Page 40 of PS: I Hate You
But even at nineteen, I should’ve known better. I’d already learned that the only person I could trust to not toss me aside was my brother.
All those beautiful things Dom gave me? They didn’t mean anything.
Because that night was only a favor.
Athank-youfor helping his family out.
AI know you’ve had a crush on me for your entire life, so here, I’ll touch you once before I lock down the woman I actually want to be with.
To him, I was a responsibility. A charity case. A box on a to-do list to check off.
Well, hedidme, and I hate him for it.
And I hate that my body can’t seem to get on board the hating train with my brain. My body would like to be added to his to-do list again, with a few extra check boxes next to the task.
The skin on my hands buzzes and tingles where his palms pressed moments ago. Flexing my fingers to disperse the sensation, I point my red-tinted flashlight at the ground in front of my feet and shuffle forward.
I try to forget Dom is behind me as I listen to our guide and follow the group through the twists and turns. Some of the canyon stretches high above us, and other parts press in close until we have to shimmy through claustrophobic spaces.
It’s just after pressing my body through one of these that I’m forced to come to a stop. The kid in front of me acts as a cork in the bottleneck as he bends over and blocks my way. The teenager tries to take a picture with a cell phone camera that is not equipped to pick up the subtle glow of a larva.
Josh would have a camera that could. My brother captured the most gorgeous wildlife photos, and I’m not just saying that because I’m his sister. Josh won awards. He got hired by big name publications and companies that flew him all over the world. His success can be gleaned simply from the large number that was left to Dom and me in his will to fund these ash-spreading excursions.
But what I loved most about my brother’s photos was the way he’d send them to me. Whenever Josh took a shot he was particularly proud of, he’d commission a puzzle made out of it and mail the pieces to me in a bag. I wouldn’t know what the shot was until I pieced everything together.
The walls of my condo are covered in framed finished puzzles of his work.
“Come on,” the teen mutters to himself, pinching his fingers on the screen as if zooming in all the way will help.
There’s a grunt behind me, and I angle my light back to see what’s up.
Dom, who was following close behind me, is bent at a weird angle to get his large body through the thin opening in the canyon walls. Now he’s stuck there because we can’t move forward with the amateur photographer holding up the line.
Dom tries to hide the grimace on his face, but even in the dim light, I see the discomfort twisting his lips.
I turn back to the kid. “Those are brighter,” I lie, pointing to a wall farther on that’s scattered with little glowing larva. “You’ll have better luck there.”
He glances at me, straightens real fast, and pockets his phone. “Oh. Cool. Thanks.” Then he scurries away, clearing the path forward. I make to follow but pause when I don’t hear Dom’s bothersome footsteps behind me. Turning, I realize the man is in the same spot I left him.
“Come on, you massive pain in my ass.” I pat my leg like I’m calling a dog to heel.
Dom grunts again. “I’m stuck.”
“Are you kidding me?” I run my light over all the places his body touches rock. “I don’t have any butter on hand to grease you up.” The space didn’t seemthatsmall when I went through it. But he does have a handful of inches and a lot more bulk than I do. “Use those vanity muscles of yours and pop yourself free.”
Dom’s scowl deepens in the red glow of my flashlight. “They’re not vanity. I play on two rec baseball leagues.”
“Ooo.Two.So impressive. I’m swooning.” In high school, I totally did. Watching Dom play wearing those tight pants, swinging that bat, melted my hormonal brain. But now I’m over all that. The idea of him sprinting around bases and sliding through the dirt as it sticks to his sweaty skin does nothing for me.
Nothing.
As I taunt Dom, I move in closer to get a better look at his predicament. “Did they give you letterman jackets?”
He doesn’t respond, and his silence is telling.
“Oh my god. They did, didn’t they?” I cackle at the mental image of grown men trying to relive their high school glory days. “What do they even say on them?”
“It was a company gift. It’s got the company name. Now can youplease”—he grits the word out—“help me. I think it’s my belt loop, but I can’t reach at this angle.” His long arm tries to touch his lower back, but the stone outcropping is in the way.