Page 143 of PS: I Hate You

Dom doesn’t immediately return the embrace. Maybe he thought I’d refuse. That I’d kick him out with a goodbyefuck youlike I did the last time he was here.

But something about my conversation with Jeremy and Tula left me extra vulnerable. But also, oddly, hopeful. I told them about my childhood and my mistakes with my heart and the way I cling to my work. They listened. They told me I was worth sticking around for.

And I think I might believe them.

Dom hugs me in return. He clutches me against his chest, and I pretend I never have to leave this glorious spot.

But eventually we break apart, and I haven’t been cured of my perpetual melancholy.

“I think we should go to Alaska this summer,” I say to the pouch pocket on Dom’s sweatshirt. “When it warms up.”

Maybe once my pirate chest doesn’t have any more of my brother’s remains, I’ll be able to move on. We both will.

“Okay.”

“And I think…” I straighten my shoulders and meet hissearching gaze. “I need to work on some things. About myself. Before then.”

“Can I help?”

I shake my head.

He rubs a rough hand against the back of his neck. “Can I do anything?”

Such a Dom thing to ask.You can’t fix me, I want to say.

But also…Stay. Don’t leave me.The words are there, on the back of my tongue, ready, yet unwilling to come out. Just like my tears have been and still are.

So, I say the only thing I can manage. The only request Ineedhim to fulfill.

“Just keepliving.”

Summer

Chapter

Forty-One

I still see Dom. Not every day, or even every week, but we work for the same company. Our paths cross, and he greets me like a coworker with a polite smile and a “Hello, Maddie.” But my name sounds like irresponsible language in his deep voice and his intense stare holds mine, promising more the moment I ask.

Also, Dom was right about his town house being walkable from my apartment.

I may have walked by it.

More than once.

But I never knock on the door.

And even though I give him nothing more than a death day hug for over half a year, he doesn’t leave.

The man stays.

Maybe I should break through the wall I’ve placed between us and tell him how much that means to me. But I don’t.

I told Dom I need to figure some things out on my own, and I meant it. After visiting three different therapists, I finally find a middle-aged woman with a kind face and a way of asking me questions that doesn’t have me pasting on my customer service smile or snapping back with sarcastic humor.

Mary hasn’t fixed my life or my emotions—that’s a lot to expect from a person, even a paid professional—but it’s surprisingly nice to talk to someone who has absolutely no investment in what I choose to do.

But even finding a good therapist doesn’t take away the sick anxiety curdling in my gut as I clutch my backpack to my chest and step onto this final leg of my brother’s journey.