Page 142 of PS: I Hate You
“I’d like it noted,” Jeremy says as they guide me, “that I am still very pro this present even after everything you shared.”
Tula nods. “Agreed.”
“Wha—”
Jeremy lets go of my wrist and pulls open the door. In the hallway, leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, head bowed, is Dominic Perry.
Damn it, he looks good.
I haven’t been able to avoid him entirely these last few months. We’re in the occasional meeting together, and his name pops up in my deployment emails all the time. A ghost haunting me.
I’d prefer a real ghost.
But now he’s here, in my space, looking slightly disheveled andsuper tempting in a well-fitting pair of gray sweatpants and loose sweatshirt.
Dom’s chin jerks up at our appearance, his dark gaze dragging over my body until his eyes stay directed at my chest. For a brief second, I wonder if Dom turned into a pervy boob guy at some point in these last few months. But then I remember what I’m wearing.
His letterman jacket. Over the sweater Josh gave me.
Which brings back the reason I wrapped myself in these comforting clothes.
“Happy Death Day,” I announce to the awkwardly quiet gathering, once again falling into my penchant for morbid humor in uncomfortable situations.
Dom’s mouth tightens into something like a smile. “Happy Death Day, Maddie.”
“You both are weird,” Jeremy says. Then he slips past me, along with Tula. “You alright? Is our gift acceptable?”
“Well, you said it’s nonreturnable so…” I give them a little shooing gesture. “Thank you. I’m good.”
Tula lifts a brow, and I roll my eyes. “Okay, not good. But better. I’m better.”
And it’s the truth. Finally, being honest with them eased something inside me. Lightened a strain I didn’t realize was wound so tight.
Tula nods, and my friends leave me alone with Dom. I cross my arms to mirror his pose and lean a shoulder against the doorjamb. “So. You’re here.”
“I’m here.”
“My friends brought you.”
“They like me.” He shrugs. “And they know I love you.”
I swallow hard at that, all snarky comebacks smothered under the weight of his honesty.
Dom continues to watch me. “I’m not here to plead my case.”
“Oh.” I swear I don’t feel disappointment.
He unfolds his arms and spreads them wide. The hallway light reflects off my brother’s watch, and I feel my pulse trip in my wrist, under my tattoo.
“I’m here because I miss you. And I miss Josh. I’m here because this day is brutal. And I…” His voice is gravelly and dry like a road leading to a ghost town. “I could use a hug.”
A hug. He’s not demanding my love or my trust or even my forgiveness.
Just a moment of holding someone who hurts the way he does, as if pressing our bodies together might lessen the never-ending ache of loss.
And the asshole is wearing a hoodie.
It’s impossible for me to do anything other than step forward and slip my arms around his waist. To fist my fingers in the cotton and press my cheek to the warm, soft fabric.