Page 60 of PS: I Hate You
Dom and I just paid fifteen dollars each to enter Vulture City, Arizona. We both arrived in Phoenix a few hours ago, and because our flight times ended up being so close together, I reluctantly agreed to share a rental car with him. We checked into our rentals, got changed, and headed to the coordinates.
Which brought us here.
To a ghost town.
Dom huffs a dry laugh and leads the way through the wooden fence posts that signify the start of Vulture City.
Ironically, this dead civilization is rather lively. People wander around the dirt roads, some on their own like Dom and me, but others are led by guides dressed in Old West outfits. If Josh were here, he probably would have begged for a cowboy hat and sheriff’s badge of his own.
Everything—not just Dom’s humor—is dry here. Going from Seattle to the desert, my skin feels like brittle paper on the verge of cracking and crumbling away. I reach behind me to slip my water bottle out of the side pocket on my backpack. The container is slim,lightweight, and insufficient for this climate. I doubt it’ll last me another twenty minutes from the way I guzzle half in one go.
I was not properly prepared. October is supposed to be cool, but here the temperatures have already crept to the high eighties and threaten to keep going. Even my SPF 60 sunscreen seems inadequate in the powerful sun. I pull the brim of my hat low over my face and hurry to catch up with Dom.
He’s come to a stop in front of a building with a hand-painted sign that readsBrothel.
“Wow. Having trouble with the dating apps?” I ask. “Need some privacy in there?”
Dom tries to glare at me, but I spot the twitch at the corner of his firm mouth. “Looking for some shade to read his letter so you don’t burst into flames halfway through.”
“Was that your way of calling me a vampire? The sexiest of monsters? If so, I take it as a compliment.”
Dom’s lips curve further. “You’ve got the look. And the bite.”
I scoff. Then I scurry up the wooden steps into the building like the sunlight-fearing creature he called me. It’s not that Ihatethe sunshine. It’s just that I know how painful overexposure can be. On sunny days, I like to enjoy the natural light from the cool shade of my condo while curled up in my armchair or sitting on my floor.
Not in the middle of a desert with zero cloud cover or conveniently placed awnings.
Dom’s chuckle follows me through the door, and soon his feet do, too.
Then he flinches and mutters, “Hell,” and clutches his chest.
I turn to see the shape of a looming figure and jump back before snorting when I realize we haven’t found a ghost, but instead a mannequin dressed in period clothes. The fake person is the most modern thing in the room. Time has worn away the remnants of what the former inhabitants left behind. An aged piano sits pressed up against the wall, and a warped mirror hangs across from it. A sturdyblack stove in the corner has a simple kind of beauty to it. Not that I’d want to see it lit in this sweltering heat. As I shuffle farther into the brothel, the floor gives—only slightly—under my feet. A reminder that the boards have lived far longer than I have and still remain.
Dust floats in the air and settles on my tongue. I pull out my water for another swig.
“Charming,” I offer after my drink, tilting my head toward a creepy baby doll watching us from the next room. “What a place to spend an afterlife.”
Dom’s presence looms at my side. “You think this place is haunted?”
I let my eyes trail up to his face, trying to discern if there’s any mockery in his expression. But Dom reveals nothing.
“If thereareghosts here, I’m not about to say there aren’t and then piss them off. But if you would like to bring down some old-timey prostitute spectral wrath on your head, go for it.” I wave toward a vanity with a cracked mirror.
Dom opens his mouth but pauses when I press my hands against his chest and give him a hearty shove toward the next room. “Overthere. You can insult the dead once I’m not in the splatter zone.”
Dom rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother to hide his smile as he mutters, “Coward.”
Before I can come back at him with a witty retort, he draws his backpack off and unzips a small pocket. From it, he produces one of Josh’s letters.
“Want to read it?” he asks, extending the envelope to me.
I accept the offering, and as my fingers clutch the missive, my eyes flick between our wrists.
Love, Josh
My tattoo is visible, having healed nicely, with only some itching and soreness. Now the black lines are smoothly embedded in myskin. If I close my eyes and run a thumb over my wrist, I can’t even feel them.
But I find myself tracing the letters all the time.