Page 7 of PS: I Hate You
My fingers brush the stiff envelope as I go to snatch the offending missive. But I miss.
I miss because Dom holds it out of my reach. Easy for him to do when he has a good foot on me.
“If you ever want to use your testicles for anything other than reminiscing about the good old days when they weren’t smashed by my fist, you willgive me my envelope.” I hiss the threat, and despitethe indignity, I jump and make a futile grab, missing once again by a large margin. My toe-pinching grief heels don’t help.
“It’s mine, too.” Dom keeps it high above my head. “I want to know what he wrote before you run off with it.”
“I wasn’t going to run off with it.”
I wastotallygoing to run off with it.
“Liar,” he mutters, but lowers his arm.
“Takes one to know one,” I return, that bitchy zombie virus pumping strong through my veins. I snatch the letter from his hands but stay put. Mainly because something in Dom’s intense stare conveys he’ll grabmeif I try to escape.
“This is a joke!” My grandmother’s shout distracts me, and I glance over to find her face flushed, drink forgotten on a side table. “One of Josh’s strange jokes I don’t get.” Florence has a single folded piece of paper in her hand. She flips it back and forth, as if searching for something. “All it says is”—she holds it up, her mouth twisted in a haughty grimace—“Thanks for the years of therapy.”
Oh my god. For a brief, shining moment of awe, I find a way to love my brother more than ever before. Of course Josh Sanderson would have the ghostly nerve to hold a grudge into the grave.
“I never paid for therapy,” she huffs, oblivious. “What Ididpay for is clothes, and food, and housing for that arrogant boy. He had money from all those pictures. Where is the check? Where is the money I’m owed?” She glares at Dom, as if he’s guarding the treasure chest of Josh’s wealth.
What you’re owed is exactly what he gave you,I want to shout in her face. But years of living in the cold shadow of Florence’s disdain trained me to keep my opinions to myself.
“He had medical bills,” Rosaline snaps, never cowed by my judgmental grandmother. “Did you only come here for a payout? If so, you can leave.” Dom’s wife points to the door while her other hand presses her unopened letter against her chest, acknowledging the precious nature of the correspondence.
Florence sputters, and if I weren’t such a petty person, I’d applaud Rosaline.
But I refuse to clap, holding a grudge almost as well as my brother. Whether or not she meant to screw me out of my teenage dream, Rosaline will always be the girl that Dom chose over me. And even if I only hate him now—no longer pining for a taken man—I can’t seem to move on from my resentment toward her.
It’s not that I hate Rosaline, exactly.
What I hate is who I am, and always was, around her. All through my younger years, I watched as Rosaline formed a tight friendship with Josh and Dom—before romance with the latter was even a consideration. And with the talented, charming girl as a constant presence in our lives, my mother—when she was around—often compared the two of us. Rosaline became a form of measurement that Cecilia used to emphasize the many ways I was lacking. Wasn’t long before I internalized her comments and became an even worse version of myself. A greedy, jealous gremlin of a person who could never hope to measure up to Rosaline’s beauty and poise and ability to flip off my grandmother. When I’m next to her, I might as well be two inches tall and built of childish insecurities.
So I avoid her, too.
“I never—” Florence starts.
“Maybe,” Mrs.Perry speaks over my grandmother, using a more diplomatic tone than her daughter-in-law, “we should all take our notes from Josh and open them in our own time. And then—after this sad day reserved for grieving—you can ask Dom clarifying questions about Josh’s will.” Her voice hardens on that final sentence as she stares at my grandmother, then flicks her eyes to my mother.
The warning clear.
You two might not care for and defend your children, but Mrs.Perry sure as hell will.
My mom gives a short nod and tucks her letter into a designer purse, probably concerned the contents are as dismissive as AuntFlorence’s. I watch as she pulls on her grieving-mother expression—a small, trembling smile meant to convey strength through devastation—the moment before she strolls out the door into the throngs of her adoring followers. Florence scoops up her martini glass and struts after her, making no effort to clear the scowl from her face.
Good riddance.
“Do you want to wait?” Dom’s deep voice recaptures my attention and takes another shivering trip over my nerve endings. I clench my jaw as I force away the reaction.
“I can’t.”
Josh is in this envelope.
Besides, waiting means putting up with more Dom.
“How about we give you two the room?” Emilia comes to the rescue again, spreading her arms wide almost like a hug, and uses the gesture to guide the twins and Rosaline toward the door. Everyone goes willingly, and even though I don’t want to, I watch Rosaline leave.
Her shoulders bow with obvious grief, but that isn’t the odd part. What I find strange is how she doesn’t say a single word of comfort to Dom before she goes. Not even a glance over her shoulder.