Page 84 of PS: I Hate You
The three dots appear and disappear on his screen multiple times, and I snort. Dominic Perry tried to make a naughty joke and now he can’t follow through on it.
Maddie:Going to bed
Maddie:Tell the twins they were awesome and they’re my favorite Perrys
Dom:I’m not doing that.
Dom:Good night.
Dom:Text me when you make it to your bed safe.
Maddie:You need help
I fall asleep smiling.
Spring
Chapter
Twenty-Four
I survive six months without a new message from my brother and only long-distance correspondence with Dominic Perry. On the anniversary of Josh’s death, I hid in a spa bathroom in a fuzzy robe and texted Dom, asking for pictures of the letters we had opened so far.
Less than five minutes later, the images came through, and I read them as eagerly as the first time.
Dom’s name had then promptly lit up on my phone, calling me. I ignored it. Mainly because I was afraid all the grief in my chest would twist into anger like it tended to around him and I’d say something awful.
Before I left the bathroom, I texted him a type of apology.
Maddie:Can’t talk now. Looking forward to our next trip.
The trip that we’re on now. The views are breathtaking.
Literally.
The hike out here was hell on my lungs. I thought my tendency to walk to all my destinations in the city prepared me for this. But traversing a few blocks in Seattle is a lot different from trekking miles through the South Dakota backcountry, even if the website described it as “flat and easy to walk.”
I rightly guessed that at least one of the destinations Josh sent us to involves physically exerting myself. He was a wilderness photographer after all. My brother would want to spend his afterlife in beautiful, remote places.
And that’s exactly what the Badlands are. A national park full of prairies and jagged rock formations striped with lines of faded brown, rusty orange, and brick red, each layer designating another moment in time. The place is gorgeous and alien. Dom and I haven’t passed another hiker in a while, and I could almost believe we’re on another planet.
One full of chubby prairie dogs.
Last night we arrived late at the bed and breakfast I booked for us after my flight got delayed five hours and Dom waited around the whole time. Exhausted from the stress of almost ruining this trip, I mumbled “Good night” to my travel companion, stumbled into my bedroom, and fell into a deep sleep. But Dom made sure to knock on my door first thing this morning so we could get on the trail.
I’m glad I invested in a set of hiking boots. My sneakers would not have done well on some of the rocks we had to scramble over.
“Do you need your inhaler?” Dom asks, staring hard at me rather than the gorgeous vista surrounding us.
We’ve come to a stop at the exact halfway point of the five-mile trail. Roughly the spot where the coordinates sent us. I wave him off, then brace my hands on my knees and try to remember the breathing exercises a specialist taught me years ago.
Dom hovers a moment longer, then gives me the space I requested. Still, I can feel the concern radiating off him. The sensation isn’t as bothersome as it once was. Not since I realized the reaction has more to do with his fear of losing control rather than believing me incapable. At least, I hope he doesn’t think the latter.
“Why don’t you—” I suck in another breath, the cold, dry air scraping against my lungs. But I power through. “Read the letter?” The hike might not have irritated my lungs so much if there wasmore humidity. That’s the thing about my asthma. There are certain combinations that wreak havoc on my airways.
Confident that I’m not on the verge of passing out, I press my CamelBak mouthpiece past my lips and drink deep. I bought one of the water bladder bags after our ghost-town trip so Dom wouldn’t be in charge of my hydration again.
Dom keeps his eyes on me as he slips off his backpack, unzips the outside pocket, and tugs out a familiar envelope.