P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  Standing outside Nick Camden’s Studio City bungalow, I straighten my shoulders, smooth my blonde waves into place, and reach for the doorbell. The heavy thump of my heart suggests it’s going to fall to the floor the second he opens the door—but I’m hopeful the butterflies in my stomach will catch it first.

  He has this effect on me. Every. Single. Time. And that’s saying something because it takes a lot to make me nervous, to throw me off my game. But my crush on him has only intensified over the years, growing stronger with each unrequited year that passes.

  Last night, out of nowhere, Nick called me—which was strange because Nick never calls. He only ever texts. He’s so against calling, in fact, that he has his ringer permanently set to “off’ and his voicemail box has been full for the last six years.

  “Mel, I need to talk to you tomorrow,” he’d said, breathless almost. There was a hint of a smile in his tone, giddiness. “It’s really important.”

  “Nick, you’re scaring me,” I told him, half wondering if someone slipped something into his drink and he was high on something. “What’s this about?”

  “I have to tell you in person. And I have something to ask you, something crazy important,” he said. “Oh, my god. This is insane. I’m so fucking nervous, Mel. But as soon as you get here tomorrow, I’ll tell you. I’ve been wanting to tell you about this for a long time, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t until now. But now I can. And I can’t fucking wait. This is huge, Mel. This is … oh, God.”

  “Nick …” I paced my bedroom floor, my left palm clasped across my forehead. In nearly two decades of friendship, I’d never heard Nick so worked up before. “Why can’t you just tell me now?”

  “Come over tomorrow. Around three,” he’d said. “This is something that has to be done in person.”

  I ring his doorbell again before checking the time on my phone. Stifling a yawn, I rise on my toes and try to peek inside the glass sidelights of his front door. Knowing Nick, he probably got side-tracked for ran out for burritos and got caught up in conversation with someone he knows.

  Then again … he was pretty insistent about talking to me in person at three o’clock about this “major” thing.

  All night, I tossed and turned, trying to wrap my head around what this could possibly be, how I could know someone for so long and fail miserably trying to get a read on them.

  Growing up Nick lived next door and the two of us were inseparable from the day he first moved into the neighborhood and I found him by the creek trying to catch bullfrogs—which I promptly forced him to set free. By the end of the day, we both realized our bedroom windows aligned perfectly on the second floors of our houses, and by the end of the week, he gave me a walkie-talkie and told me I was his best friend. When we were ten, he gave me a friendship necklace—like the kind girls usually give to other girls. He gave me the half that said “best” and wore the “friend” half but always tucked under his shirt so no one would give him any shit—not that anyone would. Everyone loved Nick.

  It wasn’t until the summer after seventh grade that Nick hit a growth spurt and everything changed. His voice got deeper. His legs got longer. Even his features became more chiseled and defined. It was like he aged several years over the course of a couple of months, and I found myself looking at him in ways I never had before. When I closed my eyes at night, I found myself thinking about what it’d be like if he kissed me.

  Suddenly I couldn’t look at him without blushing or getting all fidgety, and it was as if it’d happened overnight.

  I’d gone from running next door with a messy pony tail to see if he wanted to ride bikes … to slicking on an extra coat of Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers and running a brush through my hair any time I knew I was going to see him.

  It was just a little crush …

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one who noticed Nick’s head-turning transformation.

  Nick’s door swings open and I don’t have time to realize what’s happening before he sweeps me into his arms and swings me around his front porch.

  “Mel!” He buries his face into my shoulder, squeezing me so hard I can’t breathe, nearly suffocating the swarm of butterflies in my middle.

  He smells like … Nick. Like stale bar smoke and cheap fabric softener and Irish Spring soap. Growing up in Brentwood, the son of a successful screenwriter and music executive, Nick could’ve had it all—materially and professionally. But all he ever wanted was to be a regular guy who got by on merit and I adored that about him.

  “Look at you,” he says when he puts me down. His hands are threaded in mine as his deep blue gaze scan me from head to toe. “I haven’t seen you in months.”

  Three months, two weeks, and five days—but who’s counting?

  The last time we hung out was on my birthday, and there were so many people at the bar, I barely had a chance to say more than two sentences to him. We’d made plans to get together the following weekend, but his band booked a gig in Vegas and I was leaving to film a Lifetime movie in Vancouver the day before he was coming back.

  Life’s been consistent that way, always pulling us in separate directions, but it never fails. We always pick up right where we left off, like no time had passed.

  “You find the place all right?” he asks as he leads me inside. The scent of Windex and clean laundry fills my lungs and a folded blanket rests over the back of a leather chair in the living room.

  I chuckle at the thought of Nick tidying up before I got here. He was always a slob growing up.

  “I did,” I say, glancing around his new digs. Last time I saw him, he was living in some apartment with four roommates in Toluca Lake. The time before that he was shacking up with a fuck buddy, but that was short lived because the girl ultimately wanted exclusivity and that’s something Nick’s never been able to offer anyone—that I know of. “When did you move here?”

  “Last month,” he says. “I’m subletting from my drummer’s cousin.”

  The sound of pots and pans clinking in the kitchen tells me we’re not alone, but I’m not surprised. Nick has always had roommates. He’s painfully extroverted. Guy can’t stand to be alone for more than five minutes but not in the clingy, obnoxious sort of way. More in the charismatic, life of the party, always down for a good time sort of way.

  I follow Nick to the living room and he points to the middle cushion of a cognac leather sofa before slicking his palms together and pacing the small space.

  “Nick.” I laugh. “You’re acting like a crazy person right now. You know that, right?”

  His ocean gaze lands on mine and he stops pacing for a moment. “I’m just so fucking nervous.”

  My heart flutters and some deep-seeded hope makes its way out in the form of a smile on my face, but I bite it away.

  I’d never admit this out loud, but last night a very real part of me believed this entire thing centered around Nick wanting to tell me he has feelings for me, that he wants to date me.

  I tried to rationalize it, justify it every way I could.

  I tried to come up with alternate theories. But none of them made sense because Nick’s never been nervous around me for any reason. Ever. What else could possibly make him nervous around be other than a heartfelt confession?

  Waving my hand, I say, “Come on. Spit it out. I don’t have all day.”

  He cups his hands over his nose and mouth, releasing a hard breath, and when he lets them fall, I find the dopiest grin on his face.

  His eyes water like a teenage girl with a backstage pass to a Harry Styles concert.

  He tries to speak but he can’t.

  Oh, god.

  He’s doing it.

  He’s actually telling me he likes me …

  “Mel,” he says, pulling in a hard breath before dropping to his knees in front of me. He takes my hands in his and I swear my vision fades out for a second. “You know when we were kids and we used to tell each other everything?”

  “Yeah …”

  “There was
something I never told you,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “I guess … I guess I was afraid to say it out loud. I was afraid this thing I wanted so bad, this thing I wanted more than anything I’d ever wanted in my life, wasn’t going to come true. And I thought that by admitting it, I was only going to jinx myself. So I kept it to myself, but I can’t anymore. It’s too big. It’s eating away at me and it has been for years. But it’s time. I have to tell you.”

  He’s rambling.

  Nick never rambles.

  He rises, taking the spot on the couch beside me and cupping my face in his hands. “This is insane, Melrose. I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this.”

  My mouth parts and I’m milliseconds from blurting out something along the lines of “I’ve liked you since we were kids, too …” but I bite my tongue and let him go first.

  “You know how I have my band, right?” he asks, referring to Melrose Nights, the band he founded in high school and named after me.

  I nod, heart sinking. No … plummeting.

  “What about it?” I ask, blinking away the embarrassed burn in my eyes.

  “My dream, Mel, was always to hit it big,” he said. “Like, commercially big.”

  My brows lift. This is news to me. He was always about the indie scene, always so against the big music corporations that controlled every song the American people were played on the radio.

  “Really?” I tuck my chin against my chest. “Because you always said—”

  “I know what I always said,” he cuts me off. “But the more I got to thinking about it, the more I thought … I just want my songs to be in the ears of as many people as possible. And it’s not even about becoming famous or having money, you know I’m not about any of that. I just want people to know my songs. That’s all.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat and glance toward a wood burning fireplace in the corner where a crushed, empty can of Old Milwaukee rests on the mantle next to what appears to be a crumpled lace bra.

  Guess he forgot a few things when he was straightening up …

  “Okay, so what are you trying to tell me?” I ask.

  “We got signed …” his mouth pulled so wide, he looks like a bona fide crazy person right now, “… and we’re going on tour with Maroon 5.”

  I try not to let my rampant disbelief show on my face, but something tells me I’m failing miserably. He reads my expression, searching my eyes, and his smile fades.

  “You hate Maroon 5,” I say.

  “I used to hate Maroon 5,” he corrects me. “Anyway, the act they had fell through last minute, so they got us. We leave next week.”

  “Next week? For how long?”

  “Six months.” His calloused hands smack together. “Six months on the road with one of the biggest music acts in North America.”

  “Wow, Nick … that’s … that’s huge. You were right. That’s some big news,” I say. Everything is sinking. My voice. My heart. My hope. “I’m so happy for you.”

  I throw my arms around him, and I meant what I said. I’m happy for him. I had no idea this is what he wanted, but now that he’s shared this with me, I thrilled for him. He’s my best friend, my oldest friend, and all I want is for him to be happy.

  Plus he deserves this.

  He’s insanely talented. Music. Lyrics. Singing. Playing. Producing. Mixing. It all comes natural to him. Keeping it all on some lowdown indie scene for a select few would be doing a disservice to the rest of the world.

  “I just don’t understand why you couldn’t tell me this over the phone,” I say. “Why’d you make me drive all the way out here just so you could tell me in person?”

  Nick leans back, studying my face as he rakes his palm along his five o’clock shadow. “Because I have a favor to ask you …”

  Lifting one brow, I study him right back. He’s never asked me a single favor as long as I’ve known him (excluding those times he wanted me to talk to girls for him in middle school or steal him an extra lemon slushy at lunch).

  “See, I’m taking over this guy’s lease,” he says. “I pay fifteen hundred a month for my half of the rent. You know what a cheap bastard I am, right? I just don’t want to throw that money away over the next several months and I don’t want to stick Sutter with my half of the rent and utilities and everything because that’s just shitty.”

  “Sutter?” I ask.

  “My roommate,” he says. “Cool guy. Electrician. Owns his own company. Anyway, I know you’re living in your Gram’s guesthouse, but you’re the only person I know who’s not locked under a lease right now, so I thought mayyyyybe you might want to help me out for a few months? As a favor? And in return, I’ll … I don’t know. I’ll do something for you. What do you want? You want a backstage pass to a Maroon 5 concert? You want to meet Adam?”

  “You’re already on a first name basis with Adam Levine?” I ask, head cocked.

  Nick smirks. “Not yet. But I will be.”

  “I don’t know …” I pull in a long, slow breath. “What about Murphy?”

  “We’ve got a fenced in yard,” he says, pointing toward the back of the house. “He’ll love it here.”

  “What about your roommate? Would he be cool living with a stranger?” I ask.

  “Totally.”

  “And you’re sure he’s not a serial killer?” I keep my voice low, leaning in.

  Nick chokes on his spit. “Uh, yeah, no. He’s not a serial killer.”

  My cousin-slash-roommate, Maritza, recently moved out and got a place with her boyfriend, Isaiah, so it’s just Murphy and I in the guesthouse now. It gets quiet sometimes. Lonely too. And Gram’s on this travel-the-world kick lately. One week she’s home, the next week she’s in Bali for twelve days with her best friend, Constance or one of the Kennedys.

  A change of scenery might be nice …

  “I’ll do anything, Mel. Anything.” He clasps his hands together.

  “Begging’s not a good look for you. FYI.”

  “Okay, then what’s it going to take for you to say yes?” His hands drop to his lap.

  I try to speak, but I don’t know what to say.

  “See,” Nick says. “You don’t even have a good reason to turn me down.”

  He’s right.

  I can’t blame it on the location because it isn’t out of the way. I can’t blame it on my dog. I can’t blame it on a lease. I can’t blame it on money because fifteen hundred a month is exactly what Gram charges me for rent because free rides aren’t a thing in the Claiborne family.

  But aside from all of that, I know Nick would do this for me if I ever needed him to.

  Shrugging, I look him in the eyes and smile. “Fine.”

  A second later, I’m caught in his embrace and he’s squeezing me and bouncing like a hyper child. With one word, I’ve unearthed a side of Nick I never knew existed.

  “I fucking love you, Mel,” he says, hugging me tighter. “I love you so much.”

  I expected to hear those words today … just didn’t think I’d hear them in this context.

  Chapter Two

  Sutter

  “You, uh, need some help with that?” I slam the door to my work truck and approach the blonde chick balancing a couple of tote bags on top of two giant Louis Vuitton suitcases. She tries to roll them all up the cracked walkway to my bungalow, stopping every few steps to rebalance everything. “You could just make two trips, you know.”

  She turns, following my voice, her hooded eyes narrowing in my direction.

  First impression? Hot as fuck.

  Second impression? High maintenance as fuck.

  “Is Melrose your real name?” I ask, grabbing one of her bags. The scent of expensive perfume fills my lungs and I hope to God she’s not as extra as she looks. “Or is it some stage name you made up to make yourself stand out?”

  Her head tilts. “Sutter Alcott sounds like the name of an old, rich, white guy.”

  Fair enough.

  I smirk, twirling my keys on my fin
ger before finding the right one and shoving it in the lock on the front door. She stands behind me, waiting, and I’m sure I smell like ass. I’ve been running wires all day on some new build in Encino and today was hotter than hell.

  All in a day’s work.

  We head inside, and I place her bag to the left of the foyer. This is where my assistance ends because I’ve got three priorities right now and three priorities only: a hot shower, a cold beer, and a juicy steak.

  “You know where you’re going?” I ask. “Did Nick show you your room?”

  “He said it was upstairs. The bedroom on the left.”

  I chuckle. “Nick’s a moron. My room is on the left. His—yours—is on the right.”

  Melrose rolls her eyes. “He’s always been directionally challenged.”

  It’s odd imagining the two of them as friends, let alone best friends. He’ll wear the same t-shirt three times before washing it and she’s got on a pair of those red-bottomed heels I always see the women on Robertson wearing.

  “You always dress up on moving day?” I ask, noting the curls in her shiny blonde hair and the coat of dark pink lipstick on her full mouth.

  “I’m not dressed up.” She peers down at her pointed heels before meeting my gaze. “This isn’t dressed up.”

  I chuff. “You’re obviously trying to impress someone with all of this and I have to assume that someone is me.”

  I’m messing with her.

  Mostly.

  Melrose’s full mouth shapes into a circle. “For your information, I had an audition today. Came straight here after.”

  “No shit? I was kidding about the stage name thing. Nick didn’t mention you were an actress.” All he told me about her was he’d known her since they were kids and that her grandma was Gloria Claiborne which meant fuck-all to me. The only thing I cared about was not getting stuck with Nick’s half of the rent and utilities. Living here isn’t cheap. “Haven’t seen you in anything.”

  I’d remember a face like that.

  I’d remember tits like that too.

  Her eyes squeezing, she squares her shoulders with mine and places her hand out. “Can you please go longer than thirty seconds without underhandedly insulting me?”