Page 23 of PS: I Hate You
“You get them back when you pick a proper snack from the machine.” I point to the collection of deliciousness he blatantly ignored on his first go. “This is a cognitive ability test.”
Dom watches me for a stretch of time that seems too long. Probably because my ass doesn’t like conforming to the shape of hard, cold concrete and a lumpy nut bag.
Finally, he turns and rests his head on the glass of the vending machine again, contemplating the array of options.
“If you pick a granola bar,” I warn him, “I will call the police and tell them that you’ve violated that vending machine multiple times without an ounce of remorse.”
Dom flicks me a side-eye glare, then inserts more money and presses a series of numbers. I hear the heavythunkas his selection drops. When the man squats to retrieve the food, my eyes accidentally find their way to the perfect shape of his ass encased in those formfitting dress pants. Not an imperfect grief crease to be seen.
Definitely not proper funeral attire.
“Here. This pass muster?” Dom straightens and tosses a neon green bag into my lap.
The familiar snack sparks a nostalgic flame in my heart, warming me from the inside.
“Sour Patch Kids! These are my favorite.”
I hug the bag against my chest like it’s a teddy bear.
“I know,” Dom says, and his confidence grates.
“Fuck you. You did not.”
He slips his hands into his pockets, staring down at me with an unreadable expression. “You like to pretend they’re pirates and you’re the kraken and that you’ve demolished their ship and are eating them alive.”
“Well, that woman—whoever you’re talking about—sounds incredibly creative.” I tear the bag open, pluck out a little red guy, and hold him up between us. “Arg! Please spare me, matey! I’ll give ye all my buried treasure!”
Then I chomp down on him whole, shivering in delight at the sour tang on my tongue.
Dom watches me, his lips pressed in a tight line.
“Try it.” I hold out one of my precious treats. But only one of the orange ones. Dom doesn’t deserve a red or green or yellow.
I expect him to sigh, or scold me, or ask for his peanuts again. Instead, Dom crouches in front of me until our faces are unnervingly close together. Then he opens his mouth in an invitation.
Scared of losing a finger, I cautiously place the candy on his broad tongue, then yank my hand away. Dom holds my eyes as he chews slowly and swallows. Then—not an ounce of inflection in his voice—he speaks.
“Arg, matey.”
Damn him.
A laugh bursts out of me, drunken giggles quaking through my body at the ever-serious Dom Perry’s terrible pirate impression.
As I crumble under my hilarity, the man’s face slowly transforms. A small tick at first, in the corner of his mouth. Then both corners.
Suddenly, he’s smiling.
Dominic Perry grins at me, wide and devastating. And so unexpected that my body moves before I know what I’m doing.
I kiss his smile, greedy for the memory. Aching for the time when his smiles were mine.
Craving the time when he kissed me and I believed he meant it.
Desperate to return to a moment when I was happy.
When Dom’s mouth is on mine, I don’t care that my ass is freezing from the cold ground, and my brain is whirling from too much gin, and my chest is in tatters because my brother is gone.
When I taste Dom’s warm mouth, feel the silky tangle of his hair fisted in my fingers, hear his deep groan as the noise vibrates down my throat and through my body, I’m nineteen and hopeful again. The world is only a little bit shitty in a way I’m used to. And there’s a lovely bright spot that is this man who has his arms wrapped around me, my body pulled in tight to his broad chest.