Page 64 of PS: I Hate You
It’s nice to know that as his hunger was growing, he was able to subdue his dickishness. One more sign he’s not the boy he once was.
I’m about to offer Dom one of the snacks I have in my backpack—it’s only fair when he’s keeping me hydrated—but he’s busy searching his own supplies. The man slips his pack off his back, reaches into a small zipper pocket, and pulls out a granola bar. As he peels back the reflective wrapping, I spot the way his mouth curves in a different direction. No longer suppressing a smile.
Dom gives the slightest involuntary grimace.
Abruptly, I’m flung back in time. My mind cycles through snippets from my younger years when I would watch Dominic Perry. Somany times, I saw the guy choose carrots over chips, granola over donuts, peanuts over Sour Patch Kids. And during my Dom observations, I’d watch his mouth tighten in resignation as he masticated the one option while gazing longingly at the other.
I never understood why, only that for some reason he thought he had to deny himself.
The sight of his current distaste brings on an irrational fury, burning away my previous decision to set aside all my resentment.
Right when Dom is about to stick the snack in his mouth, I slap his hand, sending the granola bar flying. The food rockets through the air, eventually landing in the dirt a good distance away, next to a car without wheels. We watch as dirt and dust coat the now-inedible bar.
Dom turns a confused frown on me. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because it needed to be done,” I snap. “And you weren’t about to do it.”
A muscle in Dom’s jaw flexes, and I can see the irritation that normally comes along with his hunger rise to the surface.
Too bad. I got pissed first. I have dibs. “Here’s thethingabout you, Dom.”
“What’s thethingabout me?” His voice is drier than the desert around us.
Well, he asked for it. So, I’m going to give it to him.
“The thing about you is that you know you eat a lot. You know you get hungry. And so, you pack yourself snacks.”Seems smart, right? Wrong.“Healthy snacks. Gross snacks. Snacks that you don’t want to eat.” I step into his space, crowding him. So close I can see a droplet of sweat tracing down his neck. But I don’t let that distract me. “And so, youdon’teat them. Not until you’re so hungry that your stomach is growling, and you’re on the verge of—or already being—Dom the Dick.” I jab his muscular chest with my finger. “You did it when we were younger, and you’re still doing itnow. If I had a dollar for every time I saw you practically gagging as you forced down anoat-based snack, I’d have enough capital to buy this town and turn it into a resort! Why do you do this to yourself?” I’m getting far angrier than this topic deserves, but I can’t stop myself. “If you just packed something delicious and unhealthy, you would eat it the moment you start to feel even the slightest hunger pangs.” I poke him again. “And then you would be happy. Or at least not a miserable sad sack.” I glare into his bewildered gaze, and I soak in that raw emotion he hasn’t hidden away, letting it fuel my righteous ranting. “But over and over again you refuse to pack yourself something that is tasty and not made of ground-up tree bark and dried fruits.” I throw up my arms, as if begging some heavenly being to come down and save me from his frustrating nonsense. “Just admit that you don’t like healthy food! Admit that you crave tasty things covered in salt and made of cheese. And theneatthem. Stop making yourself hungry and just eat!”
I’m breathing hard now, bellowing breaths. But I don’t feel an asthma attack coming on. My exhales are hot and powerful.
“That’s thethingabout you, Dom. That is your thing. You don’t make choices based on what is going to make you happy. You choose the responsible thing. Then you’re miserable while you’re doing it. But it’s not responsible to make yourself hungry because you don’t like the food that you brought. It’s responsible to be honest with yourself and to keep yourself well-fed.” I yank off my backpack, plunge a hand into the side pocket, and pull out a familiar red bag. “So, eat the fucking Cheez-Its and be fucking happy for once in your responsible goddamn life!”
He catches the bag I chuck at him out of reflex, and I leave him standing there with the food he should have brought for himself while I go pick up the pathetically abandoned granola bar. Because even though this town isn’t inhabited anymore, that doesn’t mean I’m about to start littering here. Once it’s tucked in my bag, I stomp toward the edge of town, realizing we’ve reached the end. And I tryto ignore how I’m thirsty again, because I’m not about to ask Dom for a sip from his little backpack hose.
As I linger on the edge of a ghost town, gazing out at the desert, my temper transforms into embarrassment. Then regret.
My rant started about food but ended with too much of my inner pain revealed.
What was I even saying at the end there? Do I thinkI’mthe Cheez-Its?
But that would mean I’m the one who would make Dom happy. Doubt that’s the case when I spend half our time together insulting him. I’ve turned the man into my grief punching bag because he hurt me a long time ago. I’m supposed to be past this.
I’m supposed to be a lot of things.
Dom’s unescapable presence appears at my side. I don’t look up at him or acknowledge him in any way, too mixed up in my unmanageable emotions to speak.
Still, I hear the crunching.
We stand side by side, me brooding and him eating.
Eventually, Dom finishes his snack. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him neatly fold up the empty bag and tuck it into his pocket.
“Thank you,” he says.
I grunt.
He releases a sigh so deep I expect to see it stir the dust in front of us and send a tumbleweed rolling.
“I ate healthy stuff for the twins,” Dom confesses. “Because I was responsible for feeding them most times. They never ate anything unless I ate it first. Mom and Dad wouldn’t have liked if I was only ever feeding them junk food. I guess it became a habit.”