Page 1 of PS: I Hate You
Winter
Chapter
One
In between muttering curses at the funeral home’s abysmal Wi-Fi, I consider if hiding in a supply closet to work during my brother’s wake makes me a terrible sister.
“Well, you didn’t want a funeral anyway, did you?” I whisper to the shelves of cleaning products, as if Josh is a ghost, invisibly sitting next to the bottles of lemon-scented floor polish. “You wanted us to rent a booze cruise and smash piñatas with your face on them.”
My brother couldn’t stand somberness. He was the funny one. A natural comedian who could take the darkest moment and make a joke that would have you laughing while the world around you was a shit show.
Like right now. If only he was here.
But if Josh was here, then there’d be no need for an over-the-top mourning ritual he never asked for.
If there is an afterlife where he’s floating around, Josh is dying all over again, but this time from laughter, watching me sit on a half-empty box of toilet paper rolls as I try to put out a digital fire at work, all while wearing itchy tights I scratched so hard that I tore a hole in the left ass cheek.
“You’re welcome,” I say to my laptop as my updated report finallysends, not sure if I’m talking to my boss on the other side of the country or to the specter of my brother. Probably both.
And just when I’m sure I’ve gotten away with my sneaky errand and can rejoin the crowd of mourners filling the building, the closet door opens.
I squeak in surprise at the sudden intrusion and lean back, which is a mistake because that puts my butt on the empty half of the box. The cardboard lid collapses inward, taking me with it. I fold at the waist, laptop smashing against my chest, pantyhose-covered legs shooting straight up in the air.
This day got worse. I didn’t think that was possible.
“Shit. Maddie.” A deep voice says my name with too much familiarity. “Are you okay?”
No. No, I am not okay.
There is an endless list of reasons why I am the furthest possible thing from okay.
Top of the list: my brother, the person I love—loved—most in the world, is gone only three months before his thirtieth birthday.
But the reason I’m not okay inthisparticular moment is because the person asking after my well-being is the man who did an impressively thorough job of breaking my heart.
Dominic Perry.
Josh’s best friend, and someone I was hoping to avoid for the rest of my life.
But that’s hard to do when the man steps in close, reaching out his hands to help me unwedge myself from my bath tissue prison.
And of course, he looks like a heartthrob in shining armor as he comes to my aid. Dom has been devastatingly handsome ever since his face caught up with the long slope of his nose. Chiseled jaw, warm brown eyes that trick naive nerdy girls into trusting him, and black hair that swoops in an infuriatingly perfect wave over his pale forehead and around ears that stick out just far enough to be charming.
Today, he’s dressed in a black suit that hugs his body.
Shouldn’t funeral suits be ill-fitting? My theory is grief is supposed to make your clothes sag and bunch in all the wrong places. That’s the excuse I’m using for the blockish, weirdly clinging dress I found in the back of my closet.
“I’m lovely. Seriously. Living the dream down here.” I attempt to lift myself with the sheer strength of my embarrassment.
Doesn’t work. All I manage to do is flip my hair into my face, reminding me that I spent all morning heating and spraying it to get my brown strands to curl half as well as Dom’s do naturally. But I could comb super glue into the shoulder-length mass and still end the day with only a half-hearted wave left.
“Here.” Strong hands grasp my elbows and pull me to stand with ease.
When I have my feet under me, I shove my hair out of my eyes and shuffle to the side, away from his broad chest and the scent of some mystery cologne that has me thinking of frosty cedar-filled forests where men in flannel go to chop wood just for the hell of it.
I could sell tickets to a place like that. Retire at the ripe age of twenty-six.
Breathing through my mouth, I search for the black heels I kicked off the moment I was alone, because they pinch my toes the way grief shoes should.