades-long career as an Oscar winning actress. She’s always said much of how we communicate has nothing to do with what we’re saying. “You seem … blue. What is it?”

  She rests her taut jawline against her smooth hand. My grandmother in all her self-assured glory has refused to age gracefully. Instead, she has a top Beverly Hills plastic surgeon on her payroll to keep each and every wrinkle and age spot at bay. As much as she talks about not wanting to be known solely for her beauty, she has a hard time walking away from something that’s become so imbedded into her identity.

  You can take the screen siren out of Hollywood, you can’t take Hollywood out of the screen siren.

  “I made a ne
w friend this week,” I tell her, reaching for a single white rose in the elaborate bouquet that anchors her table, running my fingertips along its velvet petals. “At least, I thought we were friends.”

  “What happened? Did she say something crass?”

  “He, Grandma. It’s a he.” Our eyes meet. She doesn’t flinch.

  “Oh? A gay friend?” she asks, eyes fluttering. In her day, it was uncommon for a straight man and a straight woman to simply be friends, though it’s starting to seem like nothing’s changed.

  “No, Gram.”

  “I see.” Her brows lift. “All right, then. What happened with this man?”

  I shrug. “He’s an army corporal and he leaves for deployment tomorrow. Today was going to be our last day together and then he just … cancelled. Said something came up.”

  Her red lips press together and she exhales. “Maybe he didn’t want to say goodbye?”

  Maybe. But it’s pointless to analyze it now. At the end of the day, this—whatever it was—is over and it makes no difference why he cancelled.

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Honestly, we spent six days together and I’d rather not invest any more of my time or energy into thinking about someone I’m never going to see again.”

  “Smart girl.” She smiles, eyes crinkling at the sides. “A true Claiborne doesn’t wait around for anyone. Either they love us or they don’t. We accept either fate and we don’t dwell if things don’t go our way. You know there once was a time I was head over heels with Richard Burton.”

  Her lashes bat in slow motion and her hand lifts to her heart. I’ve heard this story a million times, but I let her continue as I always do.

  “I thought that what we had was real, and then I realized his heart would always belong to Elizabeth,” she says, referring to her older arch nemesis and violet-eyed stunner, Elizabeth Taylor. “I had to give him up. I had to let Richard go. But in doing so, I met your grandfather.”

  My chest squeezes when she mentions him. It’s been six years since he passed, but there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss his infectious laugh or the ornery twinkle in his blue-gray eyes. Even in his eighties, he was the definition of a charismatic people pleaser.

  “Anyway, if he isn’t going to make time to see you, he isn’t worth your time,” she says.

  “I know.”

  Grandma tilts her head, studying me. “I know you know. I just wanted to remind you.”

  I hate that I’m letting this get to me more than it should. He was never supposed to mean anything to me. I was never supposed to so much as flirt with the idea of getting attached.

  “I’m going to head back and throw some laundry in,” I say, getting up from the table. After that I’ll text my friends and see who’s around today. The last several times I’ve tried getting together with them, it hasn’t panned out. Chelsea is obsessed with her new boyfriend and can’t be bothered to be without him for more than an hour at a time, Meg is shooting some Benicio del Toro film on location in Spain for the next two months, Vivienne is still at UC-Berkeley finishing the degree we both started at the same time, and Honor got a job interning for some stylist-to-the-stars and is putting in sixty hour weeks on the regular.

  But I can try.

  Wrapping my arms around my grandmother, I squeeze her tight, inhale her signature Quelques Fleurs perfume, and head back to the guesthouse.

  By the time I’ve rounded up all my dirty clothes and shoved them in the wash, I head back to my room, passing my phone on the way. It’s been sitting on my nightstand all morning—since Isaiah first texted me.

  But now I see that I have four missed calls … all of them from him … which is odd because we’ve always only texted.

  Perching on the seat of my bed, I hold my phone, staring at his name, drawing in deep, slow breaths. Pressing my lips together, I debate whether or not to call him back, only the decision seems to be made for me the second my screen lights.

  My heart kick starts, my mouth dries.

  He’s calling.

  Clearing my throat, I sit up tall and press the green button after the fourth ring. “Hello?”

  “Maritza.” His voice is smooth, unrushed.

  I pause before saying, “Yes?”

  “Been trying to get a hold of you the past hour. Wanted to see if you’re still going to be around today?”

  I catch my reflection in my dresser mirror on the other side of the room, and it isn’t pretty. My face is twisted, brows furrowed and lips turned down at the sides. Disappointment is never a good look on anyone.

  “I thought something came up?” I ask, trying to keep my inflection normal so he doesn’t see how annoyed I am that he cancelled on me earlier and all of a sudden expects me to pick right back up where we left off.

  “Something did come up,” he says. “But everything’s okay now.”

  “I don’t know.” I exhale. I could tell him I made other plans and it wouldn’t be lying … I made plans to do laundry. But I’ve never been one to play games.

  “Ah. All right. I see.” Isaiah exhales into the receiver. He doesn’t hide his displeasure.

  For a minute, we both linger on the phone, neither one of us speaking, neither one of us saying goodbye.

  “If you didn’t want to hang out before, all you had to do was say something.” I’m pacing my room now. If this were the nineties, I’d have a phone cord wrapped around my finger and the receiver in my other hand. “I was looking forward to seeing you today. I had this whole, big day planned for us, reservations and everything. And you just texted me this morning with the most generic excuse and now that you’ve changed your mind, you expect me to drop everything again and act like it didn’t bother me?”

  He’s quiet.

  Which is good.

  I hope he’s letting this sink in.

  “You don’t get to treat people like this. You don’t get to treat them like a toy and put them back on a shelf the second you decide you’re done playing,” I lecture him, still making my way around my room. Stopping by the window, I peer outside where Melrose is still soaking up the sun.

  That’s what I should be doing right now, catching some rays, listening to some trashy pop music, and reading the latest issue of Us Weekly without a single care in the world.

  No, actually, what I should be doing is working.

  I took today off to spend it with him. I forfeited a day of earnings so he wouldn’t have to be alone on his last day in LA. I’ve sacrificed hundreds if not thousands of dollars in tips this week and for what?

  But it probably doesn’t matter to him. He probably assumes that since I’m the granddaughter of Gloria Claiborne, everything I could ever want is just gifted to me without a second thought. If he would’ve actually taken the time to get to know me this past week, he’d have realized it couldn’t be further from the truth.

  My grandmother has always been tight with her pocketbook, but only because her intentions are good. She saw far too many of her rich and famous friends give birth to beautiful babies who grew up not knowing how to function in the real world because they’d never had to get real jobs or manage money or do anything for themselves.

  Money ruins people, she always said. And she spoke from experience. Money almost ruined her marriage to my grandfather back in the sixties when they were some “it” power couple in Hollywood.

  But I digress. To this day, the fact that her two sons are successful professionals is her greatest accomplishment. It means more to her than any Oscar or Academy Award she’s ever received.

  Anyway, I threw away hundreds of dollars, like a damn idiot, just to spend a week with a handsome stranger with warm eyes and a dimpled smile that made my stomach hit the floor.

  “My mom wasn’t feeling well,” he says. “She … has some medical issues. When I left your place last night, I had some missed calls from my sister. She’d gone to check on Mom while I was with you and when she arrived, I guess Mom was barely responsive.
She had a fever of one hundred and five. Anyway, Calista took her to the ER and I spent the night at the hospital with them.”

  My heart burrows deep in my chest. I’m at a loss for words, the air sucked from my lungs.

  All I did was think about myself this morning, assuming the worst and letting my bruised ego assure me that Isaiah was just like the rest of them.

  “Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” I manage to say a moment later. Sinking into my bed, I draw my knees against my chest. I catch my reflection in the mirror, only this time I look like a girl who’s just eaten a heaping serving of crow. “I … I just assumed you didn’t want to hang out and you were just giving me some generic excuse because that’s what guys do when they get bored. I … I thought you were bored with me. Isaiah … I’m sorry.”

  I could apologize a hundred times and it’d still barely put a dent in just how remorseful I am in this moment

  Exhaling, I admit, “I spent all morning writing you off.”

  “I didn’t mean to be so vague,” he says. “It’s just, we hadn’t talked about my mom and I didn’t know what was going on. Also, I hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. I just wanted to go home and get some sleep. The last thing I want is for you to assume I was blowing you off. I’m not that callous. And I didn’t get bored with you.”

  Maybe a part of me wanted to believe he was some jerk—if only because it’d make saying goodbye and letting him go and knowing that I’m never going to see him again … that much easier.

  Fuck.

  I bury my head in my hands when I realize the worst part about this entire situation.

  I’m falling for him.

  And I know this because I wouldn’t have gotten so worked up today if I wasn’t.

  “You still want to hang out?” he asks. His words blanket my hard feelings.

  I can’t say no.

  So I don’t.

  Saturday #7

  I’M SO TIRED I can hardly function, but I didn’t want to miss our last Saturday together. I’m nothing if not a man of my word, a man who respects obligations.