Page 20 of PS: I Hate You
The bartender sets a glass of clear bubbling alcohol in front of me, and I hold out my hand before he can wander away again.
“Could you take a quick picture of us?” I offer the man my phone. He shrugs and accepts it.
“Smile, asshole,” I mutter to Dom the second before I slap on a false happy expression and the flash goes off. I thank the bartender as he passes my phone back, and I consider why I felt the need to even pretend happiness in the photo. It’s not like anyone is going to see it. There’s no photo essay I have to turn in.
Josh isn’t going to peek his head out of the afterlife to review our performance.
Trying to get my mind away from more reminders of my brother’s death, I drink my cocktail with relish, savoring the piney taste on my tongue.
“I wouldn’t have called you out,” Dom says in response to my earlier comment. “I don’t see this as a competition.”
“Hmm” is all I give him back. Of course he doesn’t.
He sees this as a responsibility. That’s how Dom views everything in life. A series of tasks to successfully check off his never-ending to-do list.
How did divorce end up on there?
I spent the whole car ride pondering it and still couldn’t come up with an answer. My brain could not put “Dom” and “divorce” into the same sentence and make it make sense. He’s too much of a fixerto let something as monumental as his relationship break. The Dom I knew would do everything in his power to find the solution to whatever marital problems arose.
Maybe he’s not the Dom I knew anymore.
Unlikely. Today has shown me he’s still the overbearing rule follower he always has been.
Then why did he get divorced?
The thought won’t leave me alone, and the gin loosens my tongue.
“So, you and Rosaline are calling it quits.”
Not the smoothest topic change, but I doubt Dom expects much from me.
“Yes.” The single word answer is all he offers, choosing instead to sip his first glass of beer and stare at the colorful bottles arranged behind the bartender.
“She get tired of you refusing to let her peg you because you already have a stick up your ass?”
Dom chokes on his swallow of beer and pounds a fist on the bar top as he struggles to get the liquid down his throat rather than his lungs. “Maddie!” He gasps finally.
“What?” I hide an evil grin behind the rim of my gin and tonic. “I was just asking a question.”
He growls something under his breath that sounds a lot like a curse, and I’m proud of my ability to get Dom to use irresponsible language.
That’s what he called it growing up.Irresponsible language.
Dom was always calling Josh and me out whenever we cursed in front of the twins, saying he didn’t want them to learn irresponsible language. Josh would laugh, I would apologize, and when Dom turned his back, we would silently mouth swear words at each other while Adam and Carter watched and giggled.
Rosaline never got a reprimand, because she never used expletives.
Once the red flush of almost choking to death on an IPA clearsfrom Dom’s cheeks, he turns on his stool to face me. His legs are so long that his knees bump into my seat, making me wobble and spill gin on my hand.
“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry.
I scowl at him and lick the alcohol off my skin, not about to waste the substance that’s going to numb my hurt for the night.
His eyes track the movement of my tongue, probably judging me for my cavewoman behavior when there’s a napkin at my elbow. But that bad boy is going in my bra once I finish this drink.
“Tell me, then.” I lean forward, putting the spotlight back on Dom and his screwups. “Why are the perfect Perrys parting ways?” To aggravate him, I make sure to pop myp’s on the alliteration.
Dom studies me as he takes another—careful—sip of his drink. Once he’s swallowed, the man finally responds.