Page 71 of PS: I Hate You
My throat tightens, and I hurry to open the browser. Only, I pause again when one of the desktop files catches my attention. As if the computer knew who I was thinking about, the title blares up at me.
JOSH
Why does Dom have a file named after my brother?
Maybe these are photos of them together. More memories I missed.
The masochist in me double taps the folder.
But the files that pop up on the screen aren’t tiny previews of Josh’s grinning face. Instead, I find a collection of PDF files with academic-sounding names. As I scroll through, I realize they’re research articles. There’s over a hundred.
And all the titles mention a particular type of lung cancer.
The one that took Josh from me. From us.
It felt like a perverse cosmic joke that Josh’s lungs were what failed him. For yearsIwas the one who couldn’t catch my breath.
My fingers scroll through the vast list until I come across a file with the title “Treatment Options.” I click to open it. The document is a simple format with clear headings.
In the same way that I hear my brother’s voice in my head when I read one of his letters, I could swear Dom is the one reading this to me. Every word clearly typed by his hand.
Josh’s Current Treatment
Promising Treatment Options
Experimental Treatment Options
Experts in the Field—
“Any work emergencies?”
I flinch at the question, jerking my chin up to find Dom looming over me. From his vantage point, he can’t see his screen, so I hurriedly close the documents and folder.
Would he be mad about my snooping?
“Nope.” I hand over his laptop, then busy myself pulling out my ticket and turning my phone to airplane mode.
Meanwhile, my mind tries to make sense of what I just found.
As I follow Dom onto the plane, my eyes locked on his broad back, I imagine him compiling all that information. Reading those dense articles and teaching himself all the medical jargon so he could understand what was happening to Josh.
He was trying to find a way to fix it.
“Window or aisle?” We’ve made it to our cushy first-class seats—cushy compared to coach anyway—and Dom claims my carry-on, depressing the handle and easily lifting it into the overhead bin.
“Uh, window, I guess.” My mind is still mostly on that file, but the corner I allot to his question reasons he can extend his legs into the aisle if he still needs more knee space. I shimmy past him and plop down into my seat, pushing my glasses back into place as they try to slip down my nose.
“Are you a nervous flier?” Dom sits down and turns to study me.
“No. Why?”
His eyes narrow, but after a pause he shakes his head. “No reason.”
But there was a reason. If I had said yes—that going up in the air terrified me—he would have done something to help. Distracted me, gotten me a drink or sleeping pills. Demanded to speak to the pilot so he could tell the person in charge of the plane that this better be the smoothest flight we’ve ever experienced. And if none of that worked, he’d probably escort me off the plane, rent us a car, and drive me home to Seattle himself.
Because that’s what Dom does. He takes control, and he fixes things.
That’s what that folder was. Dom trying to grab hold of the situation. As if all he needed to do was learn enough, and then he would have found the solution.