P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  I force a smile. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Do I need to remind you that I’m a mother of three and my lie-dar is so strong it can pick up a lie from up to eighty yards away? You’re lying, Ritz. Don’t lie to me.”

  Tying my hair into a low ponytail, I turn to face her. “I stayed up all night checking all the public military casualty records I could find.”

  “Sweet Jesus. This is worse than I realized.” Rach pinches her nose and places her palm on my shoulder. “Find what you were looking for?”

  I bite my lip and shake my head. “I’m not proud, okay?”

  “Is he alive?”

  I shrug. “From what I can tell. Without being next-of-kin, there are certain records I couldn’t access.”

  “You’re going down a dark and winding path, my friend. Turn back now.”

  “I know, I know.” I clamp my hand across my forehead. “It’s just, I’m stuck between being scared sick that he’s hurt or something happened to him and being furious at him for ghosting me like he did.”

  “Sweets, you have to let him go,” she says, using the kind of tender tone she uses when her youngest kid falls off his bike and scrapes his knees, “because for whatever reason, the jackass let you go a long time ago.”

  I drag in a full breath of pancake-and-grease scented air, taking in the stainless-steel kitchen symphony going on in the background as patrons are being seated en masse.

  “All right, fine,” I say. “I’m letting him go—for real this time.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Maritza

  “Love, what are you doing this upcoming weekend?” Gram asks over tea the following Saturday afternoon. She saw me coming back from my jog and flagged me down, asking if I had a moment to chat, which always means she’s up to something.

  I’d spent all morning running around the Brentwood Pancake and Coffee like a crazy person then like an even crazier person, decided to go for a jog to clear my head when I got home from work.

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead. Why?” I ask, still trying to catch my breath as she pours me a steaming cup of her signature Fortnum and Mason Earl Grey and slides it my way. I slide the chair out beside her and have a seat, my sweaty tank top sticking to my skin and the hot tea looking particularly unappetizing.

  “The reason I ask is because Constance is throwing her grandson—you know, Myles—a party at The Ivy. I guess he got some hotshot Hollywood producer to option this screenplay he wrote in film school and it’s kind of a big deal. You should come. Oh, Lovey, he’d be tickled if you showed up to celebrate with us.”

  Gram’s eyes light and her sweet face is aglow, and it isn’t her Chanel makeup or the flattering light spilling in through the multitude of windows plastering the backside of her hacienda.

  “You know he adores you,” she says, pink lips pulled into a Cheshire grin. “Every time he comes around, he’s always asking about you. In fact, just yesterday I ran into him and he was asking what you were up to. Even asked if you were seeing anyone …”

  “Are you serious?” I place my tea cup against my saucer, nearly knocking it over. Why would he ask my grandmother those kinds of questions when I made it perfectly clear I’m not interested in him?

  Gram nods. “Serious as a heart attack.”

  “You know I hate when you say that.” I roll my eyes. It’d be a little less of a big deal if Gram hadn’t had one of her own a couple years back. “Too soon.”

  “Where’s your sense of humor, Lovey?” she asks, narrow shoulders lifting and falling as she releases a dainty chuckle. “Anyway, there’s this party and you should come. I’ll even take you down to Rodeo Drive, let you pick out a new dress for the occasion.”

  Reaching for my jade green porcelain cup, I take a sip while I contemplate my answer. I don’t want to hurt her, but I really need her to back off with the whole Myles thing.

  “He said you two had a date several weeks back,” she continues, head cocked. “He said it was one of the greatest nights of his life. You must have really left quite the impression on him.”

  Yeah …

  “I just think the world of him,” she continues. “He’s so kind and intelligent. Your grandfather would’ve loved him. I’m sure your father would think the world of him, you know, if you ever feel like introducing the two of them. You know, I could invite—”

  “—Gram,” I say, steadying my trembling hands as I cut her off. I’ve never spoken to her with anything but love and respect in all of my twenty-four years, but I’m going to have to give it to her straight in order to put an end to her incessant prodding. “Myles is weird and awkward and we have nothing in common.”

  “Oh, come on now.” She chuckles, like she doesn’t take me seriously. “There’s nothing wrong with him. Maybe he’s just awkward around you because he likes you so much? You have that effect on boys, I’ve seen it. You make them nervous.”

  “Myles is broccoli. I’ve tried broccoli before, and I don’t like it. I don’t have a taste for it,” I say. “And I tried it again just to make sure. Still didn’t like it. So please quit forcing broccoli down my throat. I’m never going to like it.”

  Placing my cup on the saucer with a hard chink, I rise from her breakfast table and force myself to meet her gaze, taking in her wide eyes and gaping mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am. I’m sorry. I don’t like him. I can’t. And I never will. Please, please stop, Gram. Please.”

  Her lips press together and she straightens her shoulders, glancing away. “Well, all right then.”

  Exhaling, I say, “Thank you. And I’m not leaving because of this conversation. I’m leaving because I have laundry to do and I told Melrose I’d do her hair.”

  “She’s going out again tonight?” Gram asks.

  “Yup.”

  “Are you planning to join her?”

  I shrug. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  I’ve been going out with Melrose all summer, weekend after weekend, Saturday after Saturday, sometimes staying out too late and hating myself the next morning when I’m rolling into work at 6 AM and other times calling it a night before half our friends even show up at the club du nuit.

  But it’s getting old.

  Or maybe I am.

  It’s just not as fun as it used to be. The other day I sort of joked around with Mel that I felt like staying in and binge-watching Game of Thrones sounded more exciting than getting into 1 OAK and she looked at me like I had two heads. But the truth is, I’m in this gray area where going out sucks and staying in sucks and I don’t know what the hell I want to do half the time, but I’m kind of okay with that because classes start next week and my priorities are about to shift and it’s all for the best anyway.

  Plus, I feel like everything happens for a reason.

  And for the first time in a long time and in some kind of way that I can’t fully explain, I feel like something exciting is just around the corner.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Maritza

  “You have something stuck in your teeth.” His name is Blake and he’s a six-foot two former linebacker and current pharmacy student at USC.

  My hand covers my mouth as my eyes widen. “Really? Where?”

  “Right … here.” He flashes his perfect teeth and points between the two front ones.

  “Oh, jeez. I’m always getting food stuck there, in the tiniest, most microscopic little gap. That’s what I get for losing my retainer my freshman year of high school and thinking my teeth were going to stay perfectly in place for all eternity.” I drag my tongue along my teeth before smiling. “Did I get it?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “But now I miss the little guy. He was kind of cute.”

  Laughing, I roll my eyes. “That’s what I get for saying yes to the freshly ground pepper on my salad.”

  “Those pepper mills, man. They’re irresistible.” His hand rests on the white linen table cloth as his eyes catch mine over a flickering candle. We’re
dining al fresco on the rooftop of some Laguna Beach diamond-in-the-rough, the ocean waves crashing in the distance.

  And speaking of diamond-in-the-rough, I’m pretty sure I’m sitting across from one right now—only this one was hiding on Tinder of all places. Tinder!

  I only stumbled across him a couple of weeks ago because Melrose swore by Tinder and Rachael swore off Tinder and I agreed to settle their argument by selecting one lucky gentleman and giving it a go myself—for fun, of course. And science.

  Looks like Melrose is winning the debate thus far.

  “Whenever you’re ready.” Our server places the leather check wallet between us, skewing more toward Blake’s side of the table and as soon as she leaves, we both reach for it at the same time.

  He gets there first.

  “I got it,” he says, digging into his back pocket and retrieving a shiny American Express card.

  “You sure?” I ask. I don’t want to be that girl who makes an awkward thing out of paying for a check but this is only the third time we’ve hung out, he knows we’re simply having fun, and this was by no means a stepping stone to boyfriend and girlfriend territory.

  “Stop.” He waves me off. A moment later, our server returns to grab his card. “So … what are you doing after this?”

  Resting my elbow on the table and my head in my hand, I sigh. “Homework. You?”

  “Really? On a Friday night?”

  I bite my lip. “Don’t judge. I picked up a shift tomorrow so I have to go to bed early tonight anyway. It works out.”

  “All right, so what about tomorrow night? What are you doing then?”

  I smirk. “What is this? What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to ask you on a date.”

  “Like a date date? Or just hanging out?”

  “What’s the difference?” he asks, head cocked.

  “Expectations,” I say. “And wardrobe selection.”

  His blue eyes drift from my face to my collarbone and back. “Did you dress for a date tonight?”

  “Not really …” I look down at my ripped jeans and silk tank top, reaching for my Kendra Scott rose quartz earrings. “Was I supposed to? Was this a date? I thought we were just getting to know each other? Having fun?”

  “What’s the difference between that and dating?” he asks.

  “Expectations. I told you that,” I say with a teasing chuckle. “Get on my level, Blake. I’m losing you here.”

  Our server returns with his receipt, which he wastes no time signing. I gather my bag and he follows me to the exit, placing his hand on the small of my back as he walks me to the parking lot.

  We stop at my car and he stands in such a way that I wonder if I should offer him some water because his feet are firmly planted, practically rooting into the ground beneath his leather boat shoes.

  “I want to see you again, Maritza,” he says.

  Ordinarily when an intelligent, charming, well-studied man with impossibly good looks and a killer sense of humor looks at a girl like she’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen and tells her he wants to see her again, she should feel something. A missed heartbeat, a flush in her cheeks, a tingle in her belly.

  But I’ve got nothing, and it’s not for lack of trying.

  I want to feel something, anything.

  But it’s not something I can control—either a girl feels something or she doesn’t. But maybe with time? Just because the fireworks aren’t instantaneous doesn’t mean they’ll never be there at all.

  “Casablanca is playing at the Vista Theatre tomorrow night,” he says. “It’s one of my favorites. Have you seen it?”

  I nod. “Yeah. I have.”

  “You like it?” he asks.

  “Love it.”

  “Good,” he says. “So you’ll see it with me tomorrow night. Pick you up at eight.”

  It hits me that earlier this year, I’d taken Isaiah to that same theatre to see that very same movie, and then it hits me even harder when I remember that Rick and Ilsa don’t end up together in the end.

  I’ve been doing so well lately, not thinking about the stranger I’d spent a week of Saturdays with once upon a time, but tonight it comes as one giant tidal wave, like everything I’d kept pent up all these months crashes over me at once.

  I miss Isaiah.

  I miss him for reasons I can’t put into words, reasons I feel deep in my bones and in the pit of my stomach and in the ache in my chest I’d grown numb to.

  But just as soon as the wave comes, it’s gone, and I’m left with nothing but a handsome soon-to-be pharmacist with football player muscles who wants to take me to Casablanca tomorrow night.

  I take this as a sign, and also as my closure.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Maritza

  “Oh, hey there.” Melrose stands in my bedroom door as I’m feverishly typing out a term paper at my desk in the corner. “Was beginning to wonder if you still lived here. Feels like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

  “I know.” I shut my laptop lid and face her. “I’ve been so busy with work and school.”

  “And Blake,” she says, fighting a smirk as she takes a seat on my bed. “So what’s up with him now? You guys official?”

  Shaking my head, I say, “We’re still just hanging out.”

  “But you’re hanging out a lot.”

  Maybe a few times a week for the past few weeks. I’d hardly call that “a lot.” And most of the time we’re studying together or catching matinees.

  I shrug. “So?”

  “Clearly he likes you. And you like him too or you wouldn’t spend so much time with him,” she says, like she’s the authority on the intricacies of Tinder dating in the modern age.

  “He’s fun,” I say. “And he makes me laugh. And he’s nice. And we have the same taste in music and movies. And for once, I’ve found a guy who believes me when I say I just want to have fun and not worry about labels. So yeah, I’m going to hang out with him.”

  Mel rolls her eyes. “You friend-zoned him. Nice.”

  “No. I fun-zoned him. There’s a difference.”

  “Potato, po-tah-to.” Murphy trots into my room and Mel scoops him up. “What do you think, Murph? Does she need to piss or get off the pot?” She places his smooshy face against her ear. “Yep. He’s in agreement with me.”

  “Dork.” I roll my eyes and turn back to my computer, about to lift the lid when a text comes through from Blake telling me he’s outside the gate. Earlier today he texted, asking me to grab dinner with him. Said he needed some brain food for the all-nighter he was planning to pull studying for tomorrow’s Pharmacogenetics test.

  “Where you going?” Mel asks as I stand and scan the room for my bag.

  “Dinner with a friend,” I say, like it’s no big thing. And it isn’t. It’s nothing—still. He even kissed me two weeks ago after we saw Casablanca. His lips were soft and his tongue was pure peppermint and his hands were in my hair and yet I felt … nada.

  Not a single, sleepy butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

  “What are you doing, Ritz?” Mel asks.

  My brows narrow. “Going out for dinner. I told you.”

  “No,” she says, expression fading. “I mean, what are you doing with this guy? You don’t even seem that excited to hang out with him.”

  I rest a hand on my hip. “I don’t get where you’re going with this.”

  “Are you waiting for yourself to like him? Because I can tell you, he doesn’t make you light up half as much as Corporal Douche Bag did.”

  “Wow. Okay. You just went there …”

  “I just … I don’t want you to settle for someone who doesn’t make you feel incredible,” she says. “And I also don’t want you to hold off on letting yourself feel incredible all because you’re waiting for some jackass from your past to come waltzing through the door.”

  “Trust me. I haven’t placed my happiness on hold for anyone and even if Isaiah came waltzing through my door like nothing h
appened, I’d have no problem telling him to fuck off,” I say. “That train left the station a long time ago.”

  “Mm hm.” Melrose gives me a side eye, which leads me to believe she doesn’t buy it. But I don’t care if she believes me or not. I know how I feel, and it’s not my job to sell her on that.

  If Corporal Isaiah Torres walks back into my life tomorrow like nothing happened, I’ll waste no time telling him exactly what I think of him.

  And it won’t be pretty.

  Chapter Thirty

  Maritza

  “Um, Ritz?” Rachael stands in the doorway of the galley as I mix three kid-sized chocolate milks—extra Hershey’s syrup, her face white and looking like she’s just seen a ghost. “You have a new table.”

  “Okay. Give me two secs.” I give the final cup of milk an extra squeeze of chocolate.

  Rach stands there, staring, watching, which is odd because she’s always moving and we’re mid-morning rush and all the other staff are go, go, going all around us.

  “You okay?” I ask, loading the cups onto a plastic serving tray.

  “Ritz …”

  I glance up at her only to find her staring out toward table ten where a dark-haired man sits with his back toward us. He turns for a second, but only slightly and only enough for me to recognize that chiseled jaw I’d remember anywhere.

  The ground wobbles beneath my feet, I swear, and I suck in a deep breath before Rach grabs my wrist. My vision fades for a single, terrifying second. I’ve never had this kind of physical reaction to anything in my life.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” she says. “I know you want to let him have it—and he deserves it—but I don’t want you to get fired. I need you here. I can’t work here without you.”

  She offers a smile that lets me know she’s half joking, half serious.

  “I won’t make a scene,” I say, though I’m not sure if I’m trying to reassure her—or myself.