Page 148 of PS: I Hate You
The question registers in my brain on a delay, as if it has to fight its way through the cloud of grief I live in.
“Why?” I ask, my voice monotone. “The letter didn’t say to.” A spark of emotion burns through the grief. Anger. “That fucking letter.”
“What about it?”
“That’s it?” I snap. “That’sallthat’s left? Three sentences?” I bark a sharp laugh with zero humor. “Thanks a lot, Josh.”
“Were you hoping he’d say something he didn’t?” Dom asks, his voice careful, as if worried another asthma attack might be on the horizon.
Maybe it is, but I’m more focused on my increasing vehemence than on my breathing.
“No. He didn’t need to say anything in particular. All he neededto do was keep writing!” I shove up from the bench and slam my backpack onto the seat beside Dom, my glare bouncing between the two of them. “Eight letters? That’s all I get. Now they’re read. Now he’s…” I dig my fingers into my hair, tugging at the roots, and making an inarticulate noise of fury.
“Maddie—”
“He’s gone!” I snarl. “He left me! He left meforever!” I pant and rage, pacing on the public street and not caring because no one in this world matters like the man who’s no longer in it. Tears begin to stream down my cheeks again, but instead of bringing relief, they itch on my skin and stuff up my nose. “People have left me before—they leave me all the time—but never likethis.” I swipe the wetness from beneath my eyes and storm up to Dom, looming over him and the backpack. “I tell myself that’s part of him.” My finger jabs toward the bag. “But it’s just dust. Those letters were more him than the ashes ever were. And they’re done. And Ihatehim, Dom. I hate him for leaving me. And I know he didn’t do it on purpose. I know he would have stayed if he could have. I know I’m the worst sister because I hate my brother for dying. But I do. And I don’t think I can forgive him.”
My inhales are painful, my exhales are ragged, and my selfish heart lays in a bloody mess on the concrete at Dom’s feet.
Quiet falls between us as his dark eyes hold mine. Then the man has the audacity to reach out, circle his arms around my waist, and tug me close until I settle on his lap. I curl into a ball, my head tucked under his chin, and I focus on breathing through my anger and devastation. And Dom holds me close, like he doesn’t care that I’m a grenade with the pin pulled, liable to go off and decimate everything in a twenty-foot radius.
No, the ridiculous man presses a kiss against my hair, then speaks to me in a low soothing voice.
“I hate him for leaving, too.”
That surprises a laugh out of me. A hollow “we’re a pair of horrible people” chuckle.
Dom rests his chin on my head and while we wait for my breathing to regulate, he hums angry emo girl songs to me.
And I love him so much I think it’s a mortal wound.
I love him so much, and I try to distract myself by cataloging everything about our surroundings just to keep from thinking about my inescapable infatuation with Dominic Perry.
In the process of reading the signs above each storefront, I pause on one in particular. Something about it sparks a memory, but I don’t know why.
North Pole Paper & Pictures
I mouth the name, trying to place where I might have heard it before. But my mind brings nothing to the surface.
And yet the sign feels familiar.
That’s when my eyes land on the logo.
“The compass,” I mutter, staring at the four-pointed star with a smaller burst behind it and a fancyNresting above the top point.
“What was that?” Dom asks.
I lift my head to meet his eyes, then point to the store across the street. “Do you recognize that compass logo?”
Dom’s thick brows dip, then rise slowly as he comes to the same realization I did. He slips his hand between us to tug Josh’s last letter from his coat pocket. With his arms around me, Dom slips the piece of paper from the envelope and unfolds it.
At the top of the parchment is a stylized compass, just like the one across the street.
“What the hell?” Dom mutters.
“Josh, you fucking scavenger hunt–loving asshole.” Annoyance and anticipation collide in my chest as my heart rate picks up. “It’s aclue.” I slip off Dom’s lap, snatch up my backpack, and barely take a moment to check for oncoming traffic before jogging across the street, closely shadowed by my brother’s best friend.
When we enter the shop, a small bell rings and a middle-aged white man with rosy cheeks and thinning hair smiles at us from behind a counter. “Welcome to the North Pole. We have any office supplies you might need as well as a varied selection of cameras if you’re on a trip and looking to memorialize the moments.” The guy gives the spiel with no pause for breath, as if he says the speech as often as he slips on a pair of his favorite shoes. “My name is Harold. How can I help you?”