P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  “You know, I’m glad this happened,” she says, dragging her hands through her hair as her lips pull into an incredulous grin. “Because if anything, I learned that there are kinder, better, nicer people out there than you and you’re not the person I thought you were. You saved me from … you. So thank you. Thank you so much, Isaiah.”

  She turns to leave, but I hook my hand around her elbow, reeling her back to me.

  “I can explain,” I say. “I can explain everything.”

  “Yeah, well, I accepted a long time ago that I was never going to have your explanation and now that you’re offering it to me, I don’t want it.” Her words slice through the tight space between us. “Whatever reason it was that you stopped talking to me … it’s inconsequential now. I’ve moved on.”

  “I get that you’re angry,” I say. “But I think you’ve made some assumptions …”

  “Assumptions?” Her dark eyes widen and her brows arch. “You’re right, Isaiah. I did. I assumed you were a good person. I assumed we were on the same page with the no lies and bullshit rule. And I assumed we had something special—or at the very least a friendship.”

  “No,” I say, lifting my hand, but she continues to talk.

  “You’ve been home a while, haven’t you?” she asks.

  “A few weeks, yes,” I say.

  “Tell me,” she says, squaring her shoulders with mine. “Is it true you have a nephew you don’t acknowledge?”

  My eyes narrow. How the fuck would she know that?

  “And is it true you’ve ruined peoples’ lives, Isaiah?” she asks. “Is it true you … is it true your family blames you for your father’s death?”

  Dragging my hand down my face, I look her dead in the eyes. “Yeah. It’s true. All of it.”

  Maritza exhales, her glassy coffee-colored eyes settling in mine. “You should go. And please don’t come back here again. You’re not the person I thought you were, and I don’t want to be with you. I don’t want to pick up where we left off. Not now. Not ever.”

  With that, she pushes past me and disappears behind the swinging door to the ladies’ room.

  A blue-eyed blonde donning a matching uniform rounds the corner, stopping in her tracks when she sees me.

  “Oh. Hi,” she says, looking at me like I’m a bomb that needs to be defused. “Have you seen Maritza?”

  I point to the ladies’ room.

  “Right,” she says, offering a tepid smile. The waitress makes her way past me before stopping and turning back. “You should probably leave.”

  “I know.”

  “And you should probably never come back here again.”

  Dragging my hand along my mouth, I linger.

  A second later, I remember the letter, and I dig into my pocket to retrieve it.

  “Give this to her,” I say, handing it off to the blonde.

  I don’t wait for her to respond or refuse it.

  I get the hell out of there.

  I don’t want to upset Maritza any more than I already have.

  It hurts like hell to see how much pain I caused her, and not just because I care about her but because she wouldn’t be so hurt if she hadn’t cared so much about me.

  Our feelings? They were mutual at one point.

  But evidently not anymore.

  Not now. Now ever.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Maritza

  “Hey. You okay in here?” Rachael pushes past the restroom door and stands next to me in front of the mirror.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” I force a smile. The swell of tears in my eyes subsided about a minute ago, the second I removed myself from his presence.

  I didn’t know seeing him again was going to get to me like that. When I first saw him, for a half of a second, I thought it was Ian, but then I saw the faded t-shirt and the shorter hair and the weighted look in his eyes, and I knew.

  “Is he still out there?” I ask.

  Rachael rubs circles into my back like the devout mother-figure that she is and sighs. “Nope. I told him to get lost. And I told him never to come back here again.”

  I chuckle at the idea of five-foot-two Rachael giving strapping Isaiah the what for.

  “But before he left, he asked me to give you this.” Rach digs into her apron and retrieves a folded, faded piece of paper and hands it over.

  “I don’t want it,” I say, taking a step back.

  “Ritz…”

  “No, seriously. I’m done.” I shake my head, staring at a water-stained tile on the ceiling. “I don’t know why he thinks a letter is going to change anything. It’s not going to change the fact that he let me go first, Rach. He let me go first.”

  “I’ll hold onto it for you.” She offers a tepid smile. “In case you change your mind.”

  “We should probably head out there before we get fired,” I say. “How’s my mascara?”

  “You pass the raccoon eyes test.”

  I glance at my face in the mirror. My rosy cheeks and glassy eyes are a dead giveaway that I temporarily lost my cool, but a couple of deep breaths later, I’m somewhat more presentable.

  Stepping out into the hallway where Isaiah stood just minutes ago, I round the corner and watch out the window as he climbs into his vintage Porsche outside the café.

  A second later, he’s gone.

  Gone from my life just as quickly as he came into it.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Isaiah

  “Hey, Ma. Brought you some lunch,” I call out as I walk through her door. The doctors put her on this new medication while I was gone and she’s been less sleepy lately, spending most of her time in the living room and taking the occasional five or ten-minute walk around the apartment complex when she’s feeling up to it. “Got you the clams casino from Bertocelli’s.”

  It’s a step in the right direction, that’s for damn sure.

  “Isaiah,” Mom says. “We have company!”

  Placing the brown paper bag on her kitchen counter, I drop my keys beside it and turn to face her, only to find my brother, Ian, relaxing on her sofa.

  “Corporal.” Ian rises, coming at me with his right hand extended, and I glance at my mother to find her all smiles, as if she expects that we’ve suddenly made up after all these years. I shake his hand with terse hesitation, but he pulls me into a hug. “Been a long time. You’re looking good. Glad you made it home safe.”

  Bullshit.

  All of it.

  Ian’s the phoniest fucking bastard I’ve ever known, and I know him better than anyone.

  “Come on. Have a seat. We should catch up,” Ian says, waving me toward the living room. “Was just telling Mom about this girl I’ve been talking to.”

  Mom turns to me, her dark eyes lit. “She sounds perfect, Isaiah. Ian, tell your brother what you just told me.”

  Ian wears a shit-eating grin to go with his shit-brown belt and his shit-brown shoes and takes a seat in the center of the sofa beside our mother, taking her hands in his.

  “Well, she’s sweet and funny and kind,” he says. “And she’s got the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

  “What did you say her name was again?” Ma asks.

  “Maritza,” Ian says, directing his gaze to me as he answers. “Maritza Claiborne.”

  I’m going to fucking murder him.

  And now it makes sense … all those things she knew at the restaurant, she learned from him, and I’m two-hundred percent sure he painted me in the worst possible light because that’s what Ian does.

  It’s what he’s always done.

  We were never close.

  We were never brothers.

  We were always competitors—at least in his eyes.

  Everything I ever had, everything I ever worked my ass off for, Ian wanted.

  Everything.

  My fists clench at my sides and my jaw tightens. Ian is rambling on and on about how wonderful she is and my mother is lapping it up like a kitten to milk, telling him how she can’t wa
it to meet her and how she’s so happy he’s finally met someone special.

  “I’m going to introduce her to Benson soon,” he says, referring to his son—the son that was almost mine until my girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—dropped the ultimate bombshell on me at the last minute.

  “You know my birthday is in a couple of weeks,” Ma says, clapping her hands together. “Calista wants to throw a barbecue at some park by her house. You should bring her then!”

  “That’s the plan, Ma,” Ian says, the smug bastard’s gaze careening into mine.

  “Excuse me, boys. I’ll be right back.” Ma pushes herself up from her chair and makes her way to the bathroom down the hall.

  “I’m going to fucking kill you,” I say under my breath.

  Ian stands, adjusting his tie. He looks like a goddamn buffoon. Or a kid playing dress up in his father’s clothes. He’s nothing more than a snake oil salesman trying to project an image of success, but I see through it.

  I’ve always seen through everything he’s done over the years, like it’s some skill I’ve honed and practiced and fine-tuned.

  “Okay, so if you killed me … how many would that be? What’s your running total?” he asks.

  “Fuck you.”

  “What does it feel like to kill people you don’t even know? I’ve always wanted to know,” he says. “Do you ever feel bad about it? Do you ever feel like, hey, maybe I shouldn’t fight this war I have no business fighting and maybe I shouldn’t kill people if I don’t have the decency to fucking look them in the eyes when I do it.”

  “Go to hell.” My shoulders rise and fall with each hard breath and I clench my fist to keep from strangling the jackass. “You’re lucky Mom’s in the next room.”

  I step closer to him, until our faces are mere inches apart.

  “What exactly are you doing?” I ask. “With Maritza? What’s your plan here?”

  “I like her.”

  “Bullshit.” I shake my head, hands hooked on my hips.

  “I’m being the better man. Being the man you could never be,” he says. “She had no idea what a piece of shit you were until I told her.”

  “The fuck did you tell her?” I spit my words at him.

  “Nothing that isn’t true.” Ian tosses his hands in the air and wears a sneer that every part of me is seconds from ripping off his face.

  Pulling in a hard breath, I try to calm myself down before I do something stupid.

  But it doesn’t work.

  And within an instant, I’ve got his shirt collar and tie bunched in my right fist and his back is slammed against the living room wall. His face is turning red and he’s struggling to say something, his eyes wide and fearful.

  I’ve done some things in my life that I’m not proud of, but I’m a fucking saint compared to Ian …

  “Stop seeing her,” I say, letting him go and watching him slink down the wall like the pathetic slug he is.

  “Or what?” he asks.

  “Boys, what’s going on?” Ma’s voice disrupts this shit show and Ian adjusts his tie. “Please tell me you two aren’t fighting. You haven’t seen each other in so long and then I walk out for a few minutes and—”

  “It’s fine, Ma,” Ian says, offering a reassuring, fake-as-hell smile. “We’re good now, but I should get going. I’m taking Maritza out to dinner tonight.”

  His eyes settle on mine, a silent “fuck you,” and then he’s gone.

  If he so much as thinks about hurting her, he’s a dead man.

  Chapter Forty

  Maritza

  Pressing ‘save’ on my Word file, I close out of my research paper and email it to my professor. Heading out to the kitchen, I grab a drink of water and check the time. I’m supposed to get dinner with Ian tonight, who’s surprisingly becoming a good friend.

  He’s an amazing listener, extremely sympathetic for being a guy, and gives the best advice.

  And he’s normal.

  Just a nice, normal guy.

  No gimmicks, no shtick, just a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of person.

  Grabbing a bottled water from the fridge, I unscrew the cap and lift it to my lips, only to spill it down my shirt the second someone knocks on my door. It wouldn’t be Mel or Gram because they both have the code to the lock, and I’m not expecting company and even if I were, I never have people ring the buzzer at the gate because I don’t want to bother Gram so I usually have them text me when they’re here.

  Dabbing the wet splotches of my shirt with a dish towel, I get as much as I can before tiptoeing across the guesthouse toward the front entrance. Peering through the peephole, I squint until the face comes into focus.

  Myles.

  Exhaling, I debate pretending not to be home but quickly decide I’m a grown ass woman who doesn’t need to hide from anyone … and also my car is parked out front.

  “Myles, hey,” I say when I get the door. “Come on in.”

  “Hey.” There’s a sadness in his eyes that wasn’t there before, like a wistful longing when he looks at me.

  “What’s up?” I slide my hands down my back pockets and linger in the doorway next to him.

  “Was just visiting with my grandmother,” he says. “Thought I’d stop over and say hi. Haven’t seen you in a while …”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry. I’ve been swamped lately with school and work and everything,” I say. “How’ve you been?”

  “Good,” he says. “Was actually going to see if you wanted to go to the Art Con Awards with me next month. As my date.” He flashes a nervous grin that disappears in seconds. “You know, as friends.”

  “Myles …” I drag in a heavy breath, tilting my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m so sorry.”

  He wrings his hands before shoving his thick glasses up his nose. “I tried calling you a while back. You change your number or something?”

  “I did. Some psycho kept calling me from a blocked number,” I say.

  His gaze immediately falls to the floor and his lips press flat. “I see.”

  Oh my God.

  It was probably Myles.

  The buzzing of my phone in my pocket sends a quick startle to my heart, and I waste no time redirecting my attention.

  It’s Ian.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, pointing to my phone. “I have to take this. Good seeing you though. Congrats on the script option.”

  I get the door, giving him no time to protest or linger, and he leaves without making things more awkward than they already were. Next time I talk to Gram, I’ll have to tell her my suspicions. Maybe then she’ll finally stop wishing and hoping and praying there’s a chance.

  “Ian, what’s up?” I answer.

  “Hey, I’m so sorry,” he says, the sound of traffic fills the background. He must be driving. “I’m going to have to cancel dinner. My mom had a fall this afternoon and she’s in the hospital. I’m on my way to see her right now.”

  “Oh my God. Is she okay?”

  He hesitates. “I don’t know. Doctors are trying to figure out why she fell. She said she blacked out, but that’s all we really know right now.”

  Ian’s voice breaks a little and the seriousness in his tone breaks my heart. Just last week he was going on and on about how amazing his mother is and all the things she did for him and his siblings before she got sick.

  “I want to be there for you,” I say. “Which hospital is she at?”

  “Maritza, you don’t have to do that.”

  “Ian, we’re friends. That’s what friends do. Let me be there for you. If there’s anything your family needs, I’ll be the gopher. If anyone needs a babysitter or someone to entertain the kids or something, I can be that person.”

  He hesitates at first and for a moment I wonder if I’ve overstepped some boundary I never knew was there, like when I sent Isaiah the giant care package.

  “You’re incredible,” he says. “That would be amazing. Thank you. She’s at Good Samaritan on Wilshire.”

 
“Perfect. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Isaiah

  Calista checks her phone before shoving it in her pocket. “Ian’s on his way.”

  Reaching for Mom’s hand, I shrug. “So? I’m not leaving.”

  She lifts her hands. “Wasn’t saying you should. Just thought you’d want to know. He’s in the building. Just texted me for Mom’s room number, so he’ll be here any second.”

  Mom is sound asleep in her hospital bed at Good Samaritan, monitors beeping as the scent of bleached bedding and antibacterial soap fills the air around us. In the corner, my other sisters, Layla and Raya, talk amongst themselves. My older brother, Marco, is down the hall chatting up one of the nurses, though he claimed he was just going to get an update.

  Guess the gang’s all here.

  “When are you two going to bury the hatchet?” Calista asks. “Hasn’t it been long enough?”

  I shoot her a look.

  Forever would never be long enough.

  “Hey,” Calista says a minute later, peering across the room where the man of the fucking hour stands in the doorway, looking like he’s about to shed a tear or something.

  I don’t buy it.

  If he truly cared about our mother, he would’ve taken care of her when I was gone instead of running around knocking up other people’s girlfriends.

  “Hey, Cal.” Ian strides across the room, ignoring me as he heads toward Calista and gives her a side hug. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s stable,” Calista says. “Just resting right now. They’re waiting on some labs. Thinking maybe her meds interacted or something, but we won’t know for sure until we get the results.”