[2018] PS I Hate You Page 16

  “Yeah,” he says. “But now I miss the little guy. He was kind of cute.”

  Laughing, I roll my eyes. “That’s what I get for saying yes to the freshly ground pepper on my salad.”

  “Those pepper mills, man. They’re irresistible.” His hand rests on the white linen table cloth as his eyes catch mine over a flickering candle. We’re dining al fresco on the rooftop of some Laguna Beach diamond-in-the-rough, the ocean waves crashing in the distance.

  And speaking of diamond-in-the-rough, I’m pretty sure I’m sitting across from one right now—only this one was hiding on Tinder of all places. Tinder!

  I only stumbled across him a couple of weeks ago because Melrose swore by Tinder and Rachael swore off Tinder and I agreed to settle their argument by selecting one lucky gentleman and giving it a go myself—for fun, of course. And science.

  Looks like Melrose is winning the debate thus far.

  “Whenever you’re ready.” Our server places the leather check wallet between us, skewing more toward Blake’s side of the table and as soon as she leaves, we both reach for it at the same time.

  He gets there first.

  “I got it,” he says, digging into his back pocket and retrieving a shiny American Express card.

  “You sure?” I ask. I don’t want to be that girl who makes an awkward thing out of paying for a check but this is only the third time we’ve hung out, he knows we’re simply having fun, and this was by no means a stepping stone to boyfriend and girlfriend territory.

  “Stop.” He waves me off. A moment later, our server returns to grab his card. “So … what are you doing after this?”

  Resting my elbow on the table and my head in my hand, I sigh. “Homework. You?”

  “Really? On a Friday night?”

  I bite my lip. “Don’t judge. I picked up a shift tomorrow so I have to go to bed early tonight anyway. It works out.”

  “All right, so what about tomorrow night? What are you doing then?”

  I smirk. “What is this? What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to ask you on a date.”

  “Like a date date? Or just hanging out?”

  “What’s the difference?” he asks, head cocked.

  “Expectations,” I say. “And wardrobe selection.”

  His blue eyes drift from my face to my collarbone and back. “Did you dress for a date tonight?”

  “Not really …” I look down at my ripped jeans and silk tank top, reaching for my Kendra Scott rose quartz earrings. “Was I supposed to? Was this a date? I thought we were just getting to know each other? Having fun?”

  “What’s the difference between that and dating?” he asks.

  “Expectations. I told you that,” I say with a teasing chuckle. “Get on my level, Blake. I’m losing you here.”

  Our server returns with his receipt, which he wastes no time signing. I gather my bag and he follows me to the exit, placing his hand on the small of my back as he walks me to the parking lot.

  We stop at my car and he stands in such a way that I wonder if I should offer him some water because his feet are firmly planted, practically rooting into the ground beneath his leather boat shoes.

  “I want to see you again, Maritza,” he says.

  Ordinarily when an intelligent, charming, well-studied man with impossibly good looks and a killer sense of humor looks at a girl like she’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen and tells her he wants to see her again, she should feel something. A missed heartbeat, a flush in her cheeks, a tingle in her belly.

  But I’ve got nothing, and it’s not for lack of trying.

  I want to feel something, anything.

  But it’s not something I can control—either a girl feels something or she doesn’t. But maybe with time? Just because the fireworks aren’t instantaneous doesn’t mean they’ll never be there at all.

  “Casablanca is playing at the Vista Theatre tomorrow night,” he says. “It’s one of my favorites. Have you seen it?”

  I nod. “Yeah. I have.”

  “You like it?” he asks.

  “Love it.”

  “Good,” he says. “So you’ll see it with me tomorrow night. Pick you up at eight.”

  It hits me that earlier this year, I’d taken Isaiah to that same theatre to see that very same movie, and then it hits me even harder when I remember that Rick and Ilsa don’t end up together in the end.

  I’ve been doing so well lately, not thinking about the stranger I’d spent a week of Saturdays with once upon a time, but tonight it comes as one giant tidal wave, like everything I’d kept pent up all these months crashes over me at once.

  I miss Isaiah.

  I miss him for reasons I can’t put into words, reasons I feel deep in my bones and in the pit of my stomach and in the ache in my chest I’d grown numb to.

  But just as soon as the wave comes, it’s gone, and I’m left with nothing but a handsome soon-to-be pharmacist with football player muscles who wants to take me to Casablanca tomorrow night.

  I take this as a sign, and also as my closure.

  “OH, HEY THERE.” MELROSE stands in my bedroom door as I’m feverishly typing out a term paper at my desk in the corner. “Was beginning to wonder if you still lived here. Feels like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

  “I know.” I shut my laptop lid and face her. “I’ve been so busy with work and school.”

  “And Blake,” she says, fighting a smirk as she takes a seat on my bed. “So what’s up with him now? You guys official?”

  Shaking my head, I say, “We’re still just hanging out.”

  “But you’re hanging out a lot.”

  Maybe a few times a week for the past few weeks. I’d hardly call that “a lot.” And most of the time we’re studying together or catching matinees.

  I shrug. “So?”

  “Clearly he likes you. And you like him too or you wouldn’t spend so much time with him,” she says, like she’s the authority on the intricacies of Tinder dating in the modern age.

  “He’s fun,” I say. “And he makes me laugh. And he’s nice. And we have the same taste in music and movies. And for once, I’ve found a guy who believes me when I say I just want to have fun and not worry about labels. So yeah, I’m going to hang out with him.”

  Mel rolls her eyes. “You friend-zoned him. Nice.”

  “No. I fun-zoned him. There’s a difference.”

  “Potato, po-tah-to.” Murphy trots into my room and Mel scoops him up. “What do you think, Murph? Does she need to piss or get off the pot?” She places his smooshy face against her ear. “Yep. He’s in agreement with me.”

  “Dork.” I roll my eyes and turn back to my computer, about to lift the lid when a text comes through from Blake telling me he’s outside the gate. Earlier today he texted, asking me to grab dinner with him. Said he needed some brain food for the all-nighter he was planning to pull studying for tomorrow’s Pharmacogenetics test.

  “Where you going?” Mel asks as I stand and scan the room for my bag.

  “Dinner with a friend,” I say, like it’s no big thing. And it isn’t. It’s nothing—still. He even kissed me two weeks ago after we saw Casablanca. His lips were soft and his tongue was pure peppermint and his hands were in my hair and yet I felt … nada.

  Not a single, sleepy butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

  “What are you doing, Ritz?” Mel asks.

  My brows narrow. “Going out for dinner. I told you.”

  “No,” she says, expression fading. “I mean, what are you doing with this guy? You don’t even seem that excited to hang out with him.”

  I rest a hand on my hip. “I don’t get where you’re going with this.”

  “Are you waiting for yourself to like him? Because I can tell you, he doesn’t make you light up half as much as Corporal Douche Bag did.”

  “Wow. Okay. You just went there …”

  “I just … I don’t want you to settle for someone who doesn’t make you feel incredible,
” she says. “And I also don’t want you to hold off on letting yourself feel incredible all because you’re waiting for some jackass from your past to come waltzing through the door.”

  “Trust me. I haven’t placed my happiness on hold for anyone and even if Isaiah came waltzing through my door like nothing happened, I’d have no problem telling him to fuck off,” I say. “That train left the station a long time ago.”

  “Mm hm.” Melrose gives me a side eye, which leads me to believe she doesn’t buy it. But I don’t care if she believes me or not. I know how I feel, and it’s not my job to sell her on that.

  If Corporal Isaiah Torres walks back into my life tomorrow like nothing happened, I’ll waste no time telling him exactly what I think of him.

  And it won’t be pretty.

  “UM, RITZ?” RACHAEL STANDS in the doorway of the galley as I mix three kid-sized chocolate milks—extra Hershey’s syrup, her face white and looking like she’s just seen a ghost. “You have a new table.”

  “Okay. Give me two secs.” I give the final cup of milk an extra squeeze of chocolate.

  Rach stands there, staring, watching, which is odd because she’s always moving and we’re mid-morning rush and all the other staff are go, go, going all around us.

  “You okay?” I ask, loading the cups onto a plastic serving tray.

  “Ritz …”

  I glance up at her only to find her staring out toward table ten where a dark-haired man sits with his back toward us. He turns for a second, but only slightly and only enough for me to recognize that chiseled jaw I’d remember anywhere.

  The ground wobbles beneath my feet, I swear, and I suck in a deep breath before Rach grabs my wrist. My vision fades for a single, terrifying second. I’ve never had this kind of physical reaction to anything in my life.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” she says. “I know you want to let him have it—and he deserves it—but I don’t want you to get fired. I need you here. I can’t work here without you.”

  She offers a smile that lets me know she’s half joking, half serious.

  “I won’t make a scene,” I say, though I’m not sure if I’m trying to reassure her—or myself.

  Clearing my throat and trying hard to deny the thrum and whoosh of my heartbeat in my ears, I deliver my chocolate milks with a smile before making my way to table ten.

  Sliding my notepad from my apron and clicking the tip of my pen, I cock my head. “Good morning.”

  Isaiah places his menu flat on his table, drawing in a deep breath before checking his watch. “Just a coffee and eggs today, please.”

  My pen presses into my notepad with a slight tremble.

  “Seriously?” I ask.

  He glances up at me, his expression cold and distant. “I’m in a bit of a rush.”

  Lingering and at a total loss for words at the fact that he’s treating me like a complete stranger, I clear my throat and let my notepad fall to my sides. My lips part as I try to say something, but the perfect words fail to find their way out of my jumbled brain.

  A million thoughts spin around and there are a million things I probably should say to him right now, but I promised Rach I wouldn’t do anything stupid and at the end of the day, I’m not willing to sacrifice my job over this jackass.

  God help him if I ever meet him outside these four walls though …

  “No pancake today?” I ask, forcing a smile. If he wants to pretend we’re a couple of strangers, then two can play that game.

  He shakes his head. “Coffee and two eggs over easy.”

  “Really? Sure you don’t want two pancakes?” I offer an incredulous chuckle, wondering, for a split second, why I feel the insane need to try to jog his memory. He didn’t forget me. He couldn’t have.

  Isaiah points to the sign above the register. “Heard you guys are sticklers on that one-pancake rule. Figured I’d stick to something simple today.”

  The oceans and continents that once separated us have nothing on the distant gaze in his eyes when he looks at me.

  Pressing my lips together and trying to stave off the stinging threat of tears, I take his menu. “I’ll put that in for you right away.”

  Isaiah turns away from me, staring out the window to the sidewalk. His hair is a bit longer than it was before, which makes me think he’s been home from his deployment for a while. And he’s dressed in a navy suit with a white button down, a far departure from the fitted ripped jeans and v-neck t-shirts I only ever knew him to wear before.

  “You okay?” Rachael asks when she bumps into me back at the kitchen window.

  I hang his order on the line and turn to face her, squeezing my eyes tight until the burn subsides. “He looked right through me, Rach. Like he didn’t recognize me. Why would he come all the way here and pretend like we’re strangers? What’s he doing?”

  Her nose wrinkles and her gaze skirts over my shoulder and lands on him. “That’s … really weird. Did you say anything to him?”

  Shaking my head, I say, “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey … do you remember me? We slept together earlier this year…’”

  “You’ll think of the right thing to say. You’re just in shock right now.” She smooths her hand along my arm and offers a sympathetic head tilt before heading out to the floor.

  Grabbing a full coffee carafe from a burner, I return to Isaiah’s table and flip over his empty coffee cup.

  “Room for two creams, half sugar?” I ask, hating that I remember the way he takes his coffee.

  His brows narrow as he gazes up at me. “Lucky guess.”

  Lucky guess?

  “Yeah, sometimes I think I’m psychic or something,” I say, not so much as attempting to hide the biting snark in my tone.

  “Thanks.” He pulls his coffee closer and reaches for the sugar holder by the window.

  “You look good,” I say. And I mean it. As much as I want to rip his hair out and smack him across his pretty boy face and tell him what an asshole he is, a part of me is glad he made it home safe and unscathed. “I like the suit. It’s a nice touch.”

  And my mother always said, you can never go wrong when you take the high road.

  His dark brows meet as he turns my direction, studying me. “Thank you.”

  “Your eggs should be out soon.” I leave and check on my three other tables before his order comes up, and when I return with his breakfast, he’s on his phone. He doesn’t acknowledge me or thank me with a quick wave of his hand when I place his plate in front of him. He simply reaches for a fork.

  My stomach hardens, unsettling.

  So much for the closure.

  If anything, I’m more confused than I was before.

  I spend the next fifteen minutes fully immersed in work, even pre-bussing some of Rachael’s tables so I have every reason not to stand around fixating on why he’s here and why he’s pretending not to know me.

  When he finally flags me down and asks for his check, a blanket of anxious heat warms my body and I will myself to find the right thing to say before he walks out of here.

  “Thank you,” he says a minute later, when I hand him the leather check wallet. His total was thirteen dollars and fifty-eight cents and I watch as he slips a ten and a five-dollar bill inside and tells me to “keep the change.”

  The dollar forty-two is a far cry from the hundred-dollar tip he once left.

  “Why did you come here today?” I ask, hand on one hip and head cocked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why did you come here today?” I state my question clear as fucking day, enunciating every last syllable.

  Isaiah frowns. “Is this some kind of trick question?”

  “Why did you request me?” I ask.

  “I … didn’t.”

  Pulling in a hard breath, I massage my temples before splaying my hand across my beating heart. “This doesn’t make sense.”

  “Are you mad about the tip?” he asks. “I usually try to tip more, but you made me wait fifteen mi
nutes for my check and now I’m going to be late for a client meeting.”

  “Oh, so now we’re going to pretend this is about the tip and not about the way you’re treating me?” I ask. My mouth falls and I can sense the burn of cherry heat in my ears.

  “The way I’m treating you?” He scoffs, sliding out of his booth and standing. “Ma’am, I think you’re confused.”

  Ma’am.

  He’s back to calling me ma’am.

  “Did you hit your head or something?” I ask. “Is that what happened? I’m not being facetious, it’s a legitimate question. Do you have amnesia?”

  Isaiah chuckles, like I’m being cute, and then he shakes his head. “Are we done here? Because I’ve got someone waiting for me back at the office.”

  At the office?

  He’s been back long enough to get a job in an office that requires a suit …

  He’s not fresh off the military boat. Not at all. And at this point, I’m starting to wonder if he was ever really in the army. It could’ve all been a ruse, maybe something he tells girls so he can get laid and have an excuse never to see them again. Or maybe he was some method actor studying for a role?

  Then again, the letters came from an APO … so that couldn’t be it.

  Gram always says, “It takes all kinds,” but I never knew what she meant until now, when I’m standing in front of one of the worst ‘kinds’ I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he says, squeezing past me, his meaty hands on my shoulders. Straightening his jacket, he gives me one last look—like I’m the crazy one here—and then he turns to leave.

  Gathering his dirty dishes, I take them back to the kitchen, scolding myself for all those wasted days and sleepless nights I spent worrying about that selfish prick.

  When I said I wanted closure, I didn’t know it was going to feel like this, and I didn’t know it was possible to mean less than nothing to someone who meant more than something to me.