Page 81 of PS: I Hate You

Then I send him a selfie of me stuffing a chip covered in nacho cheese into my mouth with the door to the pool behind me.Apparently, there’s no eating in the pool area, so I plan to consume these in record time.

My phone vibrates.

Dom:Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be there?

Yeah, I guess that’s what friends do. Maybe I should have. But I have the same excuse I gave the twins.

Maddie:In New York for a work thing. Wasn’t sure I’d even get away long enough for the swim meet

The nacho cheese doesn’t retain heat well and is already starting to lose some of its gooeyness. One more reason to scarf them down.

Dom:You should have told me

Dom:I’m driving up now

I suck in a breath, then cough to dislodge a chip that tried to sneak down my throat.

He’s coming here?

The twins said their family probably wouldn’t make this meet.

Maybe it was always Dom’s plan to come, and he just couldn’t make it to the first half. These things arelong. This must be a surprise for Adam and Carter.

He’s not coming for me.

Maddie:Cool

Maddie:I might not see you, I can’t stay the whole time

Then, horror of horror, my phone rings. I stare at Dom’s name on my screen and consider ignoring it. But just like with my mom, I can’t.

Besides, he’s probably calling because he’s driving, and texting isn’t safe.

Also, my nachos are done, so I guess my mouth is technically free to talk.

Don’t be mean to him. Don’t hurt his feelings on purpose. He’s your friend, I remind myself.

I swipe to accept the call as I toss out my trash.

“Dom,” I say instead of hello. “Calling is for emergencies and extroverts. I consider this a form of harassment.” I never promised to stop being sarcastic.

“Noted.” His deep voice rumbles through the line, and I try to convince myself I shiver from the humidity that clings to my skin and not from the simple act of hearing him speak a single word to me. “How long can you stay at the meet?”

“You are an introvert and that’s not an emergency question,” I mutter as I pull my phone away from my ear so I can check the time. “Maybe two hours. But that would be pushing it. I’m not going to catch their last race.”

“That should work. I’ll text you when I’m there.”

What should work? Does he want to make sure there’s someone here the whole time cheering for them?

That’s sweet.

“Cool. I’m heading back in. Drive safe. Don’t speed.”

“I never speed.” He sounds affronted.

“Of course not. I forgot who I was talking to.”

An hour and forty-five minutes later, my phone buzzes in my pocket.