[2018] PS I Hate You Read online

  Anyway, I’m just rambling at this point. Sorry.

  Melrose dragged Rachael and I out last weekend to this fancy bar where drinks were thirty dollars. Some really hot German guy hit on me and I suffered through an hour of small talk because he offered to buy me a drink.

  I need to get better at saying no.

  In a world filled with self-centered assholes, is there such a thing as being too nice? I like to think I’m cancelling out some bad with some good but maybe my logic is off.

  Wait. Don’t answer that. I already know what you’re going to say.

  All right. Time to get ready for work.

  Yours,

  Maritza the Waitress

  P.S. I hate you … in case you’ve forgotten.

  P.P.S. Believe it or not I miss you but in the most NON-ROMANTIC way humanly possible.

  THE ACHE IN MY feet from working a double dissipates the second I find his letter mixed in with a stack of junk mail on the kitchen counter. I imagine if I were to see myself right now, I’d find a dopey grin on my face, but I don’t care. All that matters is I can’t tear into this thing fast enough.

  I meant what I said in my last letter—I miss him.

  And in a non-romantic way.

  The time we spent together before he left, however short it was, meant something to me, even if I don’t exactly know what that is. All I know is I enjoy my time with him. And I hope I get to see him again. Soon.

  Maritza the Waitress,

  I’m not sure where you get the idea that I have “free time” over here, but I’d like to set that record straight. I work twelve-hour days six, sometimes seven days a week. When I’m not working, I’m doing laundry, shining my shoes, eating, or sleeping. We fit the occasional game of cards here or there but mostly we’re working.

  And let me get this straight, some hot guy hit on you and you “suffered” through small talk with him? Either you’re lying to make me feel better or you’re trying to make me jealous, both of which would be a huge waste of time because you’re not my girlfriend.

  I know you know that.

  Just wanted to remind you.

  So please, I hope you’re having fun and not holding back because you’re waiting for some jackass soldier to come home. And I hope you got that German dude’s number because you sound kind of tense and you need to get laid.

  Oh, and stop putting so much pressure on yourself to pick a major. It’s not like you’re making some life or death decision. What kinds of things are you interested in? What lights your fire?

  Back to work.

  Sincerely,

  Corporal Torres

  P.S. I hate you

  P.P.S. Don’t say that you miss me. Shit like that are nothing but land mines. Dangerous territory. If you’re looking for a reaction from me, send me a pic of your tits but for the love of God, don’t say you miss me. That wasn’t part of the agreement.

  Folding his letter, I roll my eyes and grab a pen, my hand twitching to get the thoughts in my head onto paper before they scatter like fall leaves to the wind.

  Dear Corporal Torres,

  Just got your letter …

  If you only knew how badly I want to throw ice water in your face right now …

  If my handwriting is a little hard to decipher it’s only because I’m so angry with you right now I’m shaking. The fact that even from thousands of miles away you feel the need to make it crystal clear that you don’t want to date me does nothing short of infuriate me. It doesn’t matter how much I told you the feeling was mutual, it’s like you’re convinced I’m lying.

  I’m not one of those girls who play mind games, who pretend they want nothing and tell you what they think you want to hear to keep you around.

  I say what I mean.

  Always.

  And we had a no-bullshit agreement that I take very seriously.

  I’ll tell you this one last time: I don’t want to date you either.

  Which leads me to my next order of business: we are friends.

  I know you don’t want to believe it, but we are. We’re friends. Say it out loud: Maritza Claiborne and Isaiah Torres are friends.

  And because we’re friends that means I’m allowed to miss you and I’m allowed to tell you that I miss you. So stop being this tough, cold, callous distant man because that shtick might work on every other girl you’ve ever met, but it won’t work on me.

  Embrace the fact that I miss you, Isaiah, because it isn’t going to change. In fact, it seems to be getting worse with each passing day if I’m being honest.

  You’re cool as shit and you’re fun and I feel like we’re on the same page with a lot of things. I’m fascinated by you and sometimes annoyed by you and other times turned on by you but at the end of the day, I fucking love that you’re in my life.

  I hope you feel the same and that someday, you might be able to actually admit it.

  Best Friends Forever,

  Maritza the Waitress

  P.S. I hate you.

  I read her letter twice before tucking it into my pocket and pulling in a hard breath. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me to think about some smooth German dude hitting on her and buying her drinks—and I hated that it bothered me.

  Hated.

  So I overcompensated.

  “Corporal, you got a package.” Private Johnston places a large brown box on my desk. This marks the first time in my entire military career that anyone has sent me anything more than a letter or card. Before he struts off, I examine the return address.

  Maritza.

  Grabbing a box cutter, I slice through the packing tape and feast my eyes on package after package of Pringles, Starbursts, and peanut butter M&Ms.

  I smirk, unable to help myself.

  She remembered our conversation that night we went to the Griffith Observatory.

  A note written in purple pen on a small piece of lined stationery reads:

  Isaiah,

  Let me know if there’s anything else you want (besides pancakes—not happening, dude). I’ll do my best to accommodate any (reasonable) requests. Also, I’ve placed a few goodies at the bottom of the box for fun.

  Maritza

  P.S. I hate you.

  P.P.S. But I don’t want you to starve or be bored while you’re over there doing brave and scary things.

  Digging through the colorful, junk food loot, I come across what resembles a summer camp care package. She appears to have tossed in a pack of UNO cards, a triple pack of her signature strawberry mint shea butter lip balm, two expensive-looking bottles of body wash that smell like a million fucking bucks, sunscreen, half a dozen bottles of Frank’s Red Hot, a jumbo pack of individually wrapped beef jerky in various flavors, a few men’s health and fitness magazines, and an assortment of James Patterson and Clive Cussler paperbacks.

  “Hey, look at you. Finally got a package.” Private Conroy stops into my doorway, leaning against the jamb, hands in his pockets. “And look at that smile on your face. Your girlfriend send that to you or your mom?”

  I close the flap on the box. “Neither.”

  If she were here right now, I’d tell her that yes…

  … there is such a thing as being too nice.

  Maritza,

  Thank you for the package that you didn’t have to send. Let me remind you that we agreed to letters and letters only.

  And yes, there is such a thing as being too nice.

  Anyway, I won’t be able to write for a while. I’ll be headed to the Syrian border after today. Not sure how long I’ll be away.

  Take care,

  Isaiah

  I stuff his letter back into the envelope, smile fading and hot tears welling in my eyes, and check the date. He sent this two weeks ago. Every part of me knows I shouldn’t read into this letter but it’s just … different. There was no “Maritza the Waitress,” no playful “P.S. I hate you” at the end. And he signed off with a cold “take care.”

  Biting my lip, I place the letter a
side and sink back into my bed, dragging my palms along my floral velvet duvet.

  It’s almost like he was intentionally distancing himself …

  Maybe I came on too strong? Maybe he read into the care package thing and took it as I like him and I’m trying to move things to the next level? I don’t know. I don’t know what was going through his head because he’s a closed effing book and I knew him for all of nine days or whatever.

  I allow myself to overanalyze for a solid ten minutes before snapping out of it and giving him the benefit of the doubt. Rising from my bed, I peel off my pajamas and head to the shower. I have to be at work in a couple of hours.

  When I’m finished getting ready, I trek over to Gram’s to grab breakfast, only the second I slide the back door open, I find myself face to face with Constance’s grandson, Myles, seated at my grandmother’s kitchen table.

  “Oh. Hi.” I stop in my tracks.

  His thin lips curl. “Maritza. Hey. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  Yeah …

  “How have you been?” he asks, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up his long nose. Nothing has changed since the last time I saw him. With a plaid shirt cuffed at his elbows, black skinny jeans, and white chucks, he’s rocking the quintessential film studies major uniform.

  “Good. You?” I head to the coffee bar off the butler’s pantry and he careens his body, tracking me with his narrow eyes.

  “Great.” I grab a porcelain mug and turn my back to him. “Where’s Gram and Constance?”

  “Around here somewhere.” He chuckles. “Probably polishing Gram’s Oscars or something.”

  I don’t laugh. He isn’t funny. He’s awkward and obvious and gives off this intrusive, invasive vibe that I can’t fully explain.

  Heading back to the kitchen, I don’t find Gram’s usual Saturday morning breakfast spread, no scent of bacon or steel cut oats, no buffet of fresh sliced strawberries and pineapples. She must’ve given her chef the day off.

  “All right, well, I have to get to work,” I say, striding toward the sliding door. “Good seeing you, Myles.”

  He stands. “You came all the way here for a cup of coffee?”

  Pausing, I nod. “Gram has the good stuff.”

  His thin lips meld together and he exhales through his nose. “I see.”

  Reaching for the door handle, I give it a solid tug and embrace the mild morning air that hits my face.

  Freedom.

  Freedom from Myles Bridger.

  I can’t get back to the guesthouse fast enough. The way he stares. The way he stalls. The way his energy just lingers and clings and makes me feel like I need another shower.

  By the time I get back to my place a minute later, I chide myself for overreacting. We had one date. One. And he was weird and tried to kiss me and he wasn’t my type. He called me every day for two weeks afterwards and finally stopped when he got the hint.

  He’s just a nerdy, awkward guy. And he’s nice. I don’t give him enough credit for being nice. He’s just … not for me.

  I should cut him some slack. I shouldn’t fault him for having an innocent crush. The worst thing the guy ever did was try to kiss me after eating four pieces of garlic bread during a god-awful date at a horrendous hole-in-the-wall Italian place in South Gate.

  Grabbing my apron and slipping into my work shoes, I find my keys and head out to my car, my mind returning to Isaiah’s letter.

  I promise myself I’ll stop thinking about it. I promise myself I won’t read into it anymore.

  But promises are fragile.

  And sometimes they break.

  THE DAY WE GET back from the Syrian border, I find a letter from Maritza lying on my bed. Dropping my bag, I take a seat and tear into the envelope.

  Dear Isaiah,

  Please accept my sincerest apologies for the care package. I hope my kindness didn’t offend you. But seriously, get over yourself. We’re friends and I’m allowed to do nice things for you.

  I hope you’re staying safe over there and I look forward to your next letter when you get back from your super-secret Army mission.

  When are you coming home? Panoramic Sunrise is playing another show in five months in the Pacific Palisades. It’s outdoor/open air. Should be fun …

  Oh. And I took your advice and slept with someone because you’re right … I am feeling a little tense lately. Anyway, it was awful. He was just some guy who was hitting on me at this bar I went to with Melrose. He had whiskey dick the whole time and I didn’t even come. The next day he tried to kiss me with morning breath before he left. Who does that?! FYI – last time I take your advice, Corporal.

  Yours,

  Maritza the Waitress

  P.S. I hate you … because I blame you for the whiskey dick sex.

  Her letter rests between my fingers and I read her words one more time—specifically the part about her fucking some random guy.

  My blood heats, my body clenches. The thought of Maritza naked, some guy with his hands all over her body … it doesn’t sit right with me.

  Yeah, I told her she needed to get laid. I pushed her in that direction.

  But I didn’t know it was going to feel like this—like a punch to the gut, and now I don’t even fucking know how to process this or what to make of it.

  I convinced myself she meant nothing, that she was just some smart-mouthed girl I hung out with for a week … but now I don’t know.

  I don’t fucking know.

  All I know is there’s this unsettled weight in my chest that wasn’t there five minutes ago.

  “Corporal, you ready?” Lieutenant Harbinger stands in the doorway. “Time to roll out again.”

  “We just got back.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “And now we have to leave again. Another airstrike headed this way. Let’s move it.”

  I LIED.

  I broke one of my own hard rules.

  But only by omission, which I don’t think really justifies it fairly, but that’s how I’m justifying it anyway.

  When I told Isaiah I’d slept with some guy … it wasn’t just some random guy.

  It was Myles.

  And I’m not proud. In fact, I’m disgusted with myself. Melrose invited him to get drinks with us for some insane reason—I think she felt sorry for him or something. We were both plastered. It happened so fast and it happened without any forethought or thinking and as soon as it was over, I knew it was a mistake and I was appalled at my behavior.

  Just thinking about that night, weeks later, makes me nauseous.

  It was awkward, unsexy, and all around terrible, but it’s done. It occurred. I own it. And it’s never going to happen again.

  “Someone requested you.” I finish pouring four ice waters and glance over at Rachael. “Some guy. Table eleven.”

  My heart pounds, my face blanketed in warmth before turning numb. I don’t want to get my hopes up so I don’t allow myself to think what I want to think, to assume what I want to assume.

  Peeking out from the galley, I check out my newest table, only to have my stomach drop to the floor in the worst way possible.

  Myles.

  Fucking Myles is sitting at table eleven, thumbing through his phone and trying to nonchalantly scan the room in search of me.

  “You know him?” Rachael asks.

  Exhaling, I shake my head. “Unfortunately.”

  “Why do you say that? He looks cute … like in a nerdy, endearing kind of way.” Rachael takes him in from afar. “I like his glasses.”

  “It’s a story for another time.” I load the waters on a tray and head out, and when I’m finished, I hold my head high and make my way to table eleven. “Myles. Good morning.”

  He places his phone face down on the table and smiles wide when he sees me. “Maritza.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, trying to keep this formal and impersonal. The night after we slept together, which has been weeks ago now, he called me.

  And then he called me t
he next day.

  And the next day.

  His calls tapered off over the course of a couple of weeks until they stopped completely and I found relief in the fact that he seemed to be getting the hint all over again.

  “Been trying to get a hold of you for weeks,” he says, voice low as he smiles through his bruised ego.

  Wincing, I release a slow breath. “I’m so sorry.”

  Looking at him with his pitiful expression and his puppy dog eyes and falling smile, I feel like a giant piece of shit. I should’ve been an adult and told him right away that I wasn’t feeling … this … instead I ignored him because I didn’t want to hurt him—which only hurt him anyway. Faulty logic. Completely my fault.

  “I shouldn’t have brushed you off,” I say, placing my hand over my heart. And I mean it. I feel awful. I knew he liked me, I slept with him which probably got his hopes up, and I ghosted him. “But I think we should just be friends.”

  He removes his disheartened gaze from mine, staring across the booth at the empty spot. His fingers tap on the table and he shifts in his seat.

  “Myles, I’m so sorry,” I say again. This isn’t one of my finer moments, but I’m willing to accept full responsibility that I screwed this up and hurt him. At the time, the drinks were flowing and we were laughing and all I kept thinking about was how badly I needed a quick release and how sex is just sex … but in my drunken stupor, I didn’t stop to think that Myles and I weren’t on the same page with that.

  He folds his menu and shoves it across his table, exhaling hard. “Right. Heard you the first time.”