Page 4 of PS: I Hate You
She sets me down and smooths her hands over my hair. “Here, we need to remember moments like this.”
Before I realize what she’s doing, Mom has her phone up, my head clutched against her breast, and the camera clicking. There’s no time to say this is a day I hope I forget through an overindulgence in gin tonight.
Mom releases me so suddenly that I stumble back a step. Not that she notices, too focused on her screen, working on some social post or another about the grieving mother and the surviving daughter she loves oh so much.
A firm press on my lower back steadies me. Glancing to the side, I realize Dom has braced me, but before I can hiss at him, he steps away and strides past without a word.
“Black is not your color,” Cecilia murmurs, distracting me.
Would you believe that’s only mildly hurtful compared to other comments she’s doled out over the course of my life?
“Thanks, Mom. Appreciate the feedback.” I could put in the effort to say,Hey, Mom, maybe don’t insult your daughter when she’s only wearing black to mourn her dead brother.
But then I would get an eye roll followed by the claim that I’m being dramatic, which would then lead to a useless back-and-forth that would change nothing about the way she talks to me. If Josh dying wasn’t enough to have Cecilia reevaluating how she treats her remaining kid, what hope do I have?
Another woman strolls up to us, sipping from a martini glass. I welcome her appearance only because I now know there is a bar somewhere.
“Hi, Aunt Florence,” I greet her. She’s not actually my aunt. Florence is Cecilia’s mother, my grandmother, and the woman who technically raised me, though there wasn’t a lot of child-rearing going on at the time. Mainly, she made rules, and if she caught Josh or me not following them, we got locked out of the house until we shouted enough apologies through the window to earn reentry.
“Madeline. How is Seattle?” Florence narrows her eyes, studying my face. “I know it’s rainy, but do you ever go out in the sun? You’ll never find a man with you looking so washed out.”
Shot number two for the day. Three if we count Dom finding me floundering in a box of paper products.
“You know, I think we do get some sun. I’ll have to look into that. Wouldn’t want people thinkingI’mthe corpse.” No point in arguing that they’re both as pale as me and that we have the kind of skin that burns rather than tans—when I go outside, I wear hats and a thick coat of sunscreen.
She grimaces at my comparison.
Luckily, when I glance past my two blood relatives, I discover a collection of welcome faces. I dodge around my mother, straight into the embrace of the woman I wish had given birth to me.
“Maddie! Oh, Maddie. I’m sorry.” Emilia Perry, Dom’s mom, pulls me in for a tight hug. This embrace has every bit of generous caring that my mother’s lacked. “I can’t even…I don’t know what to say.” She holds me close, her arms strong, body soft, ink-colored hair smelling of vanilla.
“That’s okay.” I’m not normally a hugger, but I hold Emilia close, feeling a pressure behind my eyes, but no corresponding wetness.
What’s wrong with me? Why haven’t I cried?
It’s been a week since the doctors pronounced Josh as dead, but I haven’t shed a tear.
Maybe I’m as cold as my mother and grandmother. I always thought I was different from them. That I broke away from their mold.
But maybe I’ve been fooling myself.
“Oh goodness. Look at me.” Emilia releases her hold and tugs a tissue from her pocket to dab her cheeks. “Mr.Perry wanted to be here, but he was called in for an emergency surgery. He sends his love.”
Nathanial Perry works as a neurologist at the local hospital,while Emilia is the outreach director for a green-energy nonprofit. Or at least, that’s what they used to do. It’s been a while since we talked.
“Anything you need,” she continues. “Just say the word. Josh was family. You’re family.”
Am I?
An ache in my chest has me rubbing my sternum.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“You’relikefamily,” a cheerful voice clarifies, and I glance over to meet a set of playful brown eyes in a face that looks similar to—but not exactly the same as—the man I hate. “Keep in mind that we’re not actually related. So…like…dating wouldn’t be weird. You know?” The guy gives me a wide, devastating grin.
Adam Perry. Standing next to his equally handsome twin brother, Carter. Dom’s younger siblings—who I remember last as two scrawny thirteen-year-olds—tower over me and their mother, both looking like they belong on an Olympic swim team next to the likes of Michael Phelps.
“Last time I saw you, you couldn’t drive,” I remind him.