[2018] PS I Hate You Read online

  “Maybe we can talk about this another time?” I ask, glancing at the man at the next table who’s been trying to flag me down for the last minute. “When I’m not working?”

  Myles’ mouth presses flat.

  “Sounds pretty pointless.” Sliding out of his seat, he squares his body with mine, his expensive cologne invading my personal space. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

  He leaves.

  I feel like shit.

  Brushing my proverbial shoulders off, I check on the table behind him, refilling a man’s coffee before returning to the galley.

  “What was up with that?” Rachael asks, pouring an orange juice. “Why’d he leave?”

  Drawing in a deep breath, I check the clock. “He’s had a thing for me for a while. We slept together a few weeks ago and then I ghosted.”

  Her red lips form a crooked smirk. “You’re so bad.”

  “I’m not bad. I’m cruel.”

  “Nah. You’re not cruel, you’re just being too hard on yourself. Men do that crap all the time. We do it once and we beat ourselves up about it for days,” she says. “Let it go, sweets. He’ll move on. They always do. And let’s not dismiss the fact that you ignored him and he had the nerve to show up at your work to get your attention. Something’s not right about him so don’t go kicking yourself, all right? You didn’t handle the situation perfectly, but neither did he. See? You’re even.”

  Sighing, I say, “I love you, Rach.”

  “Love you too, Ritz.” Rach gives me a side hug before grabbing the OJ and heading out to table seven.

  The rest of the morning is a blur, which turns out to be a good thing. We’re hit with our usual eight o’clock rush followed by a sightseeing tour bus full of retirees who traveled all the way from Reno to get their hands on our famous cinnamon pancakes.

  By mid-afternoon, I’m back home with aching feet and a yawn that won’t stop. I’m halfway to becoming an actual vegetable on the sofa when Melrose texts me and asks me to walk Murphy.

  Peeling my faux zebra-skin blanket off my legs, I climb up and call for the world’s most pampered pug before grabbing his leash by the door. The click-clack of his paws on the tile and the jingle of his collar follows and a second later he’s attempting to jump into my arms. I hook him up and head out, passing by the mailbox once I’m outside the driveway gate.

  Stopping, I reach my hand inside and retrieve a small stack of junk, bills, and Melrose’s newest issue of Vogue.

  Murphy relieves himself on a nearby palm tree.

  Life goes on.

  I ALMOST DIED TODAY. Granted, that risk is always a given when I’m out here in the land of air strikes, land minds, and suicide bombers, but this was different. Fourteen of my men were injured today. On my watch, no less.

  But one of us, Private Nathaniel Jansson, paid the ultimate price.

  War doesn’t care how old you are, how brave you are. War doesn’t care how hard you work or how much you love your country. War doesn’t care that you’ve got a woman back home waiting for you or that you’re months away from becoming a father for the first time.

  It could have been any of us, but today it was Jansson.

  While he was young and green, he was going to be one of the best. I knew it. I saw it in him. He may have been new but he had a fire in his eyes and a dedication like none I’ve ever seen before, and now he’s leaving behind a child that will only ever hear how brave and heroic their father was through secondhand stories.

  My ears are still ringing and there’s no time to sit around and process what just happened. We hadn’t been back from our mission to the Syrian border but half a day when we found our base under siege. The flash of lights that preceded the deafening explosions and the sounds of men crying out in the dark will haunt my nightmares the rest of my life, but the strangest thing happened.

  In the midst of all the chaos, when I wasn’t focused on sheer fucking survival, I found myself thinking about her.

  Maritza.

  Coming this close to death does something to a man, it forces him to reevaluate his priorities and the things in life that he truly wants, forces him to question if the kind of life he’s living has any sort of meaning at all or if he’s just drifting through life like a fool believing his own lies—that he’s happy alone, that he’s never going to want anyone else for longer than a drunken night in a hotel room.

  But I’m done lying to myself.

  I want meaning.

  I want her.

  I want to get to know her, really know her. And I want to make her smile. I want to feel her strawberry lips on mine and brush her hair from her face. I want to do dorky touristy things together, things I’d never be caught dead doing with anyone else. I want to show her more constellations. I want to take her to another Panoramic Sunrise concert because god damn it, she deserves a do-over.

  I want her to wait for me, to push my limits and do annoyingly sweet things and tell me she misses me.

  And I don’t want her sleeping with anyone else.

  Shoving what’s left of my things into an Army-issued duffel bag, I find a crumpled scrap of paper—an old report of some kind, the edges burnt, and I grab a pen from my desk drawer. Scribbling a note, I fold the paper into fourths and tuck it in my pocket.

  First chance I get, I’ll send it.

  “Corp, we gotta go.”

  I glance up to find Lt. Peters in my doorway, looking white as a ghost. The familiar, sickening sound of bombers breaking the sound barrier rumbles above us, vibrating through every breath, every thought.

  I’m not a religious man much to my mother’s dismay, but I find a handful of seconds to make a promise to God. Let me make it home alive, and I promise I’ll tell her how I feel. I’ll be the man she deserves, the man I’m supposed to be. I’ll change. For good.

  And I’ll tell her everything.

  MELROSE CUPS HER DOG’S wrinkly face in her hands and rubs her nose against his. “You seem down lately.”

  “Me? Or the dog?” I ask.

  She rolls her eyes before pulling her dog into her arms. “You. Murphy’s always happy. He’s living the good life.”

  “I’m not … not happy,” I say, reaching for my bottled water on the coffee table. I unscrew the cap and lift it to my mouth before adding, “I guess I’ve just been thinking about Isaiah lately.”

  “Still?” Melrose sits up straight in our leather arm chair. “You haven’t seen him in, what … several months? And you knew him all of a week?”

  “I know, I know.” I take a swig. “And it was nine days. I know, okay? Don’t think I don’t have this conversation with myself on a regular basis. I just guess I’m trying to make sense of how two people could hit it off so well and how we were writing these cute little letters back and forth and then he just … stopped.”

  “You need a new hobby or something that doesn’t involve obsessing over pointless stupid shit like Corporal Douche Bag.”

  “It’s not like I’ve been moping around the last few months. I’ve been living my life, doing the exact same things I’d be doing had I never met him,” I say. And it’s true. I catch movies. I grab drinks with friends. I lunch with my favorite people. I read books and visit family. By no means am I sitting around waiting for the mailman or some serendipitous knock at my door. But it doesn’t make this whole thing bother me any less. “I just want to know that he’s okay, Mel. At this point, it doesn’t matter why he stopped writing. I just want to know if he’s safe. That’s the only thing I care about.”

  Melrose begins to respond but my phone steals the show, vibrating across the coffee table.

  “Ugh,” I say, glancing at the screen and declining. “It’s that blocked number again.”

  The few times I’ve answered, it’s always been nothing—like someone’s on the other end, muting their line.

  “You’re still getting those?” she asks, forehead wrinkled.

  “Yup. At least every other day.” They started a couple of months ago, an
d at the time I didn’t think much of them. Most of the time they happen when I’m at work or in class and my phone is on silent. But now I get them almost every day, sometimes two or three times.

  “For the love of God, will you change your phone number? It’s the only way to make these stop.” She cradles Murphy in her arms and kisses the top of his head.

  Pulling in a haggard breath, I stare at the black glass in my hand. I’ve been putting it off for months … maybe because a part of me wanted to make sure Isaiah had a way of contacting me should he need to or want to or whatever.

  But that argument seems a bit moot at this point.

  “I’ll do it first thing tomorrow,” I say. Rising, I head back to my room and grab my notebook—the one I’d been keeping all the letters I’ve written him the last several weeks, ones I vowed not to send until I’d heard from him again.

  There are so many things I wish I could tell him—stupid things, really. Like I wish I could tell him I finally decided what I want to do with my life, that I finally picked a major and I’m starting classes this August. He’d be happy for me. At least, I think he would.

  I guess I don’t really know anymore.

  At the end of the day, Melrose is right.

  He’s just some stranger I knew for nine days, and after all these months and all these letters, he’s still just some stranger.

  HE WOULD’VE COME HOME today.

  At least, six months ago today was when he left, and he’d claimed his deployment was six months unless he decided to extend it.

  I changed my number last week, which sort of signified the fact that I decided to let him go, to let go of the briefness of what was and all the questions that will never have answers. But still, he slips into my mind without permission on a regular basis. Melrose says I should learn to meditate, to mentally place my thoughts of Isaiah on a cloud and blow them away with a gentle exhalation.

  I think she’s full of shit.

  I tried that … a dozen times … and not once did it work. If anything, those thoughts only came back with a vengeance, lingering longer and overstaying their welcome ten-fold.

  It’s like a sickness, an incurable disease.

  Rach says I need closure. Mel says I need to see a shrink, which is a little dramatic in my opinion but she is her mother’s daughter and her mother is of the opinion that shrinks are the answer to all of life’s problems. That and Xanax.

  All I know is I just want to move on with my life and be okay with not knowing why he stopped talking to me or why I continue to give a damn.

  “You okay?” Rach ties her apron around her waist after clocking in Tuesday morning. “You look a little lost in thought.”

  I force a smile. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Do I need to remind you that I’m a mother of three and my lie-dar is so strong it can pick up a lie from up to eighty yards away? You’re lying, Ritz. Don’t lie to me.”

  Tying my hair into a low ponytail, I turn to face her. “I stayed up all night checking all the public military casualty records I could find.”

  “Sweet Jesus. This is worse than I realized.” Rach pinches her nose and places her palm on my shoulder. “Find what you were looking for?”

  I bite my lip and shake my head. “I’m not proud, okay?”

  “Is he alive?”

  I shrug. “From what I can tell. Without being next-of-kin, there are certain records I couldn’t access.”

  “You’re going down a dark and winding path, my friend. Turn back now.”

  “I know, I know.” I clamp my hand across my forehead. “It’s just, I’m stuck between being scared sick that he’s hurt or something happened to him and being furious at him for ghosting me like he did.”

  “Sweets, you have to let him go,” she says, using the kind of tender tone she uses when her youngest kid falls off his bike and scrapes his knees, “because for whatever reason, the jackass let you go a long time ago.”

  I drag in a full breath of pancake-and-grease scented air, taking in the stainless-steel kitchen symphony going on in the background as patrons are being seated en masse.

  “All right, fine,” I say. “I’m letting him go—for real this time.”

  “LOVE, WHAT ARE YOU doing this upcoming weekend?” Gram asks over tea the following Saturday afternoon. She saw me coming back from my jog and flagged me down, asking if I had a moment to chat, which always means she’s up to something.

  I’d spent all morning running around the Brentwood Pancake and Coffee like a crazy person then like an even crazier person, decided to go for a jog to clear my head when I got home from work.

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead. Why?” I ask, still trying to catch my breath as she pours me a steaming cup of her signature Fortnum and Mason Earl Grey and slides it my way. I slide the chair out beside her and have a seat, my sweaty tank top sticking to my skin and the hot tea looking particularly unappetizing.

  “The reason I ask is because Constance is throwing her grandson—you know, Myles—a party at The Ivy. I guess he got some hotshot Hollywood producer to option this screenplay he wrote in film school and it’s kind of a big deal. You should come. Oh, Lovey, he’d be tickled if you showed up to celebrate with us.”

  Gram’s eyes light and her sweet face is aglow, and it isn’t her Chanel makeup or the flattering light spilling in through the multitude of windows plastering the backside of her hacienda.

  “You know he adores you,” she says, pink lips pulled into a Cheshire grin. “Every time he comes around, he’s always asking about you. In fact, just yesterday I ran into him and he was asking what you were up to. Even asked if you were seeing anyone …”

  “Are you serious?” I place my tea cup against my saucer, nearly knocking it over. Why would he ask my grandmother those kinds of questions when I made it perfectly clear I’m not interested in him?

  Gram nods. “Serious as a heart attack.”

  “You know I hate when you say that.” I roll my eyes. It’d be a little less of a big deal if Gram hadn’t had one of her own a couple years back. “Too soon.”

  “Where’s your sense of humor, Lovey?” she asks, narrow shoulders lifting and falling as she releases a dainty chuckle. “Anyway, there’s this party and you should come. I’ll even take you down to Rodeo Drive, let you pick out a new dress for the occasion.”

  Reaching for my jade green porcelain cup, I take a sip while I contemplate my answer. I don’t want to hurt her, but I really need her to back off with the whole Myles thing.

  “He said you two had a date several weeks back,” she continues, head cocked. “He said it was one of the greatest nights of his life. You must have really left quite the impression on him.”

  Yeah …

  “I just think the world of him,” she continues. “He’s so kind and intelligent. Your grandfather would’ve loved him. I’m sure your father would think the world of him, you know, if you ever feel like introducing the two of them. You know, I could invite—”

  “—Gram,” I say, steadying my trembling hands as I cut her off. I’ve never spoken to her with anything but love and respect in all of my twenty-four years, but I’m going to have to give it to her straight in order to put an end to her incessant prodding. “Myles is weird and awkward and we have nothing in common.”

  “Oh, come on now.” She chuckles, like she doesn’t take me seriously. “There’s nothing wrong with him. Maybe he’s just awkward around you because he likes you so much? You have that effect on boys, I’ve seen it. You make them nervous.”

  “Myles is broccoli. I’ve tried broccoli before, and I don’t like it. I don’t have a taste for it,” I say. “And I tried it again just to make sure. Still didn’t like it. So please quit forcing broccoli down my throat. I’m never going to like it.”

  Placing my cup on the saucer with a hard chink, I rise from her breakfast table and force myself to meet her gaze, taking in her wide eyes and gaping mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I really
am. I’m sorry. I don’t like him. I can’t. And I never will. Please, please stop, Gram. Please.”

  Her lips press together and she straightens her shoulders, glancing away. “Well, all right then.”

  Exhaling, I say, “Thank you. And I’m not leaving because of this conversation. I’m leaving because I have laundry to do and I told Melrose I’d do her hair.”

  “She’s going out again tonight?” Gram asks.

  “Yup.”

  “Are you planning to join her?”

  I shrug. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  I’ve been going out with Melrose all summer, weekend after weekend, Saturday after Saturday, sometimes staying out too late and hating myself the next morning when I’m rolling into work at 6 AM and other times calling it a night before half our friends even show up at the club du nuit.

  But it’s getting old.

  Or maybe I am.

  It’s just not as fun as it used to be. The other day I sort of joked around with Mel that I felt like staying in and binge-watching Game of Thrones sounded more exciting than getting into 1 OAK and she looked at me like I had two heads. But the truth is, I’m in this gray area where going out sucks and staying in sucks and I don’t know what the hell I want to do half the time, but I’m kind of okay with that because classes start next week and my priorities are about to shift and it’s all for the best anyway.

  Plus, I feel like everything happens for a reason.

  And for the first time in a long time and in some kind of way that I can’t fully explain, I feel like something exciting is just around the corner.

  “YOU HAVE SOMETHING STUCK in your teeth.” His name is Blake and he’s a six-foot two former linebacker and current pharmacy student at USC.

  My hand covers my mouth as my eyes widen. “Really? Where?”

  “Right … here.” He flashes his perfect teeth and points between the two front ones.

  “Oh, jeez. I’m always getting food stuck there, in the tiniest, most microscopic little gap. That’s what I get for losing my retainer my freshman year of high school and thinking my teeth were going to stay perfectly in place for all eternity.” I drag my tongue along my teeth before smiling. “Did I get it?”