Page 26 of PS: I Hate You

Jeremy is so hot, I used to apply sunscreen before hanging out with him. If I could get sunburn from a person, it would be him. And worse than that? He has a great personality. Funny, smart, and kind.

Truly, it’s not fair a man like him exists in the world.

But we were sitting on my couch one day, and I looked over at his face of perfection, and I thought,All I wanna do with this man is continue watching our marathon ofCharmedand never sleep with him again.

We had slept together, multiple times, and it was…fine.

It had to be my fault that it was only fine. Jeremy is too gorgeous and giving for sex to only be fine. There are people who are so good-looking that they don’t try in bed. But Jeremy made sure I orgasmed before he did. Every time.

But those orgasms were simply…fine. A pleasant clenching rather than a full body wave of pleasure.

Still, I didn’t end things. Because I loved Jeremy even if I wasn’tinlove with him, and I was terrified a breakup meant he’d walk out of my life. He mentioned being in a relationship before me, but other than saying his ex was a guy, he never spoke about him. Jeremy had cut the man out of his life entirely, and I was sure he would do the same to me if I admitted my feelings were platonic rather than romantic.

The idea of being honest with him started to give me asthma attacks when I thought about it too deeply.

Then one day Jeremy showed up at my door with my favorite lavender latte and a croissant.

“We haven’t had sex in a month,” he said.

I’d gaped at him.

“And I have a crush on the guy who moved into Unit 2F.” His smile was apologetic while his eyes were wide and hopeful. “Will you hate me if I ask to be your best friend instead of your boyfriend? And by ask, I mean insist, because I don’t want to give you up, Maddie Sanderson.”

It was the sweetest friend proposal I’d ever received. And for the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe.

“I can’t believe you broke up with me before I broke up with you.” I’d worn an exaggerated pout while pretending I would’ve had the courage to end things. Then I assembled a charcuterie board of my favorite snacks for us while he told me about 2F—and I tried not to be nervous about a new person in his life potentially pushing me out of it. But Jeremy claimed he knew we were soulmates the day we met, when he strolled into our building lobby and heard me shout “Not my cheeses!” when the strap on one of my grocery bags snapped. My utter devotion to dairy products thoroughly charmed him and gained his immediate respect.

Sometimes, it turns out, soulmates are meant to be friends.

Now I can’t escape him. Which is a problem because Jeremy istoo kind to handle the rage that simmers under the suffocating weight of my grief.

Jeremy Hassan befriended a quiet, playful introvert.

Not this toxic, defensive version of myself seeping from a wound in my soul that refuses to heal.

But maybe I can manage banter. Something like what I threw at Dom, but without all the sharp edges. Then I can convince Jeremy I’m fine, and he’ll go back downstairs, and I can lie on the floor and contemplate mortality for a few more weeks.

Jeremy’s eyes soften when they find mine. “Maddie,” he sighs.

“You’re here for Brie, right?” I hear the panic in my voice. This reaction is not his normal show-up-to-my-place-and-scrounge-for-food smirk.

“No.” Jeremy spreads a long pair of arms. “I’m wearing my baggiest sweatshirt and Carlisle’s cologne. I’m here to hug you, Maddie Sanderson.”

I’m not a hugger. Can’t remember a time that I was. I prefer the unemotional touch of a doctor during my yearly check-up to a spur-of-the-moment embrace from a friend. I know it’s strange. It’s not that I’m repulsed by the touch of someone else. I hugged Mrs.Perry because I knew that she liked hugs and uses them to say hello. I hugged Adam to shield him from his brother’s wrath.

But they don’t comfort me. I have no instinctual urge to press my body against another’s. And when I’m prompted to, the act feels like…an act.

The exception: sweatshirts.

There’s something about the soft material that I love having pressed against my cheek as I’m enfolded in sweatshirt-covered arms.

But again, it’s not about thepersonin the sweatshirt. It’s the piece of clothing itself that I find comforting.

I’m a sweatshirt slut.

A hoodie whore.

And Jeremy knows it. Knows that this isn’t him giving me a hug. It’s his deliciously smelling piece of loungewear. Maybe I can only truly be comforted by the idea of an animated blanket.