Page 19 of PS: I Hate You
After enough swirling and pushing that the remains of Josh finally fully merge with the frigid water around us, my hands are numb, my nerves are fried, and I need a drink.
Good thing that was part of his request. It’s as if he knew that the first activity would require the second. I straighten and wade toward the shore, barely feeling my legs as I move.
“Let’s go find a bar.”
Chapter
Five
There are plenty of bars in Rehoboth, but a lot of them close for the winter. We finally find a restaurant/bar combo near a cluster of hotels.
“Do you have Dogfish Head on tap?” I ask the bartender as I claim a stool covered in faux leather. The material squeaks as I situate myself, the butt of my dress damp from underwear that was never intended to be a bathing suit. This is the unsexy version of soaked panties.
“Of course.” The middle-aged white man pouring drinks attempts to appear interested in our arrival, but I can spy the boredom in his eyes. “Which one do you want?” He points to a chalkboard behind him, and I realize there’s three beers from the Delaware brewery to choose from.
Dom situates his long-limbed body on the stool next to mine, grimacing as he takes a seat. He’s got on a dark pair of pants, but I can still see the water saturating them.
How the material clings to certain areas…
I shake my head to rid myself of the thought and wave him toward the drink display.
“You first.”
Dom considers the board, and I consider if the bartender will kick us out if I start shoving cocktail napkins down the neck of my dress to soak up excess moisture.
“Ninety Minute IPA,” Dom says.
“I’ll take that, too.” And I decide to hold off on the napkin plan until another customer distracts our server. He pours us two glasses of the dark, hoppy drink, setting them on Dogfish Head coasters with their little shark logo.
Once the drinks sit in front of us, the bartender wanders off, leaving us to hesitate over the first swallow.
Time for the toast.
That’s what Josh demanded in his letter.
Problem is, I don’t have any words. They’re all lodged deep in my chest where I can’t think of them, much less speak them.
Dom wraps his fingers around his glass, then pushes mine toward me. Stiffly, I pick up the cold beer, wishing I were clutching a cup of hot tea instead.
Or a glass of gin.
Dom clears his throat, then raises his IPA high. “To Josh. A good friend. And a good brother.”
“That’s it?” I scoff. If I’d known how basic the toast could be, I’d have done it myself. “I can do better than that.” Glaring into Dom’s dark eyes, I finally force some loving words out without fracturing to pieces. “To Josh. Thebestfriend. Thebestbrother.”
If I’m not mistaken, something like a smile tugs at the corner of Dom’s mouth. But next I know, he’s tapping his glass against mine and taking a sip. I follow suit, tipping back the beer and downing one large gulp, trying not to gag as the bitter taste hits my tongue.
Done. Letter requirement fulfilled.
I set the glass down hard on the bar top and slide it Dom’s way. “That’s yours now.” I wave the bartender over and order a gin and tonic. When he turns his back to pour my drink, I glance to the side in time to find Dom watching me. “What?”
His brows are drawn together. “Why did you order a beer if you didn’t want it?”
“Because the note said to. And I’m not about to lose on a technicality.”
“Lose?”
“Yeah, lose. Break the rules. Whatever.” I flick my fingers toward the jacket he draped over the stool next to him. The jacket that has Josh’s Delaware letter. “I told you I’m doing the tasks, so I’m doing them. Which reminds me…”