Page 41 of PS: I Hate You

Tilting my head, I consider this man who I’ve resented for the past seven years. “I should leave you here.”

“Maddie,” he growls. And damn him for the way that makes my nipples perk up. My areolas are so happy, I bet they’ve started glowing like the larva. Damn bioluminescent nipples!

“Fine.” Coming to the rescue is an easier decision than I expected. And maybe the role reversal is why. BecauseI’mthe hero in this situation. The one giving Dom help. The opposite version of this dynamic emotionally devastated me, but if I can keep the power in my corner, maybe I can stand to be around Dom for the next six trips without wanting to smother him in his sleep. “Here. Hold Josh.” This time when I hand off my brother, I find it surprisingly easy. Probably because Dom is trapped and at my mercy.

But there’s also something about how Dom’s hand fully engulfs the small Rubbermaid container that has me feeling like my brother is safe.

I don’t bother using my flashlight, instead relying on feel. The denim of Dom’s jeans is warmer than the humid air of this cavern, but I ignore that fact as I drag my touch along his waistband in search of the misbehaving belt loop. This close, Dom’s breathing sounds overly loud and a tad ragged. When my thumb brushes the skin of his lower back, I hear a catch in his inhale.

Part of me wants to torture him by taking my time, but another part, the one that remembers endless incidents of Dom knocking his head on low ledges, and stuffing himself into too-small desk chairs, and bruising his elbows in bathroom stalls, can’t stand the idea ofhim suffering any longer. Plus, that cedar scent of his is too strong, overwhelming my senses and tempting my body to lean in closer and breathe in deeper.

As I’m forcing myself to focus on my task, my fingertips encounter the stiff protrusion of what feels like a root—Dom was right about his belt loop getting caught. I tug and press and slide until the root gives up its hold.

When I step back, Dom watches my retreat.

“You should be good,” I tell him.

He presses off the rock, and his body slides through.

“Thank you, Maddie.”

There he goes again, saying my name unnecessarily.

“Try not to let any more trees fondle you.” I extend my hand for Josh.

Dom stares at my palm for a stretch, then he reaches out with his, lacing his long fingers with mine.

Holding my hand.

I’m too stunned to do anything other than gape at the way we’re connected. The way we’retouching.

Eventually, I find my voice.

“What are you doing?” And why is my tone so light? It’s supposed to be sharp and reprimanding.

His thick brows dip. “You held out your hand.”

“For Josh.”

Those brows pop straight back up, and he drops his eyes to his other hand that cradles my brother’s remains. “Right.”

“Yeah.” Remembering myself, I yank out of Dom’s grip.

He clears his throat as his now-free hand drops to his side and fists. He offers Josh to me, and I take him, turning without meeting Dom’s stare again.

Luckily, the group hasn’t gotten too far ahead of us while I helped free Dom from the rock passage. When I rejoin the gathering, our guide is giving a lesson about the dismalites.

“Now in this larva state, they’re focused on eating. Getting as many nutrients stored up as possible. Because when they’re flies, they’re only alive for one day. And that day they’re focused on one thing.”

“Yeah. Fucking,” I hear the teenager who was trying to take a photo earlier mutter, then snicker at his own joke.

But he’s not wrong. Our guide explains how that single day of life is how we get more dismalites,wink wink.

My mind sticks on that fact.

One day.

And I thought Josh’s life was short.