P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  “You were my best friend this summer,” she says, her voice softer, quieter. “I told you more than I’ve ever told anyone before. I was myself with you, unfiltered, unedited. For whatever it’s worth, I just wanted you to know that.”

  “Likewise.”

  “It’s too bad we can’t be friends.” Halston leans back in my leather chair, her hands resting on her stomach. “But I understand. I don’t want to jeopardize your career or anything. Just miss talking to you, is all.”

  “I miss talking to you too.”

  Her eyelids flutter, and she flashes a sleepy smile. Rising, I grab a pillow and blanket from a hall closet and make the sofa into a bed. I’d let her have the guestroom, but having that extra floor between us feels safer tonight.

  “Here,” I help her to the sofa, keeping back as she makes herself comfortable.

  Spreading the covers over her body, she reaches toward me, her hand resting on mine. “Thank you. If you didn’t answer your door tonight, I was probably going to sleep at the park.”

  She says it like it’s no big deal, like she’s done it hundreds of times before.

  “You’re fearless,” I say. “That’s not always a good thing.”

  Halston lets her hand fall from mine before rolling to her side. “I know.”

  Within seconds, she’s out, and I switch off the lamp beside her.

  Every time I closed my eyes this week, I saw her. Every waking moment of every hour of every day, I thought of her. And now that she’s here, in my house, it takes everything I have to walk away, when all I want to do is stay all night by her side, devouring books, reading our favorite lines to each other until we give in to the inevitable.

  But the inevitable can’t happen.

  I won’t allow it.

  She’s gone before the sun comes up, her blanket neatly folded at the end of the sofa and a scribbled note left on the coffee table.

  Kerouac,

  You’re a good man, maybe even the best one I’ve ever known.

  xoxo—

  Absinthe

  PS – “I love sleep. My life has a tendency to fall apart when I’m awake, you know?” – Ernest Hemingway

  PPS – Those are friendly and “appropriate” x’s and o’s.

  I fold the paper in half and press it between the pages of Philip Roth’s Goodbye, Columbus.

  If things were different, she could be mine.

  And we could be happy.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Halston

  My heart pounds in my ears as I head to Chem II. I’ve been dreading fourth block all day, knowing I’ll have to spend ninety minutes next to Thane Bennett, asshole extraordinaire.

  He tried calling me Saturday. Texted me Sunday.

  I ignored him the entire weekend.

  Walking into class, I feel his eyes on me. I’m seconds from asking Caldwell for a new lab partner when a substitute takes the desk up front.

  Shit.

  Finding my seat, I fish my pen and notebook from my bag and face forward.

  “So you’re just going to keep ignoring me?” Thane breaks the silence with a stupid question.

  “Mm-hm.”

  “I’m sorry. I screwed up,” he whispers, leaning close. His cologne invades my space, but I secretly like the scent so I don’t say anything. “I like you. And I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait as long as you want.”

  His hand reaches under the desk, his fingers interlacing with mine.

  “Think about it at least?” he asks.

  The sub writes her name on the whiteboard up front, and I focus on the red ink and her terrible handwriting. Thane leaves me alone for the next forty-five minutes, but when the mid-block bell rings and the sub tells us to take five, he follows me out to the hall.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, stopping short outside the classroom.

  “I thought we could talk for a minute.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” My arms fold.

  His hand drags along his jaw, and he wears a sad, pathetic expression which unfortunately almost makes me feel sorry for him.

  “I spent all weekend thinking about how I screwed up,” he says. “I stayed home. I didn’t go out. I just lay around, thinking about you.”

  “Sounds like you wasted a perfectly good weekend.”

  “I’m serious, Halston. Give me another chance and I won’t screw it up this time.”

  My lips part, and I’m seconds from giving him a resounding “no” when Kerouac comes around the corner.

  “Is this student bothering you, Miss Kessler?” he asks, jaw flexing.

  Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. “We’re just talking.”

  He glares at Thane, sizing him up and looking down his nose. I didn’t give him any details Friday night other than telling him Thane wanted to fuck me, but clearly that rubbed Kerouac the wrong way.

  “Okay. You can go now,” I say, shooing him away.

  His head cocks, eyes narrowing in my direction this time. “Miss Kessler, I’m your principal, and you will speak to me with respect in my school.”

  My brows lift. I can’t tell if he’s joking, so I laugh until his jaw flexes and his nostrils flare.

  The halls empty just as the tardy bell rings.

  “We should get back,” Thane says, reaching for my hand.

  “I need a word with Miss Kessler,” Kerouac’s voice is stern yet impossibly sexy. I wonder if he has any idea how badly he’s turning me on right now?

  As soon as Thane’s out of earshot, I whisper, “It’s really hard to take you seriously when you talk to me like that.”

  “Talk to you like what? The way I’d speak to any other student in this school?” he asks. “I really hope you’re not expecting preferential treatment.”

  “I’ve learned never to expect anything from anyone,” I say.

  His expression softens. “Was he bothering you?”

  “No. He was actually apologizing.”

  Kerouac’s face hardens, like it’s a bad thing Thane apologized. “Just be careful.”

  “Thanks, daaaad,” I say in a slow, schmoopy voice.

  “And don’t call me that. I’m not nearly old enough to be your father.” He releases a heavy breath like I frustrate him. “The emotional health and welfare of my students is one of my top priorities as an administrator.”

  “So you’re invested in every relationship in Rosefield High? Ensuring nobody gets hurt and everyone lives happily ever after?”

  Sara Bliss, Rosefield’s notoriously ditzy art teacher, passes us in the hall, smiling when she sees Kerouac and nearly tripping over her faded Birkenstocks.

  “Get back to class, Miss Kessler,” he says, watching with folded arms as I walk away.

  He cares about me.

  And he likes me.

  He won’t admit it—not even to himself.

  But I know.

  “Before I forget,” Uncle Vic says at dinner that night, “I ran into Ford Hawthorne earlier. Invited him over for dinner this Friday.”

  I almost choke on my mashed potatoes before reaching for my glass of water.

  “Wonderful! I’d love to finally meet him. Bree talks about him so much, I feel like I already know him, but I’ve been dying to put a face with that name.” Aunt Tab flitters about. She’ll do just about anything for a chance to play hostess.

  “I have a date that night,” I say.

  Bree’s attention lands on me, though she says nothing.

  “You’re still seeing that Bennett boy?” Tab asks. “He seems very nice. We’d love to meet him sometime. You should bring him over for dinner! You could eat here and then afterwards, have your little date.”

  I mean, I hadn’t decided if I was going to forgive him yet, but I’m not in the mood to explain the intricacies of the past week to my aunt and uncle over a plate of quiche Lorraine.

  “That’s a great idea.” Vic nods. “Bree, you’re awfully quiet over there.”

  “I have a headache. May I please
be excused?” she asks, monotone.

  “Of course, darling.” Tab places her hand over Bree’s.

  I’m finished as well, so I excuse myself, only by the time I round the corner by the front door, Bree’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed.

  “I saw you come home Saturday morning,” she says, lips puckered like the asshole she is.

  “So?”

  “You weren’t walking from Emily’s house. You were coming from a different direction.”

  “And your point?”

  Bree huffs. “You lied about where you were that night.”

  “You lie about shit all the time.” I point at her chest. “Your entire fucking bra situation is a lie.”

  She covers her chest, jaw hanging, and I push past her, heading up to my room, but she follows.

  “I’m going to find out what you’re up to.”

  “Is that a threat?” I ask, keeping my voice down. “Because you don’t want to go there with me.” Stepping back, I smirk. “Wait, this is about Thane. You’re jealous.”

  Duh.

  “No, I’m not,” she says, chin tilted up.

  “You are so jealous.” Chuckling, I shake my head. “Doesn’t quite make up for the money you stole from me, but it’s somewhat vindicating.”

  “I stopped liking Thane years ago, when he dated one of my best friends. We don’t double dip in my group.” Her nose lifts in the air.

  “Best Friend? As in one of those girls you follow around like a lost puppy because you don’t actually have any real friends because you’re a boring little poser that nobody wants to hang out with?”

  “I have friends,” she says, her words staccato and brusque, like she’s trying to convince herself as well.

  “How come you don’t ever hang out with them outside the cafeteria? Why aren’t they blowing up your phone on the weekends?”

  Her eyes water and her slender lips quiver. For a sliver of a second, I see Bree as a human being with feelings and not a humanoid Stepford daughter with a heart as black as coal.

  “You’re such a bitch,” she says, wiping tears with the back of her hand. “I hate you.”

  “For once we have something in common.”

  “I wish you would just leave!” Bree runs to her room, slamming the door.

  I don’t get the chance to tell her that the money she stole would’ve helped with allowing me to leave at will, but that’s neither here nor there.

  Ambling toward my room, I lock the door behind me and yank my phone off the charger.

  I miss talking to Kerouac.

  On a whim, I reinstall the Karma app and unblock him just to see if he’s still around. Lo and behold, his profile is still there and the app tells me he hasn’t been active in four weeks … since we last spoke on the phone.

  Settling into my bed, I compose a message:

  To: Kerouac@karma.com

  From: Absinthe@karma.com

  Subject: Oh, you.

  Time: 6:35 PM

  Message: Uncle Vic says he invited you to dinner on Friday. My aunt then suggested that we make it a thing and I bring Thane because everyone’s under the impression we’re still dating. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Guess I thought maybe you’d get a kick out of it. I know you don’t like him, and now you get to sit across from us at supper later this week while we hold hands and play footsy. Just kidding. I don’t do that shit. But don’t think I won’t be eye-fucking you every chance I get. Okay, kidding about that too. Kind of. You know I like to tease. Anyway. I don’t even know if you still get push notifications from this stupid app. For all I know I’m talking to dead air.

  To: Absinthe@karma.com

  From: Kerouac@karma.com

  Subject: Re: Oh, you.

  Time: 6:38 PM

  Message: I really don’t like that guy.

  I laugh out loud, my stomach fluttering when I read his email.

  To: Kerouac@karma.com

  From: Absinthe@karma.com

  Subject: Re: re: Oh, you.

  Time: 6:41 PM

  Message: I know you don’t. I don’t either. I’m just using him to piss Bree off. No intentions of screwing him if that makes you feel better. Boys use girls for worse things than that all the time, so I figure it’s okay.

  To: Absinthe@karma.com

  From: Kerouac@karma.com

  Subject: Re: re: re: Oh, you.

  Time: 6:43 PM

  Message: You’re better than that. Not sure why you’re wasting your time.

  To: Kerouac@karma.com

  From: Absinthe@karma.com

  Subject: Re: re: re: re: Oh, you.

  Time: 6:45 PM

  Message: Is there a reason your responses are only one or two sentences? You know this app is 100% anonymous. There’s no way our conversations could ever be traced back to us.

  To: Absinthe@karma.com

  From: Kerouac@karma.com

  Subject: Re: re: re: re: re: Oh, you.

  Time: 6:46 PM

  Message: Well aware. But we shouldn’t be conversing at all.

  To: Kerouac@karma.com

  From: Absinthe@karma.com

  Subject: Re: re: re: re: re: re: Oh, you.

  Time: 6:47 PM

  Message: Then stop responding!

  I bite my thumbnail, my lips overtaken by a mile-wide grin as I await his response.

  But it never comes.

  It’s all right. I got my Kerouac fix for tonight.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ford

  “You have something … right here.” I point to my mouth, then to Sara Bliss’ as we eat lunch in the faculty lounge.

  She giggles, dabbing her fuchsia lips with a napkin. I didn’t invite her to sit with me, but we were the only two in here eating lunch at two thirty in the afternoon, and it would’ve been weird to sit at different tables.

  “What do you think of the school so far?” she asks, dragging her fork around the mushy frozen entrée she’s picking at. There’s a smudge of something on her hands, chalk or pastels or paint perhaps. “Liking it?”

  “I am.” I uncap my water, glancing at the clock. In twenty-five minutes, the final bell will ring. I haven’t seen Halston all day, our paths taking us in different directions apparently.

  The silence between us is awkward and stifling, and I still have half a sandwich left to finish.

  “Read any good books lately?” I ask a minute later.

  Sara smiles, eyes crinkling as she quickly chews her bite. “Not much of a reader. Sorry.”

  If I were a lonely man, looking for a companion and some decent sex on a regular basis, I could easily bag Sara Bliss. She’s a free-spirited twenty-something art teacher who probably keeps a cluttered house and doesn’t own a watch or a calendar. She’s attractive in a Tinkerbell sort of way, pixie-sized and fine-featured. But she’s boring. She doesn’t read. Keeps her opinions to herself. Smiles way too fucking much.

  And she’s not Halston.

  Sara finishes her meal, which smelled way better than it looked, and washes her hands in the sink. “Oh! I was going to ask you if you wanted to chaperone the homecoming dance next weekend? I was supposed to do it with Connie Seltzer but she threw out her back, so I need a replacement. If you don’t want to, no worries.”

  Running my lips together, I consider it for a moment, weighing my options. Chances are Halston’s going with Thane, at least if her intention truly is to make her cousin jealous. And if that’s the case, I should be there to make sure he keeps his hands off her.

  “Just get back to me by tomorrow or something if you want to think about it.” Sara gives a nervous titter before heading for the door.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Really?” Her expression is lit. “Awesome. It’ll be fun. You’ll like it.”

  I doubt I’ll like it.

  I’m just going for the peace of mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Halston

  Kerouac sits across from me, with Bree o
n his left. She’s in heaven right now, finding it impossible to remove that shit-eating grin off her face. I’m sure in her warped little mind, she’s pretending he’s there with her. That they’re together.

  But whatever.

  She won’t look at Thane.

  It’s like she couldn’t care less that he’s there, which is truly bizarre. I’d been thinking about this moment all day, practically reveling in how good it was going to feel to shove Thane in her face. Maybe she is over him?

  Kerouac and Uncle Vic do most of the talking, Aunt Tab nodding and “mm, hm-ing” every so often between running back and forth to the kitchen to bring out the next course.

  By the time we finish dessert, my aunt’s famous crème brulee, the buttons on my jeans are threatening to pop, and I’m wondering if anyone would notice if I disappeared for a little while and changed into something else.

  “This was amazing, Mrs. Abbott. Thank you.” Thane pats his washboard abs. “Mr. Abbott, thank you for having me.”

  “You’re so welcome, sweetheart,” she says, smiling with every feature on her face. “Ford, was everything okay?”

  “Absolutely. Can’t remember the last time I ate like this,” he says, gaze resting on mine. My mind goes to a dark and dirty gutter for a half of a second, picturing his tongue between my thighs as he devours me.

  Thane threads his hand through mine, standing and pulling me up. “Our movie starts in a half hour. We should probably head out.”

  I follow Thane to the foyer, leaning against the stair rail as he slips his shoes on, and when he’s finished, he rises, strutting toward me and resting his hands on my hips.

  “I’m so glad you decided to give me another chance,” he whispers before his mouth grazes mine. He cups my cheek, pressing his lips harder onto mine before slipping me the tongue. I close my eyes, pretending it’s not Thane I’m kissing in this moment.