Page 66 of PS: I Hate You
It feels so good to joke about my brother instead of constantly reminding myself that he’s gone.
Dom jerks, as if he forgot he wasn’t alone in this ghost town.
I keep going. “He was a loud chewer, and his mouth was open half the time. Plus, he always stole food off my plate! More than once I thought about stabbing his sneaky hand with my fork.”
Dom chuckles. “He did that with me, too. I used to guard my meals from him.”
We turn in silent agreement and start walking through the town again. I tug my backpack off, unzip it, and root around until I find the Rubbermaid container with my brother’s remains.
“And his singing,” I say.
Dom groans. “So pitchy. Like he was constantly going through puberty.”
The perfect description of my brother’s wailing calls up vivid memories of me cringing through his caroling.
“Horrendous,” I agree while my fingers pop off the lid. “He used it as a torture method to get me to do what he wanted.”
“Or to make you smile,” Dom adds. “When he sang to you on your birthday, you always had the biggest grin.”
“I did, didn’t I?” My soft response drifts away with the wind. I hold up the container of Josh, the small particles of him already catching in the breeze. Dancing to freedom and a new adventure.
“He was an atrocious dancer, too,” I say as my hand tilts.
“The absolute worst,” Dom agrees. “One time he accidentally gave me a black eye during the Electric Slide.”
And as another piece of my brother leaves me, he departs to the sound of my laughter.
Chapter
Nineteen
The world finally cools off once the sun goes down. Enough that I’m willing to venture out from the small bungalow I booked for myself—Dom has his own—and wander down to the pool. Not that I plan on swimming. But sometimes I find the scent of chlorine soothing, and after today I need that.
Things were close to cordial between Dom and me before I went after him about his snack choices. My temper boiled hot and fast, something that it’s been doing a lot in the months since Josh passed. I regret letting it spill out. My body refuses to expel tears, but harsh words flow easily.
The lap of water slows my steps, and as I slip through the gate, I realize the pool is occupied.
By Dom.
The man glides through the water with both power and grace. His freestyle shows off flexing biceps and tensing back muscles. Nothing like the gawky adolescents I used to see at the twins’ swim meets.
Dom is a grown man, and my body is happy about it.
I pull my loosely knitted cardigan more securely around my shoulders to hide the way my hard nipples press against the thin material of my tank top. Briefly, I consider retreating.
But I’m tired of being in my room. Once we got back from Vulture City, I immediately logged into work and have been catching up on everything these past few hours. My fingers need a rest from typing, and forget about tears—my eyes will start bleeding if I have to search for another impossible-to-find error in another dataset.
I settle on one of the padded lounge chairs, reclining as I watch Dom continue to cut across the surface, his body lit by the blue glow of the pool lights.
After another few laps, he lets his hands hit the wall rather than performing a flip turn. The night goes quiet without the slap of his skin against water. A sky full of stars stretches above us, and I wait for Dom to realize he has an audience.
He doesn’t. He simply lets his feet settle on the bottom of the pool, and stares straight ahead into the dark night.
I start to clap, slow and mocking, because I’m incapable of telling him that I found his skill legitimately impressive.
Dom whips around and tugs off his goggles. I try not to shiver when his attention lands and stays on me.
“Do the twins know you’re trying to steal their sport? Last Adam said, they’re Olympic hopefuls. Maybe you should stick to baseball.”