Page 109 of PS: I Hate You
I’m the messed-up one. The dramatic, needy, insecure one.
Strong fingers cradle my chin, forcing our eyes to meet and hold.
“When you’re in the room,” he says, “you’re all I see.”
The repeated words from our South Dakota trip soften my rigid defenses, and suddenly I’m not thinking of anyone else. Just the two of us and how scared I am to let myself want Dominic Perry again.
How scared I am to believe him when he says he wants me.
“You’re all I see, too,” I admit.
Triumph flares in his eyes, and he claims my mouth with a stern kiss, almost a reprimand for doubting him. When we’re back at his house, in his bed, Dom’s body spoons me from behind. My leg is draped over his hip as he thrusts deep and groans my name into the back of my neck.
And I wonder if letting him into my heart again would be the ultimate act of bravery, or a desperate woman repeating the same mistakes of thepast.
Summer
Chapter
Thirty-One
The stair-climber taunts me.
“You can use the treadmill.” Jeremy hovers at my side, ever the supportive friend. But I don’t need support at the moment. I need someone to kick my ass. And someone to hand me my emergency inhaler if I overdo it.
“I’ve used the treadmill the past two weeks. But this one is a hike in the mountains. That means going up.” I hear the reluctance in my own voice. “The treadmill only tilts so much.”
In three weeks, Dom and I are heading to Idaho. Ever prepared, he searched the coordinates beforehand.
Josh is sending us to Alpine Lake.
This one is a seven-and-a-half-mile hike, with over a thousand feet in elevation.
After my abysmal showing in South Dakota, I’m determined not to make Dom my pack mule again.
Even if I did enjoy the way his back muscles felt pressed against my boobs.
Maybe I’ll get strong enough to handle the first ninety percent of the hike, then make him carry me the last ten percent.
That seems fair.
“Well, don’t force it.” Jeremy eyes me with concern. “Take it slow. Don’t choke on your own lungs.”
I roll my eyes and try not to hate my friend for his fit form. The guy runs full marathons. For fun.
Fucking weird, if you ask me.
“You’re in charge of this.” I wave my inhaler under his nose, then set it in the cupholder of the treadmill next to the stair-climber, knowing that Jeremy plans to go on a too-many-miles-to-contemplate run while I find out how many flights of stairs I have in me.
A half hour later, I’m gushing sweat from every pore in my body and cursing every piece of land that dares to rise above sea level as my legs shake on the final step. Meanwhile, Jeremy continues to jog while laughing at my colorful cursing as if he has a separate set of lungs.
Amazingly, I haven’t had to utilize my inhaler. True, I’ve taken frequent breaks whenever I felt myself start to wheeze. But each time I go through the breathing exercises the specialist taught me, my body eventually calms down enough for me to remount the torture device. I can also give credit for my improved lung function to spending a portion of my days wearing a high-altitude mask to strengthen my airways. The thing fits over my nose and mouth, restricting my airflow while making me look like Bane fromThe Dark Knight Rises. I tend to wear it while I’m responding to annoying emails, pretending I’m going to demolish Gotham City instead of answering the same mind-numbing question for the fiftieth time. Last week I accidentally kept the mask on when answering a Zoom call from Pamela, and she screamed.
I apologized, but I’m not sorry for being able to breathe better.
Still, I’ve officially reached the stopping point. For today, at least.
I think Dom would be proud. I’d send him a success selfie if I didn’t feel like a swamp monster from a sweaty lagoon. Plus, Jeremy would probably ask who I’m texting.