P.S. I Hate You
Page 28
“All right.” I rise, taking my dish to the sink and rinsing it out. “Once upon a time, there was a king and queen who ruled a kingdom. The kingdom was known for pioneering wind energy, which I don’t expect you to know anything about, but just know that it was a very wealthy and very successful kingdom. The king and queen had a prince and princess, and they were living happily ever after until the queen got sick. The king didn’t want to lose his beloved queen, so he hired one of the best nurses in the kingdom to take care of her day in and day out so she would never be alone and never be in pain. Months and months passed, then years. The queen was still sick, unable to get out of bed most days. The king became lonely and sad. The nurse and the king began a friendship because the king was so lonely, and when the queen eventually passed away, the king married the nurse, making her his new queen and her son a new prince.”
Arlo yawns. I think I’m losing him. I should’ve told the story in the context of Transformers using Autobots and Decepticons.
“Anyway, the new queen didn’t like the first prince and princess. She sent them away to school while she ruled the kingdom with her son and her king by her side. Eventually, the king got very ill and passed away, and the evil queen and her evil son inherited the entire kingdom, banishing the prince and princess forever. The end.”
My nephew’s nose wrinkles. “That’s it?”
“Pretty intense, right?”
“I guess.”
“Were you even paying attention?” I ask.
“You lost me at ‘princess.’”
The doorbell chimes. Bree. And I go to let her in.
“Good morning, Principal Hawthorne.” Her hands clasp together in front of her hips, her arms pressing against her flat chest. She wears yet another low-cut top, and skintight shorts hug her non-existent curves. A hint of pink gloss covers her thin lips, and she can’t stop grinning in my presence.
She’s crushing. Hard.
Happened all the time back in New York. I guess I have that effect on young ladies. Good thing I couldn’t care less.
“Thanks for coming, Bree.” I point down the hall, toward the kitchen. “Arlo’s finishing up his breakfast.”
She follows me, walking too close for comfort, and when I stop in the kitchen, she nearly bumps into me.
“Sorry.” She giggles, brushing hair out of her face. “Oh, my goodness. You must be Arlo. Look at you! You’re the cutest little thing.”
Her voice is whiny as she gushes, and I can tell Arlo’s getting annoyed.
“I’ll be back in a few hours, buddy,” I say. “We’ll go see that new Minions movie this afternoon, okay? Extra butter on the popcorn. I won’t tell your mom if you won’t?”
Arlo grins, marshmallows stuck in his teeth, and I grab my keys from the counter.
“Numbers are on the fridge,” I say. “Feel free to play outside, just stick around here, okay?”
“Yes, Principal Hawthorne.” She takes a seat next to Arlo, giving me a dainty wave. I almost tell her the formal addressment isn’t necessary in my home, but I don’t want to give her the wrong impression.
“Be good, bud.” I tap Arlo on the shoulder as I pass, exiting through the back door and heading to my car.
A moment later, I’m backing out of the driveway, and I happen to catch Bree peeking out from behind a curtain in the living room window, watching me leave.
Shuddering, I shake my head.
I’m going to have to keep a close eye on that one.
Chapter Twelve
Halston
From: Absinthe@karma.com
To: Kerouac@karma.com
Subject: Re: re: re: Where for art thou?
Time: 9:05 AM
Message: Tell me it gets better than this.
From: Absinthe@karma.com
To: Kerouac@karma.com
Subject: Re: re: re: re: Where for art thou?
Time: 9:08 AM
Message: Oh. You probably need context. I’m feeling sorry for myself because I hate my job. And I miss having you at my instant disposal. Some guy hit on me at work yesterday, and then he tried to follow me to the bus station. I told him off. Now I’m worried I’m going to get fired. It happened outside of work, but he could still complain to my boss. Going to be a long week for me, Kerouac.
From: Kerouac@karma.com
To: Absinthe@karma.com
Subject: Re: re: re: re: re: Where for art thou?
Time: 9:16 AM
Message: I wish I could tell you it gets better, but I don’t think it ever does. Most men are assholes who will break your heart when they’re not fucking your brains out (present company unfortunately not excluded). Most jobs will steal your soul if you’re not careful. And love is only temporary, at least it has been in my experience. But you weren’t asking about love, were you? I digress. Keep your chin up, Absinthe. Have yourself a glass of wine, a hot bath, and a good, old-fashioned orgasm when you get home tonight (make sure you’re thinking about me). I promise you’ll feel better.
From: Absinthe@karma.com
To: Kerouac@karma.com
Subject: Kerouac sucks. The author. Not you.
Time: 9:20 AM
Message: I changed the subject line. It was getting annoying. But thank you for enlightening me. And for not making me wait too long for another Kerouac fix. What are you doing today? What do normal families do together? I wouldn’t know. Story for another time, as you would say.
From: Kerouac@karma.com
To: Absinthe@karma.com
Subject: Re: Kerouac sucks. The author. Not you.
Time: 9:24 AM
Message: I’m at the gym right now, running on the treadmill. If I fall off and bust my lip, I’m blaming you. Not sure what we’re doing today. And not sure what your definition of a “normal” family consists of, but I doubt that entails having your sister pretend to be your wife to fend off stage five clingers. Yeah, that happened. I’m not proud. But it worked.
I smirk, laughing through my nose.
I like him.
Leaning against my headboard, I forget the fact that he might be some Quasimodo basement dweller who uses a stock photo and I imagine him at the gym, his shirtless runner’s body, his shorts slung low on his hips. Women passing by, checking him out. Him smiling at them …
The fact that he’s a real person living a real life outside of this weird little bubble we’ve created is something I haven’t given much thought to, until now.
Kerouac is real. Kerouac exists. And we’ll never have more than what we have right now.
I picture him with another woman for reasons I can’t explain. Someone else will know what it feels like to touch him, to feel him. But it will never be me.
Heat blooms through me. My stomach turns.
Is this … is this what jealousy feels like?
“I never see you anymore.” Emily lies on her bed that night, her head in her hands as I flip through a stale issue of Seventeen on her floor.
“Trust me, I wish I didn’t have to work, but I need a car.” I turn the page to an article on clearing up acne using all natural remedies.
My feet hurt from working all day, and my hair smells like mozzarella sticks and fried pickles, but I didn’t feel like hanging out at home after dinner tonight, so I came over here to bother Emily.
“You going to tell me where you’re working?” Emily asks.
I wince. “It’s not that exciting. Just a seedy bar and grill kind of place.”
“What’s it called?” Her eyes widen. “You can trust me. I’m not going to tell anyone.”
And it’s true. She wouldn’t tell anyone because I’m her only friend and she doesn’t want to jeopardize that.
“Big Boulders,” I say, exhaling.
Her jaw falls. She says nothing. Doesn’t even blink.
“Come on.” I toss the magazine aside. It bores me. “You act like I just told you I became a stripper or something.”
“Do you have to wear those little skimpy outfits?”
“How do you know about those little skimpy outfits?” I cock a brow.
“I might be a little sheltered, but I know what places like that are like.” She seems offended by my question. “Do they know you’re in high school?”
“What they won’t know won’t hurt them, right?” I chuckle. “They didn’t ask. They just made me check a box saying I was over eighteen and then prove it with a copy of my social security card.”
It probably helped that I don’t look like I’m in high school. Growing up, I’ve always been mature for my age, both physically and mentally. I got my period in third grade and by fourth grade I was filling out a full C-cup. By sixth grade I was the tallest girl in my class and by junior high, at least when I was attending, I’d catch teachers checking me out when they thought I wasn’t looking.
I’d have reported them, but school lunch was my only hot meal of the day, and I didn’t want to risk being accused of making shit up for attention, which is what the administration liked to say anytime a student pointed out an issue.
“Do you like it?” Emily asks. “Working there?”
“Hate it.” I exhale, brushing hair out of my eyes. “I’m treated like a piece of meat.”
Something I should be used to by now.
“I get hit on at least once every shift. I’ve seen men purposely spill their drinks on other servers to try to see through their shirts. Last shift, someone grabbed my friend’s ass.” I shake my head. It makes me sick to think about going back there. “But the money’s good.”
Chapter Thirteen
Ford
Bree and Arlo are working on a jigsaw puzzle at the kitchen table when I get home.
“Oh, hey, Principal Hawthorne.” Bree lights. “Found this in one of your closets. Hope that’s okay.”
“It’s fine.” It’s a thousand-piece puzzle of a lighthouse, a white elephant gift from many Christmas parties ago. Forgot I even had it.
“Arlo was an angel today,” she says, rising and slipping her hands into the back pockets of her shorts, pressing her chest forward. I keep my eyes on hers. “I was going to tell you, I was junior class president last year, and I know all the ins and outs at Rosefield. I know pretty much everyone too. If you ever need anyone on the inside, I’m your girl.”
“Thank you, Bree.”
“I do cheerleading in the fall,” she continues. “For football. And also in the winter. For basketball. I’m in madrigal choir and art club, too. Dad says it’s good to stay busy. Looks good on college applications.”
“It’s true.”
“Dad wants me to go to Northwestern next year,” she says. “His alma mater.”
“Good school.”
“Where’d you go?” she asks, lashes batting.
“Rutgers,” I say, swallowing the hard ball in my throat.
“Never heard of it.” She shrugs. “I’m sure it was a good school though. Oh, hey. I was going to tell you, I think I want to go into higher education administration, like you and my dad. Would it be okay if you mentored me for a bit? I’d stay out of the way. I just want to maybe shadow you for a while? See if it’s really the job for me?”
“Of course.” Like I can say ‘no’ to my boss’ daughter.
Her mouth pulls wide at the corners. “Really? Thank you so much!”
Retrieving some cash from my wallet, I pay her for her time and walk her to the door before she squeezes any more favors out of me.
Chapter Fourteen
Halston
“About damn time. Guys, Halston is here!” Courtney loops her arm around my shoulders and pulls me into her apartment in downtown Rosefield Friday night. Vic and Tab think I’m sleeping over at Emily’s tonight, and she’s covering for me. I should be in the clear. “Look at you!”
She points at my outfit, a skimpy tank top and short shorts I wore underneath my other outfit, changing in the bathroom of a nearby gas station on my way over. I shoved my other clothes in my bag, touched up my makeup, changed into some heels, and trekked over to the Mayflower Apartments on Hillside Drive.
Courtney’s place is nice—which I guess she can afford since she “makes the big bucks” at Big Boulders. It’s a two-bedroom on the ground level overlooking the complex’s sparkling pool, and everything is new. The carpet. The cabinets. The building itself.
“Guys, this is Halston.” Courtney leans on me, her words slurring. “She works with me.”
About twenty unfamiliar faces fill the place, but I don’t let it rattle me.
When Court gets distracted by the newest guest, I head to the kitchen, rummaging through the bottles on the counter.
“I can make you a drink.” I glance up. A tall drink of water with sandy brown hair and pale brown eyes stands on the other side of the granite island.
“I’m good.” I force a smile. He looks at me the way the customers at Big Boulders do, like I’m on display for their personal enjoyment.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” he asks.
I study his face. “Should I?”
“I work at Big Boulders. I’m the weekend bartender.” He starts clearing out the empty bottles and cans, tossing them in Courtney’s trash. “I’m always coming when you’re going. You’ve probably never noticed me before.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I haven’t. I’m sorry.”
We both reach for a bottle at the same time, an open bottle of whiskey.
“You can have it,” he says, turning to grab me a red plastic cup. “Would probably taste better with Coke. That’s the cheap stuff. It’s going to burn going down. And you want ice. This has been sitting out for hours.”
“You’re the expert.”
“Just let me.” Within thirty seconds, the tall drink of water mixes my drink and hands it over. I take a small sip, a trick I learned years ago. If you drink too much at one time, it could make you sick or send you into a coughing fit. “You like it?”
I nod. “Not bad … what’s your name? I’m sorry.”
“Gage,” he says. “And you’re Halston. Is it weird that I know that?”
“Yeah.” I take another sip, fighting my smile. He’s cute. But I’m not in the market for trouble. “Kind of.”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I just heard them talking about you, that’s all. You don’t forget a name like that. Or those green eyes.”
“Talking about me?” I ignore his flattery. “Hope it was juicy, whatever they were saying.”
Gage laughs. “It was nothing bad. They were just saying that you could be very good for business and they hope you didn’t quit.”
“Good for business …”
“Look, sometimes we scrape the bottom of the barrel when it comes to servers,” he says. “Not a lot of, uh, beautiful women, aspire to work at Big Boulders. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but, like, you’re one of the prettiest ones we’ve had in a long time.”
I take a bigger drink this time, willing myself not to cough. “Can you please stop saying I’m pretty?”
His expression falls. “I’m sorry. I thought girls liked to hear that kind of thing.”
“Let’s cut the bullshit, all right? You want to fuck me tonight,” I say. “And it’s not going to happen.”
Gage freezes, saying nothing for a second. I’ve sucked the words right out of his mouth, but that’s the only thing I’ll be sucking tonight.
“Look, you’re cute. And you’re nice. But you’re still not getting laid,” I say. “What kind of girl would I be if I gave it up to the first guy who approached me?”
He’s still silent, but at least he’s blinking.
“I’m on the money, aren’t I?” I laugh, eyes scanning the room, and I find myself wondering what Kerouac’s up to tonight.
The alcohol turns warm in my veins and suddenly my cares drift away on a cloud of nothingness.
Gage mutters something under his breath before shaking his head and walking away. I don’t ‘do’ the nice ones anyway. I have standards, damn it.
Congratulations! You’ve reached thirty Karma points! You may now communicate with Kerouac using our Karma-issued phone numbers! Press here to make your first call!
My heart pounds in my ears, whooshing and rushing the way it does when I’m about to do something I know I shouldn’t be doing. With heated skin and wicked intentions, I push my way through the partygoers and end up on the patio outside. The air is chilly for an evening in July, but I’m too distracted by what I’m about to do to care.
Pressing the flashing green button, I take a seat when the line begins to ring.
I cross my legs, ankle bouncing as I bite my thumbnail.
“Hello?”
Holy shit he sounds hot.
“Kerouac,” I say, my voice low and breathy.
He’s quiet.
“Absinthe.”
“Hi.” I chuckle. This is weird.
“Hey. What are you doing?”
I check the time. It’s almost ten o’clock. “Hope it’s okay I’m calling so late.”
“It’s fine. I’m in bed.”
“On a Friday night?” I ask.
“Family’s still in town,” he says.
“And if they weren’t, where would you be tonight?” I ask.
“I feel like you’re looking for an exciting answer, but I don’t have one for you.” Kerouac sighs. “I just moved to a new place. Don’t really know anyone yet. I’d probably be drinking a glass of Macallan 18, enjoying the fuck out of a Cuban cigar, and reading James Joyce.”
“Sounds magical.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m not.” I sit up, chin resting on my hand. I could listen to him talk forever, his voice worldly, experienced, confident. It’s deep but not too deep, relaxed yet cadenced. “It’s exactly the kind of answer I hoped you were going to give.”