Page 150 of PS: I Hate You
The door opens to reveal Rosaline dressed in a pair of ratty sweats that still look amazing on her. And I’m happy to realize I don’t resent her attractiveness.
Is this what people call progress? Go me, I guess.
The woman stares at me, eyes wide, knuckles going white on the doorknob. “Maddie. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were coming. Dom said…” She glances over my shoulder. “Dom said he wanted to talk.”
And again, I’m pleasantly surprised that their shared glance, which probably communicated more than her words did, elicits no negative reactions in me. No suspicion or resentment or hopelessness. The reminder of their past together doesn’t feel like an attack on what Dom and I might be building between us.
For this emotional growth, I can probably thank the combination of therapy and the gift I brought.
“We’re going to drink.” I hold up the bottle of gin I’m clutching, and Dom has a cloth bag with three types of wine because he said that’s what Rosaline prefers. “And we’re going to do this puzzle.” I show her the glass Rubbermaid container full of jigsaw pieces.
Only the best container for my brother’s final gift to me.
“Okay.” Rosaline steps back to let us into her house. Her home—which is how I can think of it now instead oftheirhome—is quaint in a way I didn’t expect. Not the shabby hobbit librarian decor of my apartment, but kind of plant maiden cottagecore. I could spend some time here and not be mad about it. When I wander into her living room, Rosaline’s decoration choices notch up even further in my opinion.
“This is a quality puzzling table.” I place the container in the middle of a golden wood-grain masterpiece that’s almost as large as mine.
“Thanks,” she murmurs. “Adam made it for me.”
Dom checks over the table, assessing his brother’s work, then nods with a pleased grunt before setting out the bottles of wine. He disappears into another room that must be the kitchen, because he comes back a moment later with some stemless wineglasses—one full of ice for me—and a bottle opener.
“I’ll leave you to it.” He brushes a hand over my lower back as he steps away from the table.
“You’re leaving?” Rosaline sounds lost as she glances between us.
“He’s going to entertain himself in the other room,” I assure her. “He’s mainly here as my DD. Have fun.” I pat his taught stomach, then settle cross-legged by the table and reach for the container. “Get to pouring, Ros. That wine isn’t going to drink itself.”
Dom squeezes her shoulder before strolling out of the room, and soon I hear the sound of a chair groan as he settles himself elsewhere.
After another prolonged pause, Rosaline pops the cork from a bottle of wine and pours herself a generous glass. Then she kindly unscrews the cap on the gin and gives me a healthy dose of the good stuff. Then she grabs two throw pillows off the nearby couch, hands one to me, and settles another across the way from where I’m sitting.
Even as I sort through the pieces, focused on finding the edgesfirst, most of my concentration is on the redhead. I’ve always thought of Rosaline as utterly confident and secure. A league above me. A goddess to my mere mortal.
But now she moves as if waiting for me to jump at her. I don’t think she’s scared of me, but there’s an element of caution. Of anticipation.
“Maddie, I’m not sure why you’re here.” Her voice carries a question. An invitation to explain my sudden game night invasion when most of my life I’ve shied away from her.
“The puzzle will reveal all,” I say in the voice of a carnival fortune teller.
There’s a snort from the other room, and I’m glad one person here finds me entertaining.
Rosaline blinks at me, looking suddenly stunned, and her shock is enough to have me pausing. “What? Did I spill on myself?” I examine my white tank top for wet spots.
“No. It’s just…you sounded exactly like him. Just then. The way you said that.”
We both know who “him” is.
Josh.
“Yeah, well, flare for the dramatic must be in the blood.” I nod toward the scattering of pieces in front of her. “You going to help?”
She shakes her head, but not in ano. More like clearing the specter of my brother from her mind. “You’re saying when the puzzle is done, you’ll tell me why you’re visiting me?”
“Correct. Now get to working. We’ve got a thousand pieces to sort out.”
That may sound like a lot to a puzzle amateur, but I’ve been jigsawing for decades. And Rosaline ends up having a knack for finding those tricky solid-color pieces that look the same as twenty others. We settle into a mostly comfortable silence, sipping our drinks and slipping missing pieces into place.
Almost an hour has gone by when something in her demeanorshifts. Rosaline finds the right spot for a piece she’s been clutching for five minutes, settling it with a triumphant “Ha!”