The Complete P.S. Series

by Renshaw, Winter

  Great timing, dude.

  “It’s all yours.” Maritza slips her arm into mine and leads me away, only several steps later and she’s yet to let me go. In fact, she’s holding on tight, and I don’t even know if she realizes it.

  Everything about the way she touches me is so natural.

  “We should pick a star,” she says as we walk.

  “What? Why?”

  Her eyes widen as she gazes above and her mouth curls into a cheesy grin. “I don’t know. So anytime you’re over there and you feel alone you can look at the star and remember this night.”

  “Stop.” I scoff. “Only lame asses do shit like that. And I kind of feel like you’re starting to break your own rule …”

  Maritza shrugs. “Tomorrow’s our last Saturday together. I guess it’s kind of hitting me in a way I didn’t expect. It went by so fast.”

  “It did.” We walk side by side, slow, silently savoring our dwindling time together.

  As soon as we return to my car, she folds her arms, leaning against the passenger door. “I’m not tired. Are you?”

  My gaze falls to her mouth before lifting to her glinting eyes. “Nope.”

  “Want to get a drink?”

  * * *

  “Why isn’t this stupid thing working?” It’s almost two in the morning and Maritza is pressing the remote to the gate so hard I think the stupid thing is going to fall apart in her hands.

  “Maybe the battery’s dead.”

  Glancing past my dash, she squints. “Think we can climb that? Maybe if you just hoisted me over …”

  “You’re drunk off your ass. I’m not letting you climb a nine-foot iron gate. You’ll fall and hurt yourself.” I massage my temples.

  I’m exhausted.

  She’s wasted.

  And all the flirting she did these last several hours did nothing more than gift me with a raging case of blue balls.

  “Let me see if Melrose is up.” She grabs her phone, dropping it on the floor. Maritza giggles before finally managing to dial her cousin’s number. “Mel! Can you come outside? My remote’s not working and we need in … yes, I said we … Isaiah, who else? … I know … just come get us.”

  I’m half able to make out what sounds like her cousin lecturing her about bringing strange men home, but at this point I couldn’t care less. After tomorrow, I’m never going to see Maritza or her cousin again and I’ve spent the better part of the past two hours convincing myself for the millionth time that I’m okay with that.

  “Thanks, sweets.” She hangs up. “Mel’s coming. It’ll just be a minute.”

  We sit in my idling car for what feels like a decade before the gate slowly opens and her cousin stands before us in a see-through tank top, red plaid shorts, a messy blonde bun, and a mint green face mask. Her arms are folded and she’s glaring at me, as if it’s my fault Maritza got so hammered.

  Truth be told, I have no idea how this happened.

  I paced myself. I thought she did too.

  “God, I’m starving,” Maritza moans as I pull through the gate. “I should’ve had dinner earlier. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  Oh, there we go. That’s how this happened.

  “Want to order a pizza?” she asks, her face lit like it’s the best idea she’s had all night.

  “You go ahead, I’m just walking you to your door then I’m taking off.”

  Her hand rests on my forearm. “You’re not staying?”

  I park in her grandmother’s circle drive, beside a trickling fountain surrounded by strategically placed up-lights.

  “Why would I stay? I just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

  “What’s with you all of a sudden?” She unfastens her seatbelt, angling her body toward me. “I thought we were having a good time tonight?”

  “We were,” I say. “We did. But the night’s over.”

  “Am I annoying you? Is that what this is? You can be honest,” she says. “I swear, Isaiah, I only had, like three drinks, you saw me. I didn’t mean to get like this. It’s just, I was so busy at work today and then I had to come home and get ready and I guess I forgot to eat?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No.” Her full lips press together. “It’s not fine. I should’ve stopped hours ago or switched to water or something. I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t ruin your night.”

  I reach for the ignition and kill the engine. “I’ll walk you in.”

  Climbing out of the car, I meet her around front, by the hood. She’s quiet, studying me as she attempts to keep her balance. The front door of the guesthouse is cocked open. Guess Melrose beat us back.

  “Come on. Let’s get you inside.” Hooking my hand into her elbow, I pull her against me and lead her inside, trying not to breathe in the way the warm Southern California breeze mingles with her grandmother’s flowers and Maritza’s citrus perfume.

  Stopping outside the door, she stands to face me, squaring her shoulders with mine.

  “I had fun stargazing tonight,” she says. “Thank you for showing me Leo.”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  Maritza lingers, like she’s waiting for me to cap the night off with a kiss, but I refuse. It was fun earlier this week, but somewhere along the line, shit threatened to get real and now I have to draw a hard line.

  “Tomorrow’s our last Saturday,” she says. It’s got to be the second or third time she’s brought it up tonight, as if I could possibly forget. But as much as I want to spend another day with her, part of me thinks it might only make this harder … and it might defeat the entire point of spending the week with a girl I thought I could walk away from in the end.

  After getting to know her and spending day in and day out with all of her idiosyncrasies, I’ve realized she’s funny and witty and sarcastic. She’s genuine and honest and kind. She’s unapologetic and charismatic.

  If I were the committed type, I’d lock her down in a heartbeat.

  I’d make her mine and never let her go.

  But it doesn’t work that way. I’m leaving and she’ll be here. We’ll be worlds apart. And commitment was something I longed for a lifetime ago. It doesn’t mean a damn thing to me now.

  “I had fun with you this week,” she says, voice soft and low. “I’m kind of sad for it to end.”

  “Goodnight, Maritza.” Forcing a quick smile, I leave before it gets too deep.

  Returning to my car, I fire up the engine and get the hell out of there before I say or do something I might regret.

  It’s only when I’m several blocks away that I glance at my phone for the first time all night and find seven missed calls in a row, all of them from my sister.

  11

  Maritza

  Saturday #7

  “Not hanging out with lover boy today?” Melrose is lying by Gram’s pool, removing the two cucumber slices from her eyes when I take a seat beside her. “Where’s your bikini? Why are you dressed like that?”

  She squints at my getup, one of our grandmother’s vintage Pucci cover ups and an oversized, floppy hat.

  “Does Gram know you raided her closet?” she asks.

  “Haven’t you heard? The sun causes wrinkles.” I cross my legs. “I’m surprised you’re not more concerned. Your skin is your canvas, right?”

  “Sweets, I’ve been using retinols since sixteen and getting Botox since twenty-one. Nothing’s going to crack this glass.” She reaches for an issue of Elle magazine and pages through it, skipping all the ads, and her oil-slicked skin glistens in the sunlight. “Anyway, why aren’t you with Isaiah?”

  I bite my lip, trying to ignore that sunken-in feeling in my chest that’s resided there since he texted me this morning and told me he wasn’t sure he’d be able to see me today.

  “Something came up,” he texted me several hours ago, nothing more, nothing less.

  But I don’t know what to believe.

  There’s not much about last night that I remember up until the time he took me home.
And now, all I keep picturing is that look on his face as he stood across from me by the front door. It’s like he was placing this extra distance between us, and I’m not talking physical.

  It was emotional.

  And he didn’t so much as try to kiss me. Maybe part of that reason was because I was pretty freaking tipsy, but still. There was just something different in his eyes last night, something stiff and armored about his tone.

  I grab a spare magazine and lean back on the rattan lounger. It's a balmy eighty degrees without a cloud in sight, weather that all but demands a good mood. But I’m nothing but sullen, riddled with emptiness. I wanted to see him today. I wanted our last Saturday to mean something. I wanted to go out with a bang.

  Instead, he blew me off.

  Like I mean absolutely nothing.

  There's a chance he's telling the truth. And he should be. That was the agreement. But at the end of the day, I really don't know him. And at the end of the day he doesn't owe me a damn thing, not even the truth.

  Maybe I'm naïve. Maybe he was looking for a week of sex and debauchery only to find himself sorely disappointed. Maybe he was hoping one thing would lead to another and I would be a crazy fling that he could walk away from, but somewhere along the line I think he realized that in a perfect world we would be good for each other.

  Not that I'm in the market for a boyfriend.

  But if the stars aligned and the opportunity was there and he wasn't about to leave the country, I might have been willing to explore the possibility of something more.

  “So what are you going to do today?” Melrose asks. “I mean, you took the day off. I guess that’s what happens when you drop everything for a stranger with a pretty smile.”

  Today of all days I'm not in the mood for her snide comments and signature snark.

  “What are you going to do if he calls you and changes his mind? Like do you really think something came up or do you think he's just blowing you off?” she asks a moment later, tossing her magazine aside.

  “I don't know what I think.”

  “I don’t know why you’re feeling sorry for yourself. You knew he was just some charismatic ass like the rest of them.” She sighs. “Maritza, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but he just wanted a piece.”

  I exhale. Melrose and her lack of compassion are getting on my nerves and I’m two seconds from going back inside the house, changing into sweats, and watching Netflix by myself.

  “I don't need a lecture, Mel. Believe it or not, I don't regret the time I spent with him. I told him from day one I didn't want a relationship, that I didn't want romance or attachment of any kind. If he’s done with me, I have no right to be upset with him—and I'm not upset with him. Just disappointed.”

  Melrose exhales, grabbing a Vogue next and flipping it open before reaching for a bottle of Fiji water on the table beside her. “All lecturing aside, he is really fucking hot and it would've required superhero strength to turn down the chance to spend a week with him. Anyway, I’m not judging you. I’m just protective of you. And I hate to see you sad.”

  I stand, eyeing the house.

  “You going back inside?” she asks.

  “I don't know. I just don't want to sit around being annoyed. I need to do something. I thought I’d feel better if I sat by the pool and relaxed, but I’m just sitting here stewing.”

  “You’re upset.”

  “I’m not upset,” I say.

  She laughs. “Yes, you are. And it’s fine. You should be upset. He’s a jerk for cancelling your plans.”

  “I’m going to head inside and see what Gram’s up to.” I toss a magazine on the lounge chair and head toward the sliding glass door just off my grandmother’s kitchen.

  “Maritza!” Seated at her kitchen table, dressed in a Versace caftan and sipping her signature oolong from a floral tea cup, she lights up when I walk in the door. “I haven’t seen you all week, love. Come have a seat.”

  I take the chair beside her, feeling the weight of her stare as she examines me.

  “Something’s off,” she says, taking a sip, eyes focused in my direction. She’s always been good at picking up on non-verbal cues and nuances, which is probably why she’s had a decades-long career as an Oscar winning actress. She’s always said much of how we communicate has nothing to do with what we’re saying. “You seem … blue. What is it?”

  She rests her taut jawline against her smooth hand. My grandmother in all her self-assured glory has refused to age gracefully. Instead, she has a top Beverly Hills plastic surgeon on her payroll to keep each and every wrinkle and age spot at bay. As much as she talks about not wanting to be known solely for her beauty, she has a hard time walking away from something that’s become so imbedded into her identity.

  You can take the screen siren out of Hollywood, you can’t take Hollywood out of the screen siren.

  “I made a new friend this week,” I tell her, reaching for a single white rose in the elaborate bouquet that anchors her table, running my fingertips along its velvet petals. “At least, I thought we were friends.”

  “What happened? Did she say something crass?”

  “He, Grandma. It’s a he.” Our eyes meet. She doesn’t flinch.

  “Oh? A gay friend?” she asks, eyes fluttering. In her day, it was uncommon for a straight man and a straight woman to simply be friends, though it’s starting to seem like nothing’s changed.

  “No, Gram.”

  “I see.” Her brows lift. “All right, then. What happened with this man?”

  I shrug. “He’s an army corporal and he leaves for deployment tomorrow. Today was going to be our last day together and then he just … cancelled. Said something came up.”

  Her red lips press together and she exhales. “Maybe he didn’t want to say goodbye?”

  Maybe. But it’s pointless to analyze it now. At the end of the day, this—whatever it was—is over and it makes no difference why he cancelled.

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Honestly, we spent six days together and I’d rather not invest any more of my time or energy into thinking about someone I’m never going to see again.”

  “Smart girl.” She smiles, eyes crinkling at the sides. “A true Claiborne doesn’t wait around for anyone. Either they love us or they don’t. We accept either fate and we don’t dwell if things don’t go our way. You know there once was a time I was head over heels with Richard Burton.”

  Her lashes bat in slow motion and her hand lifts to her heart. I’ve heard this story a million times, but I let her continue as I always do.

  “I thought that what we had was real, and then I realized his heart would always belong to Elizabeth,” she says, referring to her older arch nemesis and violet-eyed stunner, Elizabeth Taylor. “I had to give him up. I had to let Richard go. But in doing so, I met your grandfather.”

  My chest squeezes when she mentions him. It’s been six years since he passed, but there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss his infectious laugh or the ornery twinkle in his blue-gray eyes. Even in his eighties, he was the definition of a charismatic people pleaser.

  “Anyway, if he isn’t going to make time to see you, he isn’t worth your time,” she says.

  “I know.”

  Grandma tilts her head, studying me. “I know you know. I just wanted to remind you.”

  I hate that I’m letting this get to me more than it should. He was never supposed to mean anything to me. I was never supposed to so much as flirt with the idea of getting attached.

  “I’m going to head back and throw some laundry in,” I say, getting up from the table. After that I’ll text my friends and see who’s around today. The last several times I’ve tried getting together with them, it hasn’t panned out. Chelsea is obsessed with her new boyfriend and can’t be bothered to be without him for more than an hour at a time, Meg is shooting some Benicio del Toro film on location in Spain for the next two months, Vivienne is still at UC-Berkeley finishin
g the degree we both started at the same time, and Honor got a job interning for some stylist-to-the-stars and is putting in sixty hour weeks on the regular.

  But I can try.

  Wrapping my arms around my grandmother, I squeeze her tight, inhale her signature Quelques Fleurs perfume, and head back to the guesthouse.

  By the time I’ve rounded up all my dirty clothes and shoved them in the wash, I head back to my room, passing my phone on the way. It’s been sitting on my nightstand all morning—since Isaiah first texted me.

  But now I see that I have four missed calls … all of them from him … which is odd because we’ve always only texted.

  Perching on the seat of my bed, I hold my phone, staring at his name, drawing in deep, slow breaths. Pressing my lips together, I debate whether or not to call him back, only the decision seems to be made for me the second my screen lights.

  My heart kick starts, my mouth dries.

  He’s calling.

  Clearing my throat, I sit up tall and press the green button after the fourth ring. “Hello?”

  “Maritza.” His voice is smooth, unrushed.

  I pause before saying, “Yes?”

  “Been trying to get a hold of you the past hour. Wanted to see if you’re still going to be around today?”

  I catch my reflection in my dresser mirror on the other side of the room, and it isn’t pretty. My face is twisted, brows furrowed and lips turned down at the sides. Disappointment is never a good look on anyone.

  “I thought something came up?” I ask, trying to keep my inflection normal so he doesn’t see how annoyed I am that he cancelled on me earlier and all of a sudden expects me to pick right back up where we left off.

  “Something did come up,” he says. “But everything’s okay now.”

  “I don’t know.” I exhale. I could tell him I made other plans and it wouldn’t be lying … I made plans to do laundry. But I’ve never been one to play games.

  “Ah. All right. I see.” Isaiah exhales into the receiver. He doesn’t hide his displeasure.

  For a minute, we both linger on the phone, neither one of us speaking, neither one of us saying goodbye.