Page 139 of PS: I Hate You
Self-consciously I tug on the edge of my sweater and scurry overto my laptop, saving everything before I close it. Jeremy shuts the apartment door and watches me with a wary expression, like he thinks I’m a timid animal easily frightened.
“What?” I snap. Then I silently berate myself for letting my anger spew onto my friends.
If you do that, they’ll leave you.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t expect to have people over.”
“We figured,” Tula says, her voice gentle, “but we hoped you would. That you’d reach out to us today.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
Jeremey leans a hip on the counter, tucks his hands in his pockets, and watches me as he speaks. “We remember what today is. That it’s the day Josh—”
“Don’t.” I slice my hand through the air, cutting him off midsentence and drawing sadness into his eyes. “I’m fine,” I lie.
“You let us support you last time,” Tula presses.
I try to meld my expression into something socially acceptable. “It’s been two years.”Two short years. Two long years.“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m doing fine.”
Jeremy drops his chin to his chest, then raises it in a defiant tilt. “The guy I dated before you, Maddie…He would hit me sometimes.”
Air leaves me in a rush, and I press my hand against my stomach to help guide it back in. “What?” I wheeze. “He…What?”
Jeremy nods, solemn. “Not all the time. But once was enough. I should’ve left. I say that now. But I didn’t. I lived with him for a year. Told myself I loved him, and he loved me. Until he broke my arm.” My friend, the joyful, funny, flirtatious man I love like family, rubs his forearm as if the limb aches. “That’s when I left. I never told anyone. Not until Carlisle.” Jeremy grimaces, his focus on his feet. “I was ashamed. Thought that people would think less of me for staying so long. Thatyoumight, even though you’re the first person I learned to trust after him.” He offers me an apologetic smile. “But I didn’ttrust you enough then, I guess. Didn’t trust you to understand. To stay.”
To stay.The words batter my chest. “You’re telling me now.”
Jeremey holds my eyes this time when he speaks. “I trust you. I want you to trust me. To know you’re my best friend, and that’s not about to change.” He leans forward, but still stays by the counter, giving me space. “Even if you open up and show me, show us”—he nods toward Tula, who’s been quietly letting him speak—“the less flattering parts of your past and present. Even if you get mad and snap at us. Even if we argue. We’re not leaving.”
I swallow hard.
The idea of being open with them both—truly open, holding nothing back—is terrifying. How many times have I allowed someone else access to my heart, only for them to hurt me?
Then again, how many of those people deserved the chance?
My mother, Florence, and my father didn’t.
But then there are people like Josh, who tried his hardest to make me happy. Adam and Carter, who sought me out when I drifted away.
And Dom, who makes me want to believe I can trust someone. That not everyone I dare to love will hurt me.
My hands clutch at the long sleeves of Dom’s jacket, fisting in the smooth leather.
It seems like I’ve tried to trust so many times before. But maybe, like the footsteps on a hike, when my lungs feel shredded and my muscles protest and ache, I should take another step forward.
Keep going. Keep trying.
Keep trusting.
Even when it hurts, let yourself heal, then try again.
Keep loving.
“My mom wasn’t around much, and when she was, she wasn’t reallythere,” I start. And then, as if all I needed to do was chisel one crack in the wall around my emotions, suddenly they spill out. AsTula puts pizza on a plate for me, I tell them about my dad leaving before I knew him. Between bites, I describe the strained childhood I had in Florence’s home, with Josh as my only supportive bright light. I explain the respite of the Perrys’ house, and the boy I had a crush on. While wiping my fingers, I tell them about Dom and Rosaline, and being jealous of a girl who was nothing but kind to me. And as I sink onto the couch, feeling much better than I had before I ate, I tell them about falling for that boy, having him for a moment, then watching him walk into another woman’s arms.
And how I fell for him all over again these past two years, and I’m terrified of him walking away from me again.
My hands, needing something to do during this verbal vomit, reach for my laptop and open it to click on a familiar icon.