P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  Giving myself one last look in my full-length mirror, I smooth my hands down the black, strapless Herve Leger bandage dress I “borrowed” from my mom’s closet before they moved to New York and then step into a set of killer Jimmy Choos—also “borrowed.”

  I don’t get the chance to dress up that much these days so when I do, I tend to go all out. Plus, Melrose picked the club tonight and she’s got Cristal taste, which means we’re not going to some dive bar in South-Central.

  “About damn time.” Melrose takes a giant gulp of her white wine when she sees me. “Look at you, little mama. God, I wish I had your legs. It’s so not fair. Those should have been mine.”

  Rachael’s eyes move between us and her wine glass is as frozen as her expression.

  “My mom dated her dad before she married my dad,” I explain, waving my hands around as I talk. “My mom is super tall.”

  “I bet the wedding was super awkward.” Rachael winces.

  “That’s what we’ve been told,” I say. “Apparently Melrose’s dad almost no-showed and he had the ring. They made up though. He actually ended up hooking up with one of Mom’s bridesmaids that night … and that was Mel’s mom. Everyone got a happy ending.”

  “We’re meeting some of my girls at Willow House in an hour,” Melrose changes the subject, tossing back the rest of her drink before setting it aside and gathering her phone, keys, and the satin Chanel clutch she claimed was a thank you gift from a producer last year.

  “Which girls? Have I met them?” I ask.

  Melrose shrugs, like she doesn’t know and she doesn’t care. I’ve never seen someone make so many friends she can’t keep them straight. I tried looking someone up in her phone once and counted at least six “Taylors,” eight “Joshes,” and twelve “Megans,” each of them with descriptions like, “Taylor BLUE HAIR CHATTY” and “Josh DIRTY CONVERSE BAD KISSER” and “Megan CRAZY DO NOT ANSWER.” There must be at least eight hundred people in there, if not more.

  “Come on girls,” my cousin glances at her phone screen as she ushers us out the door. “Ride’s here.”

  Professionally DJ’d music pumps.

  Top shelf liquor flows.

  Gorgeous people surround us.

  And yet, I’d rather be anywhere but here.

  Not that I’m not having a good time—Rachael is always a blast and Melrose has the most outlandish and eclectic group of “friends” providing ample entertainment. One of them is a Swedish pop star who came to America to try to “make it big.” Another is the heiress to a Spanish oil fortune. The tall brunette in the corner is from some reality show that was really popular a few years ago. And the redhead beside me has been fighting with her boyfriend on the phone all night and airing allllll his dirty laundry in the process—which I’m pretty sure she’s going to live to regret in the morning when they get back together.

  But while I’m physically here, mentally I can’t stop thinking about Isaiah. What he’s doing. If he’s comfortable. If he’s happy. If he’s having a good time. I can’t imagine there’s much for them to do in Afghanistan on a Saturday night.

  “Why are you so quiet tonight?” Melrose moves her redheaded friend out of the way and squeezes between us. “You have cramps?”

  I almost spit my drink out. “No, I don’t have cramps.”

  “You’ve had, like, four drinks,” she says, glancing at me with unfocused eyes. “You should be dancing on the table by now.”

  “When have I ever danced on a table?” I pride myself on being a good time girl, but certain things just aren’t my style.

  “Figuratively,” she says, trying not to slur.

  “I think this is only my second anyway,” I say, lifting my martini.

  “Okay, don’t look now, but there’s a guy standing at the bar in a navy-blue suit with a blue gingham tie and he’s been staring at you for the past hour,” she says, leaning close.

  I don’t look because it doesn’t matter. I’m not looking to be picked up tonight. I’m not looking for a one-night stand. I just wanted to have a good time with my girls.

  “Oh, my God. He’s coming over here,” Melrose flaps her hands, making it overly obvious that we’re talking about him. I know he’s arrived when she crosses her legs and bats her lashes and cups her hand under her chin. “Hi, stranger.”

  I turn to face him, eyes locking with a set of the bluest irises I’ve ever seen, tawny skin, and sandy, too-cool-to-care hair that makes some kind of casually defiant statement against his impeccable Tom Ford suit.

  The man ignores my cousin. He ignores all the girls at our table. He’s completely and unapologetically fixated on me.

  “I’m Ansel,” he says, lifting a tumbler of amber-colored liquor to his Cheshire grin. “My apologies for staring at you all night. I have a weakness for beautiful women.”

  Out of politeness, I don’t roll my eyes.

  Plus, Ansel doesn’t seem greasy or skeevy. There’s an air of class about him and his apology seems genuine from what I can tell.

  “Do you mind if I ask your name?” He hasn’t looked away from me yet. Not once. And I detect some kind of non-American accent, though I can’t quite place it. German, maybe?

  “Maritza,” I say.

  “That’s a very beautiful name,” he says. “Would it be all right if I bought you a drink?”

  I hesitate, looking for a way to turn him down without hurting his feelings.

  He’s exotic and gorgeous and polite and I’m sure it took a lot for him to come over and introduce himself in a society where most people hide behind their dating apps, but when I look at him … I feel … nothing.

  Melrose nudges me in the ribs and Ansel chuckles.

  It’s just a drink, I guess.

  “Yeah. Sure,” I say. “That’d be nice.”

  Ansel’s mouth pulls wide and he extends his hand, helping me up. Everything about him is formal, his mannerisms, his way of speaking, the way he walks beside me as if we’re Prince Harry and Meghan Markle.

  But at the end of the day, beautiful Ansel is beautifully boring.

  And I can’t ignore the fact that for some completely insane reason, I wish it were Isaiah buying me this drink.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Isaiah

  Dear Corporal Torres,

  I was thinking a lot about what you do for fun over there. Do you have much downtime? What do you do to kill the time? I imagine the days and nights get pretty long sometimes. How do you distract yourself?

  I’ve been thinking about what you said about picking a practical major and I know you’re right. I know my dad is right. I guess I’m just torn between following my head or my heart and I’ve been dragging my feet for so long that I feel I’m running out of time to decide. I suppose no one ever says you HAVE to have a college degree by a set age, but I’d personally like to have my shit figured out before I turn thirty. I don’t want to be that friend still floundering around not knowing what to do with herself and serving pancakes because she’s spent her twenties too afraid to make a fucking decision.

  Anyway, I’m just rambling at this point. Sorry.

  Melrose dragged Rachael and I out last weekend to this fancy bar where drinks were thirty dollars. Some really hot German guy hit on me and I suffered through an hour of small talk because he offered to buy me a drink.

  I need to get better at saying no.

  In a world filled with self-centered assholes, is there such a thing as being too nice? I like to think I’m cancelling out some bad with some good but maybe my logic is off.

  Wait. Don’t answer that. I already know what you’re going to say.

  All right. Time to get ready for work.

  Yours,

  Maritza the Waitress

  P.S. I hate you … in case you’ve forgotten.

  P.P.S. Believe it or not I miss you but in the most NON-ROMANTIC way humanly possible.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Maritza

  The ache in my feet from working a double
dissipates the second I find his letter mixed in with a stack of junk mail on the kitchen counter. I imagine if I were to see myself right now, I’d find a dopey grin on my face, but I don’t care. All that matters is I can’t tear into this thing fast enough.

  I meant what I said in my last letter—I miss him.

  And in a non-romantic way.

  The time we spent together before he left, however short it was, meant something to me, even if I don’t exactly know what that is. All I know is I enjoy my time with him. And I hope I get to see him again. Soon.

  Maritza the Waitress,

  I’m not sure where you get the idea that I have “free time” over here, but I’d like to set that record straight. I work twelve-hour days six, sometimes seven days a week. When I’m not working, I’m doing laundry, shining my shoes, eating, or sleeping. We fit the occasional game of cards here or there but mostly we’re working.

  And let me get this straight, some hot guy hit on you and you “suffered” through small talk with him? Either you’re lying to make me feel better or you’re trying to make me jealous, both of which would be a huge waste of time because you’re not my girlfriend.

  I know you know that.

  Just wanted to remind you.

  So please, I hope you’re having fun and not holding back because you’re waiting for some jackass soldier to come home. And I hope you got that German dude’s number because you sound kind of tense and you need to get laid.

  Oh, and stop putting so much pressure on yourself to pick a major. It’s not like you’re making some life or death decision. What kinds of things are you interested in? What lights your fire?

  Back to work.

  Sincerely,

  Corporal Torres

  P.S. I hate you

  P.P.S. Don’t say that you miss me. Shit like that are nothing but land mines. Dangerous territory. If you’re looking for a reaction from me, send me a pic of your tits but for the love of God, don’t say you miss me. That wasn’t part of the agreement.

  Folding his letter, I roll my eyes and grab a pen, my hand twitching to get the thoughts in my head onto paper before they scatter like fall leaves to the wind.

  Chapter Twenty

  Isaiah

  Dear Corporal Torres,

  Just got your letter …

  If you only knew how badly I want to throw ice water in your face right now …

  If my handwriting is a little hard to decipher it’s only because I’m so angry with you right now I’m shaking. The fact that even from thousands of miles away you feel the need to make it crystal clear that you don’t want to date me does nothing short of infuriate me. It doesn’t matter how much I told you the feeling was mutual, it’s like you’re convinced I’m lying.

  I’m not one of those girls who play mind games, who pretend they want nothing and tell you what they think you want to hear to keep you around.

  I say what I mean.

  Always.

  And we had a no-bullshit agreement that I take very seriously.

  I’ll tell you this one last time: I don’t want to date you either.

  Which leads me to my next order of business: we are friends.

  I know you don’t want to believe it, but we are. We’re friends. Say it out loud: Maritza Claiborne and Isaiah Torres are friends.

  And because we’re friends that means I’m allowed to miss you and I’m allowed to tell you that I miss you. So stop being this tough, cold, callous distant man because that shtick might work on every other girl you’ve ever met, but it won’t work on me.

  Embrace the fact that I miss you, Isaiah, because it isn’t going to change. In fact, it seems to be getting worse with each passing day if I’m being honest.

  You’re cool as shit and you’re fun and I feel like we’re on the same page with a lot of things. I’m fascinated by you and sometimes annoyed by you and other times turned on by you but at the end of the day, I fucking love that you’re in my life.

  I hope you feel the same and that someday, you might be able to actually admit it.

  Best Friends Forever,

  Maritza the Waitress

  P.S. I hate you.

  I read her letter twice before tucking it into my pocket and pulling in a hard breath. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me to think about some smooth German dude hitting on her and buying her drinks—and I hated that it bothered me.

  Hated.

  So I overcompensated.

  “Corporal, you got a package.” Private Johnston places a large brown box on my desk. This marks the first time in my entire military career that anyone has sent me anything more than a letter or card. Before he struts off, I examine the return address.

  Maritza.

  Grabbing a box cutter, I slice through the packing tape and feast my eyes on package after package of Pringles, Starbursts, and peanut butter M&Ms.

  I smirk, unable to help myself.

  She remembered our conversation that night we went to the Griffith Observatory.

  A note written in purple pen on a small piece of lined stationery reads:

  Isaiah,

  Let me know if there’s anything else you want (besides pancakes—not happening, dude). I’ll do my best to accommodate any (reasonable) requests. Also, I’ve placed a few goodies at the bottom of the box for fun.

  Maritza

  P.S. I hate you.

  P.P.S. But I don’t want you to starve or be bored while you’re over there doing brave and scary things.

  Digging through the colorful, junk food loot, I come across what resembles a summer camp care package. She appears to have tossed in a pack of UNO cards, a triple pack of her signature strawberry mint shea butter lip balm, two expensive-looking bottles of body wash that smell like a million fucking bucks, sunscreen, half a dozen bottles of Frank’s Red Hot, a jumbo pack of individually wrapped beef jerky in various flavors, a few men’s health and fitness magazines, and an assortment of James Patterson and Clive Cussler paperbacks.

  “Hey, look at you. Finally got a package.” Private Conroy stops into my doorway, leaning against the jamb, hands in his pockets. “And look at that smile on your face. Your girlfriend send that to you or your mom?”

  I close the flap on the box. “Neither.”

  If she were here right now, I’d tell her that yes…

  … there is such a thing as being too nice.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Maritza

  Maritza,

  Thank you for the package that you didn’t have to send. Let me remind you that we agreed to letters and letters only.

  And yes, there is such a thing as being too nice.

  Anyway, I won’t be able to write for a while. I’ll be headed to the Syrian border after today. Not sure how long I’ll be away.

  Take care,

  Isaiah

  I stuff his letter back into the envelope, smile fading and hot tears welling in my eyes, and check the date. He sent this two weeks ago. Every part of me knows I shouldn’t read into this letter but it’s just … different. There was no “Maritza the Waitress,” no playful “P.S. I hate you” at the end. And he signed off with a cold “take care.”

  Biting my lip, I place the letter aside and sink back into my bed, dragging my palms along my floral velvet duvet.

  It’s almost like he was intentionally distancing himself …

  Maybe I came on too strong? Maybe he read into the care package thing and took it as I like him and I’m trying to move things to the next level? I don’t know. I don’t know what was going through his head because he’s a closed effing book and I knew him for all of nine days or whatever.

  I allow myself to overanalyze for a solid ten minutes before snapping out of it and giving him the benefit of the doubt. Rising from my bed, I peel off my pajamas and head to the shower. I have to be at work in a couple of hours.

  When I’m finished getting ready, I trek over to Gram’s to grab breakfast, only the second I slide the back door open, I find myself
face to face with Constance’s grandson, Myles, seated at my grandmother’s kitchen table.

  “Oh. Hi.” I stop in my tracks.

  His thin lips curl. “Maritza. Hey. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  Yeah …

  “How have you been?” he asks, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up his long nose. Nothing has changed since the last time I saw him. With a plaid shirt cuffed at his elbows, black skinny jeans, and white chucks, he’s rocking the quintessential film studies major uniform.

  “Good. You?” I head to the coffee bar off the butler’s pantry and he careens his body, tracking me with his narrow eyes.

  “Great.” I grab a porcelain mug and turn my back to him. “Where’s Gram and Constance?”

  “Around here somewhere.” He chuckles. “Probably polishing Gram’s Oscars or something.”

  I don’t laugh. He isn’t funny. He’s awkward and obvious and gives off this intrusive, invasive vibe that I can’t fully explain.

  Heading back to the kitchen, I don’t find Gram’s usual Saturday morning breakfast spread, no scent of bacon or steel cut oats, no buffet of fresh sliced strawberries and pineapples. She must’ve given her chef the day off.

  “All right, well, I have to get to work,” I say, striding toward the sliding door. “Good seeing you, Myles.”

  He stands. “You came all the way here for a cup of coffee?”

  Pausing, I nod. “Gram has the good stuff.”

  His thin lips meld together and he exhales through his nose. “I see.”

  Reaching for the door handle, I give it a solid tug and embrace the mild morning air that hits my face.

  Freedom.

  Freedom from Myles Bridger.

  I can’t get back to the guesthouse fast enough. The way he stares. The way he stalls. The way his energy just lingers and clings and makes me feel like I need another shower.