Page 17 of PS: I Hate You

“The letter doesn’t say to skinny-dip.” There’s something in Dom’s words, a strain of his vocal cords. Like he’s pissed off, maybe.

Who cares? He’s seen all this before.

And decided I wasn’t worth his time.

I flick my hair over my shoulder in a dismissive move, then grab Josh off the ground. “I’m not getting naked, perv. But I’m also not going to sit in a bar in a wet dress. So, makeshift bathing suit it is. Come or don’t. Preferably, don’t.”

“We could come back in the summer.”

Meet up with Dom more than I have to? Not likely.

“Do what you want.” Without another glance his way, I stroll with purpose toward the gentle waves.

I want to sprint into the water. A quick, daring submersion that I can’t back away from. But if I do that, my lungs will probably seize up, I’ll have my second attack for the day, and I’ll end up drowning myself in the process.

Then Dom would have to give me CPR.

I don’t linger on how that thought has my nipples tightening and my skin growing overly warm. Those are obviously reactions of disgust.

So, with my finicky lungs in mind, I ease myself into the frigid surf. Toes, feet, ankles, calves. Each meeting with the icy water, prickling to an almost painful degree, and yet still somehow making me giggle.

The water has a cleansing sensation. Numbing the discomfort of the day. Washing away the sticky residue of half-hearted sympathy.

The ocean spreads far in front of me, darkening with the setting sun. A vast inky expanse I imagine myself slipping into.

Is this what death feels like?

I hope so. I hope Josh didn’t hurt at the end. Didn’t fear.

I hope he saw it as his next adventure.

“Don’t go too deep.” The commanding voice tears me out of my peaceful contemplation and water splashes behind me, sending sharp pricks of cold scattering along the bare skin of my thighs where they haven’t been immersed yet. A result of Dom’s approach.

He doesn’t ease in like I did. He charges. And when I turn to snap at him about telling me what to do, I choke on my words.

I forgot. Over the years, an occasional dream has plagued me where I’m back in Dom’s arms, his body against mine, something I thought was love in his eyes. All born from the memory of the night we were together.

As much as I hated him, I thought I’d never forget.

But I did. I realize now that his form was only a hazy recollection paired with a tangle of emotions.

Now he stands in the fading twilight, solid and unavoidable.

And dressed only in briefs.

But they aren’t black. Or gray. Or green. Or some other solid, responsible, boring color like I would have guessed if asked.

“What is that?” I point to his crotch with the hand I’m not using to clutch my brother’s remains to my chest.

Dom glowers, setting his hands on hips that taper too nicely. My eyes fixate on the tight skin just above his waistband. He doesn’t have the sculpted six-pack he did seven years ago, but his abdomen is solid and defined and…

Not what I should be focusing on.

“Do you need a lesson in male anatomy?” he asks.

“You’re wearing colorful panties!” my voice squeaks out, the pitch sent high from incredulity and freezing water.

His scowl deepens. “I’m wearing boxer briefs made for men, purchased in the men’s section of the store. I assume.”