P s i hate you, p.12
P.S. I Hate You, page 12
He takes a swig of his beer. “I hold my own.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it. The way you just … unleash.”
“Guess I still got a lotta fight in me.” He takes a final drag to the filter, then flicks it out into the gravel. Orange wisps explode around it like a miniature firework. “What about you?”
“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I reply with a wry grin.
“You’re more of a fighter than ya think,” he says with a chuckle. “But I meant for fun.”
“Oh, um …” I tuck my hair behind my ear and roll my beer between my hands. “I know it probably sounds trite to you, but I really love fashion.”
He curls his lip. “You mean, like, clothes?”
“It’s more than clothes. It’s a whole concept of being. Take those ratty jeans, for instance. You think you’re being ironic throwing on a pair of torn-up pants, but what you probably don’t know is that ripped denim has been a part of haute couture since the late 1870s, when Loeb Strauss first brought the idea to Levi’s. At one time, denim was associated with the working class of men in uniform, but old Loeb thought that ripping them up would give everyday guys a look into the life of these workers. So while you stumble out of bed and throw on a pair of destroyed dirty jeans to show how ‘working class’ you are, you’re actually putting on a pair of pants designed to do just that.”
He stares with a blank look on his face as I finish my lesson. By the time I’m done, my heart is slamming against my ribs, and I’m flushed with excitement. Passion is intense in all its forms, be it romance or fortitude. It’s a roller-coaster ride, yet my feet never leave the ground.
“Get the fuck outta here,” he says after a moment.
“It’s true. Look it up.”
He pulls out his phone and starts tapping on the screen. Anticipation sits on my chest. I watch the expressions roll across his face one after the other until he slides it back into his pocket in a huff. “How the fuck do you know all that?”
“Just do.” I shrug.
“So what do you plan to do with all this useless fashion trivia?”
Goose bumps break on my skin. “It’s not useless.”
“Well, it ain’t gonna put food on the table, that’s for damn sure.” He tips his head back and takes the last swallow of his beer.
I pull my brows together with a pout. I can do anything I put my mind to, and fuck Jace Wilder for believing any different. I stand from my seat and stop in my room to get my sketches, then bring them out to shove in his face.
When the book lands in his lap, he stares before opening it. My stomach lurches as he begins flipping the pages. Regret is a dish I don’t desire. I’ve opened myself to a world of backlash in a venture I’ve only started, but Jace doesn’t say a word. He simply turns the page and scans the design before moving on. “Did you draw these?”
“I mean, I’m not an artist or anything—”
“These are really good.”
My mouth goes dry. “They are?”
His blue eyes lift beneath dark lashes. “I mean, I don’t know anything about clothes, but yeah. It’s a good start.”
“Thank you.”
Chills skitter along my skin as he hands the book back to me. “There’s an old sewing machine in the attic. You should make some shit.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“I bet your mom didn’t think she’d make a fortune on cryptocurrency either, but here we are. Don’t underestimate yourself.”
The smile that splits my face is an uncontrollable beam that could probably be seen from space. I hurl myself into Jace’s lap and wrap my arms around his neck. He remains still at first, his hands raised in surprise, but before long, they close around me, encasing me in his warmth. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”
“What did I say?”
“That I can be like my mother.”
I start to sit up, but my fingers thread behind his neck and refuse to let go. Butterflies flutter in my stomach. I swallow the saliva building on my tongue as we lock eyes, our noses inches from touching. Warning bells go off in my brain, but my body won’t move. It wants to stay locked in his embrace forever.
Jace has gotten under my skin in tiny increments since the moment we met. Anger and lust are two emotions that swim in the same vein. They infect me like a drug, blurring the instincts between right and wrong and forcing me to act on my animal impulses.
Short breaths seep from my lungs in shallow bursts. My lips tingle with anticipation, my mouth eager to be claimed by his, but he lets go first. His elbows rest on the wooden arms of the rocking chair. He turns his head and shields the lower half of his face with his downturned hand.
“Sorry,” I say, but my voice flutters out wispy and weak. I stagger to my feet and drop into the chair beside him, averting my gaze so he doesn’t see the embarrassment coloring my cheeks. I don’t even like him, yet my skin singes with every touch. I should feel this way with Troy, not Jace. What’s wrong with me?
Chapter twelve
My stomach clenches. A pulsing pain tears through my middle and leaks into my back. I lie on my side, my knees pulled all the way to my chest. An old movie plays on the television, but it’s hard to concentrate on anything other than how shitty I feel.
Cindy’s gurgling cough rattles from down the hall. She hasn’t left her room in three whole days. I should go take her some water. Her illness is much more important than the monthly affliction currently ailing me, but this ugly brown couch has made me its prisoner. For something so hideous, it sure is comfortable. It’s a chocolate marshmallow cradling all my achy parts.
The heavy scuff of Jace’s boots shuffles in from the back door. I hear them fall, replaced by the whispering sound of his socks on the hardwood. “Hey,” he drawls, falling beside me.
“Hi.”
He stares ahead for a solitary moment before turning to face me. “What the hell is this shit?”
“Casablanca.”
“The fuck is that?”
“It’s a movie,” I deadpan.
He pushes my butt with the ball of his foot. I slide up, then snap back into the place I was before. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I don’t feel well.”
“You got a fever?”
He leans in to feel my face, but I shrug him away. “I’m not sick. I just don’t feel well.”
His brows pinch. “The fuck does that mean?”
His line of questioning snaps the last thread of my patience. “It’s nothing. Just leave me alone.”
His lip curls as he suddenly gets the hint. “Bitch. What are you, on the rag?”
I sigh. “Could you possibly be an adult just for today instead of a total asshole?”
“Whatever.”
He pushes to his feet and disappears from my line of sight. I assume he’s leaving me to wallow in my feminine disgust. I pinch my eyes against the pain as I listen to the rush of the kitchen faucet followed by the whir of the microwave. To my surprise, he returns with a heating pad.
“Thank you.”
“Do you need, like, pickles and ice cream?”
A small smile curls the edge of my lips. “That’s for pregnant women, idiot.” I shift, adjusting the pillow under my back. “But I would like some tea,” I say in a small, helpless voice.
Another coughing fit muffles through Cindy’s door. He rolls his eyes. “Oh for the fuckin’ love o’ God. Fine. But only because I’m fixin’ to check on her anyway.”
I smile. “With honey,” I call after him.
His grumble floats in from the hall. I snuggle deeper into the pillows as he moves about the kitchen preparing my order. He sets the steaming mug on the coffee table and plops back down on the couch. With the pad warming my belly, I can finally unwind. I stretch my legs over his lap. He lifts his arms like a roller-coaster belt, then sets them back down as soon as I’m comfortable.
The crinkling of a wrapper perks my ears up like a puppy. I look over as Jace shoves a chocolate cookie into his mouth. “Are those Thin Mints?”
He elbows off my advance. “You got your tea. These are mine.”
“C’mon,” I beg.
“You’re so fuckin’ annoying,” he warbles around a minty mouthful, but he pulls two from the sleeve and hands them to me.
I nibble on my prize, then scrape the crumbs off my shirt. “In all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine,” I whisper along with Humphrey Bogart. “I love that line. It’s heartache personified.”
“So what is it with you and these shitty old movies, anyway?”
Listening to Sam tickle the ivories brings back some of the best memories of my life. Memories I hold dear, times I hold sacred. I fear that letting Jace in will only taint them. “You wouldn’t understand.”
He offers up two more cookies as a bargaining chip. “Try me.”
I take a sip of my tea and collect my thoughts. “When I was really little, Mom and I lived in this tiny motel off the side of the highway. It was one of those pay-by-the-day places with the doors on the outside, you know?”
“The kind meant for hookers and truckers?”
A small giggle floats off my tongue, but it’s more about his tone than the words. In reality, nothing is funny about it. Before we rubbed elbows with New York’s elite, we lived among the dregs of society. We ate canned ravioli and ramen noodles—anything that could be bought at the 7-Eleven down the road and microwaved in our room. Most people would have thrown in the towel, but not Sarah. We starved for her dreams.
“Yeah. Like that. The television reception was awful, but the classic movie channel came in crystal clear. So at night, I’d fall asleep to these old films while my mom traded stock on her old laptop.
“It’s funny,” I say with another humorless chuckle. “Out of all the fancy vacations and shopping trips and red carpet walks, cuddling up next to her under that threadbare comforter when we had nothing was probably the best time of my life.”
He rests his hand on my thigh. “I get it. It’s like that old truck. It’s dirty and burns gas like crazy, but my dad drove it that way, now so do I. Reliving these small moments is a way of making us feel closer to those we lost.”
My chest burns. “I didn’t realize the truck was your dad’s.”
“Yep. ‘Cept my memories are of huntin’ and fishin’; Dad teachin’ me how to maneuver the stick shift. Mama gives me shit for not goin’ to his grave, but to me that ain’t nothin’ but dirt.” He shakes his head, a puff of air escaping through his lips. “Inside the truck is where I feel him with me.”
“Jace,” I whisper.
“Don’t gimme that weepy look. Watch your dumb movie.”
He runs the back of his hand over his face, shaking away the emotion bubbling through the cracks in his hardened exterior. Our shared loss sits between us like a third party. I wish Jace would see that I’m not an enemy. I’m someone who knows how he feels. Someone who understands what it’s like to lose a person so important that it takes a piece of you with them when they go.
I didn’t know Jace before his father died, but something tells me he was a very different boy back then. He’s erected these walls around his heart for fear of letting anyone else break it, but by avoiding the bad, he’s also keeping out the good. He won’t allow anyone else to love him because he’s too afraid to love them in return.
I extend my hand, an olive branch reaching for his pain. “Will you lay with me?”
Conflict rolls across his gaze. He hesitates before sliding up behind me. I adjust my position to give him space, then melt into his warmth as soon as he’s settled. He awkwardly fumbles with where to put his hand. I gently bring it to my stomach, replacing the pad with the heat from his palm.
Another breath leaves my lips, this one a sigh of contentment. “Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I murmur, but it’s more than okay. It’s perfect in every sense of the word. His heart beats against my back, his breath hot on my neck. Encased in him, I’m complete.
Chapter thirteen
Cindy steps into the kitchen as I’m preparing lunch, wrapping her robe around her middle.
“What are you doing out of bed?”
“I’m startin’ to get bed sores from lyin’ around so much. Besides, I can’t let you nursemaid me on your birthday.”
I can’t help but grin. Cindy’s birthday greeting has been the one constant in my life. From as far back as I can remember, I could always count on that card showing up in the mail wherever we were.
“Thanks.”
“It’s your birthday?” Jace’s voice bellows in from behind, and we both turn our heads. “You didn’t tell me that.”
I shrug. “It’s no big deal.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re a pain in my ass,” he grumbles, pushing me away from the counter. “Go do something fun.”
I offer him a bewildered look. “Like what? In case you forgot, we’re stuck here.”
“Why don’t you two go off and do something together?” Cindy offers. “I could manage here.”
“No,” Jace says. “You go back to bed. I’ll finish lunch.”
Instead, Cindy sits at the table. “I’m goin’ stir-crazy in that bed all day.”
Jace carries a tuna sandwich to the table and sets it down in front of her. “Stop whinin’ and eat.”
Her expression pinches. “Who’s the parent here?”
Jace presses his palm flat on the table as he leans over her. “You are. But you taught me well. Eat, then rest.” He drops his lips to the top of her head, then turns away to rinse the bowl.
“I guess I’m gonna take a ride on my bike?” It comes out as more of a question than a statement. Truthfully, I’d rather just forget it’s my birthday altogether. Without my mom, I don’t feel much like celebrating. It’s just a normal day like any other.
During the day, the town is more deserted than usual. I ride down the street at a leisurely pace. When I’ve reached the end, I turn and come back. So much for a stellar birthday. This time last year, I was in a private villa in Cancun with three of my “closest” friends. I use closest in quotes because they didn’t even acknowledge me today. A few rogue happy birthdays from strangers on social media, but radio silence from those I’d spent the last years of my life with. My stomach growls as I roll onto the gravel outside the house. The pink hue in the purple sky tells me it’s nearly dinnertime. I hadn’t realized I was gone that long, but the afternoon sailed away without me noticing.
The house is quiet as I enter. I stop at the sink for a glass of water and sip it slowly, wondering what to make for dinner. A part of me hoped I’d come home to something already prepared, but Cindy must have gone back to bed, and Jace is in his room doing … whatever he does in there. It looks like I’m on my own.
I open the fridge and peer inside, but the sound of heavy boots drags across the linoleum. Standing straight, I turn toward the sound. “Oh. I assumed you were in your room.”
“Nah. Been workin’ outside.”
I pull my brows together. “Doing what?”
He thumbs over his shoulder. “Come out back. I'll show ya.” Curiosity pulls me forward. The fridge closes with a wisp, but I’m already halfway out the door.
I stand like a stone on the porch, taking it all in. His truck sits in the yard with the tailgate down and blankets and pillows lining the bed. A wire stretches across the yard tied between two trees, and hanging in the middle, a bed sheet is clipped on with clothespins. Assorted fairy lights twinkle high above it all.
My jaw drops. “What is this?”
“I know I ain’t your mom, but I thought maybe you’d wanna recreate a memory.”
Tears well in my eyes. When I woke up this morning, a feeling of dread sat on my chest. I hoped my birthday would come and go. Never in a million years would I have expected something like this.
I glance up at Jace and sweep below my lashes. “This is … I don’t even know what to say.”
“Don’t gotta say nothin’.”
He has yet to look at me, but I can’t take my eyes off him. His cheeks carry a faint rosy hue, hands wringing in front of him. I never thought I’d live to see the day when Jace Wilder was nervous. I didn’t even think it was an emotion he was capable of feeling, but here he is, trying his hardest to remain aloof and doing a terrible job. “Thank you.”
“Whatever. I just didn’t want you to celebrate your birthday alone.”
The corners of my mouth turn up. I’ll have to remember to thank those aliens should they ever return. I like this Jace much better.
As night falls, we sit side by side with the credits to Breakfast at Tiffany’s rolling in the background and half-eaten pizza at our feet. I don’t even care that it tastes the same as the cardboard box it came in. My heart feels full, and that’s what counts.
Now, I find myself curled against him, reeling from the amazing love story still buzzing through my head and the utter shock that he made the effort to download a movie from my past after only hearing a single mention of it. “This might have been my favorite birthday ever.”
I feel his smile against my forehead. “That’s kinda sad.”
I glance up to catch his profile from below. “I’m not sad.”
He shifts out from under me and rolls to his side. Face-to-face, I see every emotion scroll past his eyes. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah.”
“That article. Is it true?”
My stomach flutters. I lick my dry lips before nodding my head.
“Still?”
“Yeah.”
“Dang,” he whispers under his breath. “Why?”
I blow out from my nose, trying to formulate an answer he’ll understand. “Women often confuse sex and love. I guess I wanted to remove that confusion from the equation.”
“So you’re waiting for love, then?”
“I guess? I dunno. It was a long time ago, but when it finally happens, I want it to be on my terms. Not the other way around.” I talk a big game, but I’m a liar. Lying in his arms under the gently strung lights, I fear my resolve is crushing to dust. If he were to take me under him now, I would happily plummet into hell as long as he holds my hand while he leads the way.
