Page 11 of PS: I Hate You

That damn letter.

Dom slips them back into the large envelope, then turns to face me.

“How are you doing?”

The second time he’s asked that today. At least now it’s to do with my physical well-being. “I can breathe. So, better than a few minutes ago.” I’m still lightheaded, and every part of me inside and out feels raw.

But I’m alive, so there’s that.

“Look,” he says, “I know you don’t want to do this—”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

“This was Josh’s last wish.”

If I had the strength to get up and shove him, I would. “You don’t need to tell me that. And I don’t need you to make an argument onhis behalf. I loved him more than you ever could have. Of course I’m gonna do this bullshit task. He’sgone. It’s all I have of him, isn’t it?”

The berating costs me, and after a string of coughs, I take another puff of my inhaler.

Dom strides up to me, his stare holding mine, emotions flickering to life in his eyes, then disappearing faster than I can interpret them even if I wanted to try.

“We’re doing this?” he asks once my breathing evens out again.

“Yes.” I grind my teeth before forcing out, “We’re doing this.”

Dom passes me the envelope, and I hug the piece of my brother to my chest because it’s the only comfort I can accept. As he retracts his hand, I spy a flash on his wrist.

A watch. Josh’s watch.

Did my brother will him that, too? Or was it a gift before the end?

During the final few days in the hospital, my brother had people with him almost every moment. For months I’d tried to visit so it was just him and me, but there came a time when I had to share my brother, most often with his two best friends.

Does Rosaline have another important piece of Josh, too?

Maybe if I hadn’t spent so much effort trying to ignore her and Dom, I would know.

Dom’s eyes raise to the sky, squinting at the sun as if he just realized it was daytime.

“Alright. We need to make a plan.”

Planning with Dom. Traveling with Dom. Saying goodbye to my brother over, and over, and over, all in front of this man who showed me early on in life he’s perfectly fine emotionally devastating me.

Once again, I reach for my inhaler.

Chapter

Three

The funeral home had no problem incinerating my brother’s body, but they drew the line at dividing his remains into eight equal parts.

Apparently, that’s not part of their “Your Dearly Beloved Is Dead” package.

Which leaves me with this little scoop meant for flour, this glass container meant for leftovers, and this scale meant for arrogant chefs to measure out their ingredients to a decimal of an ounce, sorting all that’s left of Josh into even sections like some corpse drug dealer in the kitchen of Dom’s childhood home.

My next shovel is slightly more aggressive.

“Careful,” a deep voice murmurs.