[2018] PS I Hate You Read online

  Reaching for his plate, he stops me, his hand covering mine, and then our eyes lock.

  “Why were you staring at me over there?” he asks. The way he looks at me is equal parts invasive and intriguing, like he’s studying me, forming a hard and fast opinion, but also like he’s checking me out which makes zero sense because his annoyance with me practically oozes out of his perfect, tawny physique.

  “I’m sorry?” I play dumb.

  “I saw you. Answer the question.”

  Oh, god. He’s not going to let this go. Something tells me I should’ve taken Rachael up on her offer to trade tables. This one’s been nothing but trouble since the moment I poured his coffee.

  My mouth falls and I’m not sure what to say. Half of me knows I should probably utter some kind of nonsense most likely to appease him so he doesn’t complain to my manager, but the other half of me is tired of being nice to a man who has the decency to ask another waitress how her day is going and can’t even bring himself to treat his own server like a human being.

  “You were talking about me with that other waitress,” he says. His hand still covers mine, preventing me from exiting this conversation.

  Exhaling, I say, “She wanted to trade tables.”

  His dark brow arches and he studies my face.

  “And then she said you had dimples,” I expand. “She said you smiled at her earlier … I was just thinking about why you’d be so polite to her and not me.”

  He releases me and I stand up straight, tugging my apron into place before smoothing my hands down the front.

  “She handed me a newspaper while I waited. She didn’t have to do that,” he says, lips pressing flat. “Give me something to smile about and I’ll smile at you.”

  The audacity of this man.

  The heat in my ears and the clench in my jaw tells me I should walk away now if I want to preserve my esteemed position as morning server here at Brentwood Pancake and Coffee, but it’s guys like him …

  I try to say something, but all the thoughts in my head are temporarily nonsensical and flavored with a hint of rage. A second later, I manage a simple yet gritted, “Would you like me to grab your check, sir?”

  “No,” he says without pause. “I’m not finished with my breakfast yet.”

  We both glance at his empty plates.

  “More eggs?” I ask.

  “No.”

  I can’t believe I’m about to do this for him, but at this point, the sooner I get him out of here, the better. I mean, at this point I’m doing it for myself, let’s be real.

  “One moment.” I take his empty dishes to the kitchen before sneaking into the galley and grabbing that kid’s dirty pancake. My pulse whooshes in my ears and my body is lit, but I forge ahead, returning to the pick-up window and telling one of the cooks that my customer at table twelve dropped his ‘cake on the floor.

  He glances at the plate, then to the security monitor, then back to me before taking it out of my hands and exchanging it for a fresh one. It’s a verifiable assembly line back there, just a bunch of guys in hairnets and aprons standing around a twenty-foot griddle, spatulas in each hand.

  “Thanks, Brad,” I say. Making my way back to my guy, I stop to check on the Carnavales, only their table is already being bussed and Rachael tells me she took care of their check because they were in a hurry.

  Shit.

  “Here you are.” I place the plate in front of my guy.

  He glances up at me, honeyed eyes squinting for a moment. I wink, praying he doesn’t ask questions.

  “Let me know if you need anything else, okay?” I ask, wishing I could add, “just don’t ask for another pancake because I’ll be damned if I risk my job for an ingrate like you ever again.”

  “Coffee, ma’am. I’d like another cup of coffee.” He reaches for his glass syrup carafe, pouring sticky sweet, imported-from-Vermont goodness all over his steaming pancake, and I try not to watch as he forms an “x” and then a circle.

  Striding away, I grab a fresh carafe of coffee and return to top him off, stopping at three-quarters of the way full. A second later, he glances up at me, his full lips pulling up at the sides, revealing the most perfect pair of dimples I’ve ever seen … as if the past twenty minutes have all been some kind of joke and he was only busting my chops by being the world’s biggest douche lord.

  But just like that, it disappears.

  His pearly, dimpled smirk is gone before I get the chance to fully appreciate how kind of a soul he appears to be when he’s not all tense and surly.

  “Glad I finally gave you a reason to smile.” I’m teasing. Sort of. And I gently rub his shoulder, which is still tight as hell. “Anything else I can get you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll take my check.”

  Thank. God.

  I can’t get it fast enough. Within a minute, I’ve punched my staff ID into the system, printed his ticket, shoved it into a check presenter, and rushed it to his table. His debit card rests on the edge when I arrive, as if I’d taken too long and he grew tired of holding it in his hand.

  He’s just as anxious to leave as I am to get him out of here. Guess that marks the one and only thing that puts us on the same page.

  “I’ll be right back with this,” I tell him. His card—plain navy plastic with the VISA logo in the lower corner and NAVY ARMY CREDIT UNION along the top—bears the name “Isaiah Torres.”

  When I return, I hand him a neon purple gel pen from my pocket and gather his empty dishes.

  “Thank you for the …” he points at the sticky plate in my hand as he signs his check. “For that.”

  “Of course,” I say, avoiding eye contact because the sooner I can pretend he’s already gone, the better. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Asshole.

  Glancing up, I spot our hostess, Maddie, flagging me down and mouthing that I have three new tables. Great. Thanks to this charmer, I’ve disappointed the Carnavales, risked my job, and kept several tables waiting all within the span of a half hour.

  Isaiah signs his check, closes the leather binder, and slides out of his booth. When he stands, he towers over me, peering down his nose and holding my gaze captive for what feels like a single, endless second.

  For a moment, I’m so blinded by his chiseled jaw and full lips, that my heart misses a couple of beats and I almost forget our little exchange.

  “Ma’am, if you’ll kindly excuse me,” he says as I realize I’m blocking his path.

  I step aside, and as he passes, his arm brushes against mine and the scent of fresh soap and spicy aftershave fills my lungs. Shoving the check presenter in my apron, I tend to my new tables before rushing back to start filling drinks.

  Glancing toward the exit, I catch him stopping in the doorway before slowly turning to steal one last look at me for reasons I’ll never know, and it isn’t until an hour later that I finally get a chance to check his ticket. Maybe I’d been dreading it, maybe I’d purposely placed it in the back of my mind, knowing full well he was going to leave me some lousy, slap-in-the-face tip after everything I’d done for him. Or worse: nothing at all.

  But I stand corrected.

  “Maritza, what is it?” Rachael asks, stopping short in front of me, hands full of strategically stacked dirty dishes.

  I shake my head. “That guy … he left me a hundred-dollar tip.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “What? Let me see. Maybe it’s a typo?”

  I show her the tab and the very clearly one and two zeroes on the tip line. The total confirms that the tip was no typo.

  “I don’t understand. He was such an ass,” I say under my breath. “This is like, what, five hundred percent?”

  “Maybe he grew a conscience at the last minute?” Her lips jut forward.

  I roll my eyes. “Whatever it was, I just hope he never comes here again. And if he does, you get him. There isn’t enough tip money in the world that would make me want to serve that arrogant prick again. I don’t care how hot he is.�
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  “Gladly.” Her mouth pulls wide. “I have this thing for generous pricks with dashing good looks.”

  “I know,” I say. “I met your last two exes.”

  Rachael sticks her tongue out before prancing off, and I steal one last look at Isaiah’s tip. It’s not like he’s the first person ever to bestow me with such plentiful gratuity—this is a city where cash basically grows on trees—it’s just that it doesn’t make sense and I’ll probably never get a chance to ask him why.

  Exhaling, I get back to work.

  I’ve worked way too damn hard to un-complicate my life lately, and I’m not about to waste another thought on some complicated man I’m never going to see ever again.

  “YOU DOING OKAY, MAMÅE?” I step into my mother’s bedroom in her little South-Central LA apartment after grabbing breakfast and running a few errands. I’d have eaten something here this morning, but all I could find in her cupboards were dented cans of off-brand soup, a loaf of expired white bread, and a couple boxes of Shake-n-Bake.

  I intend to hit up the grocery store here soon, and after that, I’ll remind my piece-of-shit siblings that this is their job in my absence.

  “Ma?” I ask, drowning in the pitch blackness of her room. “You awake?”

  The sound of police sirens wailing down the street and the neighbor kids above us stomping up and down the hall has become the common soundtrack in these parts. Ironically enough, it all blends together into some kind of white noise, making it easier to tune out.

  She rolls to her side, and the room smells like death despite the fact that Alba Torres is still kicking. The doctors have been attempting to diagnose her for years, saying she has Chronic Fatigue Syndrome or Fibromyalgia one minute, then saying she has Lyme disease the next. Other doctors claim to have ruled those out in favor of doing more testing. More lab work. More MRIs. More examinations. More referrals.

  And still … we know nothing—just that she’s always tired, always hurting.

  “Isaiah?” she asks with a slight groan, attempting to sit up.

  I go to her side and flick on the dim lamp on her pill bottle-covered nightstand. Mom’s face lights up when she sees me, reaching up to hold the side of my face with a thin, shaky hand.

  “Que horas sao?” She reaches for her glasses on the table next, knocking over a tissue box. Despite the fact that she’s lived in the states since she was twenty, she tends to revert to speaking Portuguese when she’s especially exhausted.

  “Almost four.”

  “PM?” she asks.

  I nod. “Yes, Ma. PM.”

  “What’d you do today?” She takes her time sitting up before patting the edge of her bed.

  I have a seat. “Had breakfast at a café. Ran a few errands. Caught a movie.”

  “Sozinho?” She frowns.

  “Yes. Alone.” I don’t know why she acts disappointed or heartbroken that I do things alone. I’m twenty-seven and despite the fact that I have more siblings than I can count on one hand and I’ve lived in enough states to have accumulated hundreds of friends and associates over the years, I’ve always preferred to go about things my own way—by myself.

  Life’s a hell of a lot less disappointing that way.

  “I’m so glad you’re home, Isaiah.” She offers a pained smile, reaching for my hands. She places them between hers, her palms warm but her fingers like ice. “Please tell me you’ll be staying a while?”

  “I leave next week,” I remind her. “In nine days, actually.”

  My mother shakes her head. “I don’t know why you keep going back there, Isaiah. It’s a blessed miracle that you make it home each time, but one of these days it’s going to be in a box in the belly of an airplane.”

  She makes the sign of the cross, mouthing a short Catholic prayer under her breath.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose before resting my elbows on my knees. I can’t look at her right now, not when her dark eyes are getting glassier by the second. I hate seeing her in pain, and I especially hate seeing her in pain because of me.

  “This is my job,” I say, knowing full well it won’t make any of this easier for her. “My career.”

  “Couldn’t you have been anything else?” she asks. “What about something with computers? Or fixing cars? Or building things? You were always so good with your hands.”

  “Still am,” I say.

  “Remind me, when can you retire?” she asks.

  “You know I re-enlisted last year.” I exhale, steadying my patience. We’ve been through this a hundred times, but I shouldn’t get frustrated. Her medications fog her memory.

  Ma clucks her tongue. “I always thought you and your sisters would open a restaurant someday.”

  “Yeah, well, they went ahead and did that without me, but that’s all right. You’ve tried my cooking before.” I smirk, thinking about the time I made the family tacos but forgot the seasoning. For years they refused to let me live that down. I never stepped foot inside the kitchen again after that. “I brought you some dinner. You hungry?”

  Rising, I head to the kitchen, grabbing the hearts of palm salad I ordered from her favorite Brazilian steakhouse down the street as well as a bottle of water, her evening meds, and a tin TV tray.

  When I return to her room, she’s situated in her corner chair, flicking through TV stations on the thirty-inch TV perched on top of her hand-me-down dresser. After a minute, she settles on Jeopardy, and then her eyes flicker. Ma struggles to stay awake but she fights through it.

  “Thank you, meu amor,” she says when I situate her dinner before her. Lifting her hand to my face once more, she smiles. “You’re so good to me, Isaiah. I don’t deserve you.”

  “Ma, don’t say that. You deserve tudo. You deserve everything.”

  Once upon a time she was a vibrant woman who couldn’t sit still for more than two minutes and taught her American-born children every Brazilian lullaby she could remember. With a contagious laugh, long dark hair down her back, and a wardrobe full of bright, happy colors, Alba Torres was the loudest person in the room, literally and figuratively. Her enthusiasm for life was nothing short of infectious and her five-foot two frame could barely contain her enormous personality.

  And then she got sick.

  But someone’s got to take care of her, and it sure as hell hasn’t been my siblings. They only do shit when they have to—which is when I’m gone.

  I’ll admit my oldest sister, Calista, tends to carry the brunt of the load in my absence, but she’s also raising four kids while her husband works two jobs, so I tend to cut her some slack.

  “What are you doing the rest of the week?” she asks. “Anything special?”

  I shrug. I’ll mostly be biding my time. “A little of this. A little of that.”

  Ma rolls her eyes, returning her sleepy gaze to Alex Trebek. “Always so secretive, my Isaiah.”

  “No secrets here. Just trying to stay busy.”

  “With women and booze?” she asks, lifting a dark brow.

  “Is that what you think I do in my spare time?” I pretend to be offended, though we both know she isn’t wrong. I had every intention of hitting up the sports bar down the street tonight … tomorrow night … and the next.

  Maybe even the night after that.

  That’s the beauty of being a lone wolf. Your life is one-hundred percent yours and you can do whatever the hell you damn well please.

  “I’d like to think you’re volunteering at a homeless shelter or cleaning up litter on the highway, but I know you.” She reaches for a fork before glancing at her salad. “Maybe one of these days you’ll meet someone nice and then you’ll finally stop playing around and wasting the best years of your life on strangers who don’t deserve you.”

  “You worry too much.” I lean down, kissing the top of her head, which smells like stale, unwashed hair. I’ll have to call Calista over to help her shower soon. “I’m going to the grocery store. Your cupboards are empty.”

  Her frail hand lifts
to my cheek and her full mouth bends. “Don’t tell the others, but you’ve always been meu favorito.”

  I smirk. “I know.”

  My cart is overflowing, filled mostly with organic non-perishables. Unlike my siblings, I decided not to be a cheap ass. She deserves good quality food that’s not going to make her sicker than she already is, which is why I drove all the way to the Whole Foods in Brentwood instead of hitting up the discount grocer with the bars on the windows down the street from her apartment.

  I count forty cans of soups and vegetables, twenty boxes of all-natural rice and pasta dinners, eight loaves of bread I intend to stick in the freezer, ten cartons of shelf-stable milk, and a few other necessities; mostly soaps and shampoos and paper products. Passing through the candy aisle, I grab a few bars of her favorite Mayan chocolate.

  I didn’t earn the title of Alba Torres’ favorite child by accident.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m loaded up and headed back to her place, waiting at an infinite red light. Two green arrows light, allowing the left two lanes to go, but the rest of us are stuck waiting.

  Checking my phone, I fire off a text to an old army friend who lives nearby, asking if he wants to get drinks later, but before I get a chance to press ‘send’ a metallic crunch fills my ears and my car lunges forward several feet, stopping the second it smashes into the back of a cherry red Mercedes Benz.

  “Motherfucker.” I pound my hands on the steering wheel before stepping out, and by the time I head back to examine the damage, the driver who caused this mess is already there, crouched down with her hand grazing a section of her dented Prius bumper.

  “The fuck is the matter with you?” A man in a gray suit is shouting at the two of us, his phone plastered against his face as his tawny complexion turns fifty shades of red.

  “I’m so sorry, sir.” The girl rises, her hands cupping her face. “I saw the green light and I hit my gas. I didn’t realize it was only for the turn lanes. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  I lift a finger to silence her. Clearly she’s never been in an accident before or she’d know not to accept the blame.