P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  By the time I get back to my place a minute later, I chide myself for overreacting. We had one date. One. And he was weird and tried to kiss me and he wasn’t my type. He called me every day for two weeks afterwards and finally stopped when he got the hint.

  He’s just a nerdy, awkward guy. And he’s nice. I don’t give him enough credit for being nice. He’s just … not for me.

  I should cut him some slack. I shouldn’t fault him for having an innocent crush. The worst thing the guy ever did was try to kiss me after eating four pieces of garlic bread during a god-awful date at a horrendous hole-in-the-wall Italian place in South Gate.

  Grabbing my apron and slipping into my work shoes, I find my keys and head out to my car, my mind returning to Isaiah’s letter.

  I promise myself I’ll stop thinking about it. I promise myself I won’t read into it anymore.

  But promises are fragile.

  And sometimes they break.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Isaiah

  The day we get back from the Syrian border, I find a letter from Maritza lying on my bed. Dropping my bag, I take a seat and tear into the envelope.

  Dear Isaiah,

  Please accept my sincerest apologies for the care package. I hope my kindness didn’t offend you. But seriously, get over yourself. We’re friends and I’m allowed to do nice things for you.

  I hope you’re staying safe over there and I look forward to your next letter when you get back from your super-secret Army mission.

  When are you coming home? Panoramic Sunrise is playing another show in five months in the Pacific Palisades. It’s outdoor/open air. Should be fun …

  Oh. And I took your advice and slept with someone because you’re right … I am feeling a little tense lately. Anyway, it was awful. He was just some guy who was hitting on me at this bar I went to with Melrose. He had whiskey dick the whole time and I didn’t even come. The next day he tried to kiss me with morning breath before he left. Who does that?! FYI – last time I take your advice, Corporal.

  Yours,

  Maritza the Waitress

  P.S. I hate you … because I blame you for the whiskey dick sex.

  Her letter rests between my fingers and I read her words one more time—specifically the part about her fucking some random guy.

  My blood heats, my body clenches. The thought of Maritza naked, some guy with his hands all over her body … it doesn’t sit right with me.

  Yeah, I told her she needed to get laid. I pushed her in that direction.

  But I didn’t know it was going to feel like this—like a punch to the gut, and now I don’t even fucking know how to process this or what to make of it.

  I convinced myself she meant nothing, that she was just some smart-mouthed girl I hung out with for a week … but now I don’t know.

  I don’t fucking know.

  All I know is there’s this unsettled weight in my chest that wasn’t there five minutes ago.

  “Corporal, you ready?” Lieutenant Harbinger stands in the doorway. “Time to roll out again.”

  “We just got back.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “And now we have to leave again. Another airstrike headed this way. Let’s move it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Maritza

  I lied.

  I broke one of my own hard rules.

  But only by omission, which I don’t think really justifies it fairly, but that’s how I’m justifying it anyway.

  When I told Isaiah I’d slept with some guy … it wasn’t just some random guy.

  It was Myles.

  And I’m not proud. In fact, I’m disgusted with myself. Melrose invited him to get drinks with us for some insane reason—I think she felt sorry for him or something. We were both plastered. It happened so fast and it happened without any forethought or thinking and as soon as it was over, I knew it was a mistake and I was appalled at my behavior.

  Just thinking about that night, weeks later, makes me nauseous.

  It was awkward, unsexy, and all around terrible, but it’s done. It occurred. I own it. And it’s never going to happen again.

  “Someone requested you.” I finish pouring four ice waters and glance over at Rachael. “Some guy. Table eleven.”

  My heart pounds, my face blanketed in warmth before turning numb. I don’t want to get my hopes up so I don’t allow myself to think what I want to think, to assume what I want to assume.

  Peeking out from the galley, I check out my newest table, only to have my stomach drop to the floor in the worst way possible.

  Myles.

  Fucking Myles is sitting at table eleven, thumbing through his phone and trying to nonchalantly scan the room in search of me.

  “You know him?” Rachael asks.

  Exhaling, I shake my head. “Unfortunately.”

  “Why do you say that? He looks cute … like in a nerdy, endearing kind of way.” Rachael takes him in from afar. “I like his glasses.”

  “It’s a story for another time.” I load the waters on a tray and head out, and when I’m finished, I hold my head high and make my way to table eleven. “Myles. Good morning.”

  He places his phone face down on the table and smiles wide when he sees me. “Maritza.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, trying to keep this formal and impersonal. The night after we slept together, which has been weeks ago now, he called me.

  And then he called me the next day.

  And the next day.

  His calls tapered off over the course of a couple of weeks until they stopped completely and I found relief in the fact that he seemed to be getting the hint all over again.

  “Been trying to get a hold of you for weeks,” he says, voice low as he smiles through his bruised ego.

  Wincing, I release a slow breath. “I’m so sorry.”

  Looking at him with his pitiful expression and his puppy dog eyes and falling smile, I feel like a giant piece of shit. I should’ve been an adult and told him right away that I wasn’t feeling … this … instead I ignored him because I didn’t want to hurt him—which only hurt him anyway. Faulty logic. Completely my fault.

  “I shouldn’t have brushed you off,” I say, placing my hand over my heart. And I mean it. I feel awful. I knew he liked me, I slept with him which probably got his hopes up, and I ghosted him. “But I think we should just be friends.”

  He removes his disheartened gaze from mine, staring across the booth at the empty spot. His fingers tap on the table and he shifts in his seat.

  “Myles, I’m so sorry,” I say again. This isn’t one of my finer moments, but I’m willing to accept full responsibility that I screwed this up and hurt him. At the time, the drinks were flowing and we were laughing and all I kept thinking about was how badly I needed a quick release and how sex is just sex … but in my drunken stupor, I didn’t stop to think that Myles and I weren’t on the same page with that.

  He folds his menu and shoves it across his table, exhaling hard. “Right. Heard you the first time.”

  “Maybe we can talk about this another time?” I ask, glancing at the man at the next table who’s been trying to flag me down for the last minute. “When I’m not working?”

  Myles’ mouth presses flat.

  “Sounds pretty pointless.” Sliding out of his seat, he squares his body with mine, his expensive cologne invading my personal space. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

  He leaves.

  I feel like shit.

  Brushing my proverbial shoulders off, I check on the table behind him, refilling a man’s coffee before returning to the galley.

  “What was up with that?” Rachael asks, pouring an orange juice. “Why’d he leave?”

  Drawing in a deep breath, I check the clock. “He’s had a thing for me for a while. We slept together a few weeks ago and then I ghosted.”

  Her red lips form a crooked smirk. “You’re so bad.”

  “I’m not bad. I’m cruel.”

&n
bsp; “Nah. You’re not cruel, you’re just being too hard on yourself. Men do that crap all the time. We do it once and we beat ourselves up about it for days,” she says. “Let it go, sweets. He’ll move on. They always do. And let’s not dismiss the fact that you ignored him and he had the nerve to show up at your work to get your attention. Something’s not right about him so don’t go kicking yourself, all right? You didn’t handle the situation perfectly, but neither did he. See? You’re even.”

  Sighing, I say, “I love you, Rach.”

  “Love you too, Ritz.” Rach gives me a side hug before grabbing the OJ and heading out to table seven.

  The rest of the morning is a blur, which turns out to be a good thing. We’re hit with our usual eight o’clock rush followed by a sightseeing tour bus full of retirees who traveled all the way from Reno to get their hands on our famous cinnamon pancakes.

  By mid-afternoon, I’m back home with aching feet and a yawn that won’t stop. I’m halfway to becoming an actual vegetable on the sofa when Melrose texts me and asks me to walk Murphy.

  Peeling my faux zebra-skin blanket off my legs, I climb up and call for the world’s most pampered pug before grabbing his leash by the door. The click-clack of his paws on the tile and the jingle of his collar follows and a second later he’s attempting to jump into my arms. I hook him up and head out, passing by the mailbox once I’m outside the driveway gate.

  Stopping, I reach my hand inside and retrieve a small stack of junk, bills, and Melrose’s newest issue of Vogue.

  Murphy relieves himself on a nearby palm tree.

  Life goes on.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Isaiah

  I almost died today. Granted, that risk is always a given when I’m out here in the land of air strikes, land minds, and suicide bombers, but this was different. Fourteen of my men were injured today. On my watch, no less.

  But one of us, Private Nathaniel Jansson, paid the ultimate price.

  War doesn’t care how old you are, how brave you are. War doesn’t care how hard you work or how much you love your country. War doesn’t care that you’ve got a woman back home waiting for you or that you’re months away from becoming a father for the first time.

  It could have been any of us, but today it was Jansson.

  While he was young and green, he was going to be one of the best. I knew it. I saw it in him. He may have been new but he had a fire in his eyes and a dedication like none I’ve ever seen before, and now he’s leaving behind a child that will only ever hear how brave and heroic their father was through secondhand stories.

  My ears are still ringing and there’s no time to sit around and process what just happened. We hadn’t been back from our mission to the Syrian border but half a day when we found our base under siege. The flash of lights that preceded the deafening explosions and the sounds of men crying out in the dark will haunt my nightmares the rest of my life, but the strangest thing happened.

  In the midst of all the chaos, when I wasn’t focused on sheer fucking survival, I found myself thinking about her.

  Maritza.

  Coming this close to death does something to a man, it forces him to reevaluate his priorities and the things in life that he truly wants, forces him to question if the kind of life he’s living has any sort of meaning at all or if he’s just drifting through life like a fool believing his own lies—that he’s happy alone, that he’s never going to want anyone else for longer than a drunken night in a hotel room.

  But I’m done lying to myself.

  I want meaning.

  I want her.

  I want to get to know her, really know her. And I want to make her smile. I want to feel her strawberry lips on mine and brush her hair from her face. I want to do dorky touristy things together, things I’d never be caught dead doing with anyone else. I want to show her more constellations. I want to take her to another Panoramic Sunrise concert because god damn it, she deserves a do-over.

  I want her to wait for me, to push my limits and do annoyingly sweet things and tell me she misses me.

  And I don’t want her sleeping with anyone else.

  Shoving what’s left of my things into an Army-issued duffel bag, I find a crumpled scrap of paper—an old report of some kind, the edges burnt, and I grab a pen from my desk drawer. Scribbling a note, I fold the paper into fourths and tuck it in my pocket.

  First chance I get, I’ll send it.

  “Corp, we gotta go.”

  I glance up to find Lt. Peters in my doorway, looking white as a ghost. The familiar, sickening sound of bombers breaking the sound barrier rumbles above us, vibrating through every breath, every thought.

  I’m not a religious man much to my mother’s dismay, but I find a handful of seconds to make a promise to God. Let me make it home alive, and I promise I’ll tell her how I feel. I’ll be the man she deserves, the man I’m supposed to be. I’ll change. For good.

  And I’ll tell her everything.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Maritza

  Melrose cups her dog’s wrinkly face in her hands and rubs her nose against his. “You seem down lately.”

  “Me? Or the dog?” I ask.

  She rolls her eyes before pulling her dog into her arms. “You. Murphy’s always happy. He’s living the good life.”

  “I’m not … not happy,” I say, reaching for my bottled water on the coffee table. I unscrew the cap and lift it to my mouth before adding, “I guess I’ve just been thinking about Isaiah lately.”

  “Still?” Melrose sits up straight in our leather arm chair. “You haven’t seen him in, what … several months? And you knew him all of a week?”

  “I know, I know.” I take a swig. “And it was nine days. I know, okay? Don’t think I don’t have this conversation with myself on a regular basis. I just guess I’m trying to make sense of how two people could hit it off so well and how we were writing these cute little letters back and forth and then he just … stopped.”

  “You need a new hobby or something that doesn’t involve obsessing over pointless stupid shit like Corporal Douche Bag.”

  “It’s not like I’ve been moping around the last few months. I’ve been living my life, doing the exact same things I’d be doing had I never met him,” I say. And it’s true. I catch movies. I grab drinks with friends. I lunch with my favorite people. I read books and visit family. By no means am I sitting around waiting for the mailman or some serendipitous knock at my door. But it doesn’t make this whole thing bother me any less. “I just want to know that he’s okay, Mel. At this point, it doesn’t matter why he stopped writing. I just want to know if he’s safe. That’s the only thing I care about.”

  Melrose begins to respond but my phone steals the show, vibrating across the coffee table.

  “Ugh,” I say, glancing at the screen and declining. “It’s that blocked number again.”

  The few times I’ve answered, it’s always been nothing—like someone’s on the other end, muting their line.

  “You’re still getting those?” she asks, forehead wrinkled.

  “Yup. At least every other day.” They started a couple of months ago, and at the time I didn’t think much of them. Most of the time they happen when I’m at work or in class and my phone is on silent. But now I get them almost every day, sometimes two or three times.

  “For the love of God, will you change your phone number? It’s the only way to make these stop.” She cradles Murphy in her arms and kisses the top of his head.

  Pulling in a haggard breath, I stare at the black glass in my hand. I’ve been putting it off for months … maybe because a part of me wanted to make sure Isaiah had a way of contacting me should he need to or want to or whatever.

  But that argument seems a bit moot at this point.

  “I’ll do it first thing tomorrow,” I say. Rising, I head back to my room and grab my notebook—the one I’d been keeping all the letters I’ve written him the last several weeks, ones I vowed not to send until I
’d heard from him again.

  There are so many things I wish I could tell him—stupid things, really. Like I wish I could tell him I finally decided what I want to do with my life, that I finally picked a major and I’m starting classes this August. He’d be happy for me. At least, I think he would.

  I guess I don’t really know anymore.

  At the end of the day, Melrose is right.

  He’s just some stranger I knew for nine days, and after all these months and all these letters, he’s still just some stranger.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Maritza

  He would’ve come home today.

  At least, six months ago today was when he left, and he’d claimed his deployment was six months unless he decided to extend it.

  I changed my number last week, which sort of signified the fact that I decided to let him go, to let go of the briefness of what was and all the questions that will never have answers. But still, he slips into my mind without permission on a regular basis. Melrose says I should learn to meditate, to mentally place my thoughts of Isaiah on a cloud and blow them away with a gentle exhalation.

  I think she’s full of shit.

  I tried that … a dozen times … and not once did it work. If anything, those thoughts only came back with a vengeance, lingering longer and overstaying their welcome ten-fold.

  It’s like a sickness, an incurable disease.

  Rach says I need closure. Mel says I need to see a shrink, which is a little dramatic in my opinion but she is her mother’s daughter and her mother is of the opinion that shrinks are the answer to all of life’s problems. That and Xanax.

  All I know is I just want to move on with my life and be okay with not knowing why he stopped talking to me or why I continue to give a damn.

  “You okay?” Rach ties her apron around her waist after clocking in Tuesday morning. “You look a little lost in thought.”