Page 30 of PS: I Hate You
I can’t do it. Can’t pick apart the weird, unending relationship that leaves me vulnerable time and time again. Can’t admit to them that I’m still gutted by a boy who hurt me when I was nineteen. I don’t need them to tell me he shouldn’t still affect me this way. I already know that. And I refuse to give Dom any more power over me. As far as I’m concerned, I’m the one making these trips, and he’s only tagging along.
And as far as Jeremy and Tula are concerned, I’d rather let them think I’m spreading the ashes on my own.
“Shit,” Jeremy mutters. “That’s a lot of places. How do you feel about it?”
I shrug. “Not sure. Having something to do, something for him, I think I like that part. But it’s a lot. A bunch of goodbyes. And that first one was hard enough.”
Tula frowns in concern. “People can make requests in their will, but you’re not legally bound to follow through.”
“I know that. But…it’s Josh.”
It’s my brother. It’s the last thing he asked me to do.
The last piece I have of him.
Well, pieces. I’ve got the seven remaining Rubbermaid containers tucked in the high cabinet I don’t normally use because I need a step stool to reach it. I was briefly terrified that TSA would confiscate him, but they let me through no problem.
“If you want company, I can come. We can come.” Jeremy tilts his head toward Tula, and she nods without hesitation.
They are better friends than I deserve. I should tell them about Dom, but I can’t find the words in me. I don’t trust myself to talk about him.
And I don’t trust myself not to drive away these two people I love more than anyone in the world now that Josh is gone.
“Thank you,” I say. “Really. Thank you. But I think I have to do this on my own.” Looking for a way to hide my lie with a change of subject, I point to the fourth glass Tula set out. “Is Carlisle coming?”
“No,” she says, unscrewing her thermos to pour our drinks. She hands each of us a glass, then clinks hers against the rim of the remaining one. “A drink for Josh. He will be missed.”
I remember the last time my brother came to visit me. Josh and Jeremy teamed up, convincing us to go barhopping and end the night at a karaoke spot. We sang and laughed, tipsy on life and friendship.
The next morning, when it was just the two of us, Josh told me about his diagnosis.
I think that night was the last time I was happy.
“To Josh.” Jeremy holds up his margarita. “The best drunken duet partner a man could ask for.” He tries to keep his voice light, but I can hear the tightening of his vocal cords.
They knew my brother. Cared about him. They probably even cried for him when they got my text.
And I didn’t invite them to his funeral because I couldn’t handle my current life colliding with my past one. I press the guilt away, vowing to never let the toxic mess in my chest spill out onto either of them.
“To Josh.” I hold up my drink and try not to think about the last toast I gave for him and who I was toasting with. “And to a few more trips with him.”He’s not gone yet.Trying to lighten the somber mood, I attempt a smirk at my friends. “I’ll bring you back some souvenirs.”
Chapter
Eight
Rain drips off my jacket as I step into the lobby of a downtown high-rise. Luckily, this is Seattle, so they know the likelihood of someone walking in here wet. The smooth tiled floors sport absorbent mats for the first ten feet or so, and I don’t feel bad about giving myself a little shake to disperse the excess moisture.
As I swipe through the security station, the guard on duty, Simon, smiles and offers me a wave.
“Haven’t seen you around lately.” He’s just making polite conversation, and I’m not about to do a deep dive into how I was working on the other side of the country during my brother’s last two weeks of life, then came back and acted out a half-assed bereavement leave at home, especially not with a guy I’ve only had a few casual chats with.
With an ease developed early in life, I let a smile curve my mouth despite the gaping hole of pain and anger and sadness in my chest. “Went home for a long visit. And Pamela has been fine with me working more remote hours. Hard to convince me to change out of sweatpants if I don’t have to.”
Simon chuckles. “I’m with you there. Have a good day.”
“You, too!” I inject cheer into my voice and face as I wave and head for the elevators.
Pamela requested I come in the next three days in a row, when normally I’m only in the office once or twice a week. When I get off the elevator, I stride through the open workspace my company prefers, aiming for a cubicle in the back corner where I can get a semblance of privacy and therefore focus enough to work. I barely set my bag down before Pamela, director of logistics, is at my elbow, looking both regal and harried.