Page 28 of PS: I Hate You
“Full wheel or half?” I ask.
“Full. Tula should be here soon.”
My hand pauses on the fridge handle.
Tula comes by almost as often as Jeremy, despite living a few blocks away. But the fact that Jeremy knows she’s coming is a hint. A reason to be worried. They don’t plan visits. They just show up.
As if summoned by her name, there’s a quick knock on my door before it swings wide.
“I brought margaritas.” Tula strolls into my kitchen, plops down a massive travel thermos on my counter, then pulls out limes and salt from her bag. Her dark hair and tan skin are damp from the light rain I spy out the window. Even though she lives in a city withalmost constant precipitation, Tula barely ever bothers with an umbrella, claiming they slow her down. I’ve only seen her use one on our bookstore outings, and that’s more about protecting the precious pages than staying dry herself.
Tula moves around my condo with the ease of familiarity, unearthing the margarita glasses she gifted me on my birthday—mainly so they’d be on hand when she comes over for an impromptu happy hour, where she pays me with citrusy alcohol to listen to her rant about the men at her company that think they’re better engineers than her while they screw shit up that she has to fix. I enjoy gossip and drama that has nothing to do with me, so I happily sip my drink and share in her outrage.
When all the fixings are on the table, my friend halts and stares at me, claiming my eyes with hers as they soften with love and sadness. “How are you doing?”
This is the moment. The one where I should break down in sobs, crumpling inward on the gaping pit in my chest. My two best friends are here, ready to support me.
Instead, I feel something like anger.
Not at them. I’m grateful for them. They’re here for me, and that means more than I could ever express.
But the slow, low simmer of fury still heats my skin until the soft cotton of my sweater itches like cheap wool. Reining in my unexplained temper, I turn away from her probing stare.
“I’m baking Brie, and you brought drinks, so I’m better than ten minutes ago.” Searching the plethora of dairy options in my refrigerator is a good excuse to not meet her eyes.
“How was the funeral?” Tula ventures.
“Look,” I snap, then breathe and calm my voice. “I didn’t want you all coming because it wasn’thisfuneral. Not really.” Instead of slamming the cheese on the counter, I take special care to place the Brie down gently. “It was a room full of my mom’s followers and people I didn’t know.”
Except for the Perrys.
Except for Dom.
Don’t think about him.
Don’t think about his judgmental eyes.
Don’t think about the taut skin of his hips disappearing under the waistband of pineapple underwear.
Don’t think about how he growled out a pirate impression that was so serious you had to taste the sour candy on his stern mouth.
Don’t think about how he pushed you away. Again.
Maybe I should’ve invited Jeremy and Tula. They never would have let me make such a fool of myself.
“That’s exactly why we should’ve been there.” Tula takes the jar of fig jam from me after listening to me mutter a string of curses while trying to open it. She pops the lid with one turn. “You would’ve knownus. And we could have held your hand, and gotten you drinks, and mocked strangers with you.”
And guarded the janitor’s closet so Dom never found me floundering in toilet paper.
Maybe it would’ve been nice to have them there.
“It was on the other side of the country.” I shrug and focus on situating the Brie in the exact center of the baking sheet.
“We would’ve gone to the other side of the world for you,” Jeremy says.
See? This is a perfect time to cry.
But my tear ducts are dry.