P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  Absinthe: Fuck. Um. Wow.

  Kerouac: Deeper, hotter, harder.

  Absinthe: Sold.

  Kerouac: Your turn. What’s your favorite position?

  Absinthe: Missionary. And before you make fun of me, know that I’m not sorry. That’s what I like. Not fucking apologizing for it.

  Kerouac: You’re not very experienced, are you?

  Absinthe: I’m experienced enough.

  Kerouac: You’re a virgin.

  Absinthe: Nope.

  Kerouac: I think you are.

  Absinthe: You can think that all you want. Doesn’t make you correct.

  Kerouac: So what do you like about the missionary position then?

  Absinthe: It feels … safe, I guess? You get to look each other in the eyes and kiss and your whole bodies are touching everywhere. It’s intimate. And sweet.

  Kerouac: Typical woman. You just need to live a little. Erotic sex can be just as fulfilling as romantic sex.

  Absinthe: I’d ask you to teach me some time, but …

  Kerouac: Yeah. Not going to happen. Not anytime soon at least.

  Congratulations! You’ve earned twenty Karma points! You may now access your Karma email addresses! Karma encourages its users to get to know one another on a deeper level, sending longer messages outside the chatroom setting. You may continue to use the chatroom, but utilizing the email feature will put you that much closer to the next step, which is accessing your Karma phone numbers!

  Absinthe: Look at that. Now we can email each other.

  Kerouac: I like chatting this way.

  Absinthe: Me too. But I kind of want your phone number. What happens if you type it in?

  Kerouac: Karma will block out the numbers. Like this: ***-***-****.

  Absinthe: So we’re going to have to email each other. Ugh. Who designed this? An AOL developer from 1995? Nobody fucking emails anymore.

  Kerouac: For a girl who likes missionary sex, you have a bit of an edge to you. I like that.

  Absinthe: Because I say fuck a lot?

  Kerouac: Yes. I also have a weak spot for women with pretty mouths who say naughty things. Love a good contradiction. It goes against everything I stand for in real life. Makes me hard as a fucking rock.

  Absinthe: You like it dirty?

  Kerouac: I do.

  Absinthe: And let me guess, you’re a clean-cut, educated professional.

  Kerouac: Close enough.

  Absinthe: You’re a complicated man, Kerouac. And I happen to have a weakness for complicated men.

  Kerouac: Something tells me you’re just as complicated as I am.

  Absinthe: If not more so. Goodnight, K.

  Chapter Nine

  Halston

  The phone numbers of two men are scribbled across two crumpled receipts as I empty out my pockets. Being hit on at work is flattering, but the last person I’m going to date is some guy who prefers his BBQ wings with a side of tits and ass.

  Definitely not boyfriend material.

  Sliding my tip money from my other pocket, I count out one-hundred fifty-eight dollars and add it to my secret stash.

  Almost five hundred dollars cash rests in an old makeup bag buried at the bottom of my sock drawer. Two weekends in a row waiting tables at Big Boulders has gotten me that much closer to getting a damn car. If I can save up three grand and Uncle Vic matches it, I should be able to get a used Honda or something that’s going to last me for years to come.

  I don’t need anything fancy, just something that’s not going to fall apart when I’m cruising down the highway going seventy-five miles per hour leaving Rosefield, Illinois in the dust.

  I flip to the calendar, adding up the remaining weekends for the summer. As long as I can keep this job on the down low another month or so, I’ll be golden.

  And one of these days, when I finally get my hands on my birth certificate, I’ll head to the bank so I can finally open an account and keep this money someplace safer than hidden under a pile of neon, no-show Nike socks.

  There’s a bus stop two blocks down from here, just outside our gated neighborhood, and Vic and Tab think I’m working at the Waterfront Sea Food Restaurant downtown. Heaven help me if my cover is ever blown, but thank God I don’t have to keep this up forever.

  Covering my savings with a stack of pajama pants, I head downstairs to Aunt Tabitha’s Sunday supper, though I’m not hungry. We munch on everything between tables, and we’re always hungry because we’re running around like animals. Courtney knows the caloric content of almost all of the entrees, and she’s been happy to point out which ones to avoid.

  “We have to maintain our girlish figures,” she said. “That’s how we make the big bucks!”

  Taking a seat at my usual spot, Bree’s nose crinkles. “It smells like fried food in here.”

  My uniform stays at work, in my locker, but maybe the stench of bar food has seeped into my hair and pores?

  “We had a special on fried calamari,” I lie, spreading my napkin over my lap and offering a smart-mouthed smirk.

  Bitch.

  I’d love to see Bree wait tables anywhere. She wouldn’t last more than a minute.

  “How can you just sit there, smelling like that? Don’t you want to shower?” Bree won’t let off.

  “Bree.” Uncle Vic says her name and clears his throat. “That’s enough. I’m very proud of you, Halston. You’ve shown real initiative. You’re a hard worker. That’s going to get you far in life.”

  “I was thinking of getting a job too.” Bree straightens her posture, staring across the table in my direction. “Maybe babysitting or nannying or something? Something with kids. And it makes sense since I want to go into education.”

  Uncle Vic smiles his proud, fatherly smile, reaching over and placing his hand over hers.

  “That’s my girl,” he says.

  Tabitha places a dish of herbed chicken resting on a bed of garlic couscous between us all before taking her seat.

  “Vic, would you like to say grace?” Tabitha asks.

  Bree folds her hands and nods her head, and when I peek up at her, I find her staring at me, so I give her a dirty look before kicking her under the table.

  Vic and Tab are in their own little world, and by the time they make the sign of the cross, they’re none the wiser.

  I choke down Tabitha’s dinner before excusing myself to my room and jumping in the shower—because I want to, not because Bitchface told me to.

  When I’m done, I change into pajama shorts and a tank top and check my Karma app. I haven’t heard from Kerouac in almost a week now, but I’m trying not to obsess over it. I’m assuming he’s busy with work stuff, being an “educated professional” and all. Plus, he’s complicated. I’m complicated. Nothing good—or real—is going to come of this anyway. It’s nothing more than a time waster. A boredom crusher.

  From: Absinthe@karma.com

  To: Kerouac@karma.com

  Subject: Where for art thou?

  Time: 6:48 PM

  Message: I feel like you dropped off the face of the earth this week, and I can’t help but think it had to do with my missionary sex confession. I turned you off, didn’t I? I should’ve said reverse cowgirl. Fuck. What was I thinking? Have I lost you forever, my sweet Kerouac? Will you ever give me a second chance? Obviously, I’m kidding. Kind of. I miss chatting with you. And I had a sex dream about you the other night. I mean, the guy had your stock model’s face and sounded a lot like Ryan Gosling, but it was you. And before you ask, yes, it was “doggy style.” Ugh. But I enjoyed it. Anyway, just thought you should know.

  I push my laptop to the side and grab a book off my nightstand. I’m halfway through Daphne DuMaurier’s Rebecca for the fourth time because for some reason I’ve yet to get sick of it. Fifty pages later, Karma dings.

  You have an email from Kerouac! Click here to review!

  From: Kerouac@Karma.com

  To: Absinthe@Karma.com

  Subject: Re: Where for art thou?
<
br />   Time: 7:27 PM

  Message: Dearest, you could never turn me off. Just the mere idea of fucking you like an animal until you collapse with satisfaction is enough to hold my interest. Okay, enough with the cheese. Not ignoring you. Family’s in town. I hope to resume our virtual fuck sessions in the next week. Feel free to email me still. I’ll respond when I can. In the meantime, I’d like a full detailed report of that dream you had for my records. Also, I thought about you this morning in the shower. Don’t think I’ve ever come so much in my life. What are you doing to me? I’ve never wanted to fuck a complete stranger so badly in my life.

  From: Absinthe@karma.com

  To: Kerouac@karma.com

  Subject: Re: re: Where for art thou?

  Time: 7:33 PM

  Message: I was going to make you wait until tomorrow for a response, but honestly, I’ve never been into playing games and it’s getting late and I’m tired because I work a soul-sucking job (that’s going to be my excuse for everything from now on, btw). I think I’ve earned it. Anyway, I don’t have time to type up a detailed report of my dream because, quite frankly, I have better things to do with my time and based on previous conversations, your imagination seems to function just fine. Going to bed now. Enjoy family time. Hope you were blessed with a “normal” family and that you’re not counting down the hours until they leave. Later.

  Closing the lid, I stick my computer on the charger and climb back into bed. I don’t realize it right away, but my lips are curled at the sides and there’s a faint fluttering in my middle.

  What the fuck is this shit?

  No.

  Just … no.

  I’m not falling for some Internet stranger—especially one using a stock photo for a profile picture.

  Clasping my hand over my eyes, I exhale, silently telling myself to get a goddamned life.

  Chapter Ten

  Ford

  “Hi, Ford! I hope it’s okay that I stopped by.” Melissa Gunderson stands under the stoop of my front porch, another tray of tin foil-covered food in her hand.

  “Oh, hey.” I don’t hide my annoyance. “Give me two secs. I’ll grab your brownie pan.”

  “No, no.” She waves her manicured hand in front of my face, her hot pink nails a little too close to this chiseled mug of mine. “I brought you a casserole! Hope you don’t think I’m being nosy, but I’ve been noticing you order a lot of takeout, and I thought you could use a home cooked meal. Made you a casserole. I hope you like chicken.”

  “Honey, who is that at the door?” My sister Nicolette calls from the living room.

  I hide my laugh with my hand, glancing down, and Melissa’s eyes dart over my shoulder, her face falling.

  “Hi! I’m Nicolette Hawthorne,” she says, pushing me out of the way. “You must be one of the new neighbors?”

  That’s my sister. Sharp as a tack and doesn’t miss a beat.

  Melissa’s words must be caught in her throat, and she visually assesses Nicolette the way insecure, lonely women tend to do.

  “I’m so sorry,” Melissa manages to say a moment later, extending her free hand. “I didn’t know …”

  I can only hope Melissa’s too in shock to notice our uncanny resemblance, right down to the dimples in our chins.

  “Well, I should be on my way.” Melissa hands over the hot dish and Nicolette thanks her before closing the door.

  “Completely unnecessary,” I say.

  “Bullshit, Ford. That girl was a stage five clinger situation waiting to happen. You should be thanking me.”

  “Should I also thank you when she discovers I’m your brother and starts spreading rumors around the neighborhood?”

  “She’s not going to know. Women like that aren’t bright enough to put those kinds of things together.” Nicolette takes the casserole to the kitchen, where my five-year-old nephew, Arlo, is hard at work on a page in his Transformers coloring book. “Anyway.”

  Nicolette ruffles Arlo’s curly blond hair before leaning to kiss his forehead.

  “You going to miss me, buddy?” she asks.

  “Yep.” He doesn’t look up.

  “I’m going to miss you,” she says.

  “I know.” He reaches for a blue crayon, inspecting the tip to ensure it’s sharp enough.

  We laugh.

  “He’ll be fine,” I say. “It’s just a week. We’ve got fun stuff planned.”

  “Like what?” she asks.

  “Guy stuff. Super secret guys stuff that only guys can do,” I say, smirking at my nephew, whose face is lit like Christmas.

  “Thanks for doing this for me,” she says, ruffling his silky curls again. “You’re the only person I trust with my baby.”

  Nicolette hugs him one last time, tickling his ribcage until he giggles. Her annual girls’ trip begins tonight with a flight from O’Hare International to Miami, where she’ll meet up with some old friends from college. I don’t even want to think about what they’re going to do from there.

  Being a single mom with zero help from Arlo’s dad, she needs this time to herself, and I’m happy to help.

  “You’re cool with me getting a babysitter for a few hours a day?” I ask. “It’d only be in the morning.”

  “Let me guess. Gym?” She rolls her eyes.

  “And work.”

  “Thought you had the summer off?” she asks.

  “Prep work. Boring stuff. Just a couple hours a day.”

  “Whatever,” she says. “That’s fine. I trust you.”

  Nicolette grabs her suitcase from the bottom of the stairs as her cab pulls into the driveway, and I can only hope Melissa’s not standing outside watching me walk my sister to the car and send her off with a friendly wave instead of a romantic embrace.

  “Be right back, bud,” I say to Arlo. “Don’t move a muscle.”

  He freezes, his lips fighting a giggle.

  “I want you just like that when I get back.” I point my finger at him before heading out the front door and helping Nic into her car. And just as I’m turning to get back inside, I spot Victor Abbott in his driveway, waxing his car.

  He waves. I wave. At this point it would be rude to walk away, especially considering the fact that he’s my new boss.

  “Victor,” I say, striding between our driveways.

  “Ford,” he says.

  “Have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.” He stands, his hand resting on his lower back. Why he doesn’t just pay someone to wax his car is beyond me, but I suspect a man like Victor Abbott does things himself if he wants them done right.

  “My nephew’s in town for a week. Looking for a babysitter. Just a few hours a day, Monday through Friday. You know anyone in the neighborhood? Looking for someone reliable and responsible.”

  His face lights up, something I wasn’t sure was possible. “Matter of fact, my daughter, Bree, was just saying she wanted to get into babysitting. You want to meet her?”

  That was easy.

  “Sure.” I glance toward the house, waiting as Victor heads in and returns with a bobble-headed cheerleader type—of the studious variety, not the slutty—complete with a tied bow in her ponytail. Victor’s daughter looks like she walked off the set of a Taylor Swift music video, but she comes from good stock, and I’m not exactly in a position to say no.

  “Bree, this is Ford,” her father says, clearing his throat. “Principal Hawthorne come August twenty-third.”

  “So you’re the new principal!” Bree extends her hand, her blue eyes wide and smiling. “It’s so wonderful to meet you. You’re going to love Rosefield. We’re one of the top high schools in the state.”

  “That’s what I’ve been told,” I say. She’s still holding my hand, almost refusing to let go. I give a gentle tug and sever the tie. “Very honored to lead the charge this fall.”

  “Dad says you need a babysitter?” She bounces on her tennis shoe-covered toes.

  I nod. “My five-year-old nephew’s in town for a week. Are you a
vailable in the mornings? Eight to eleven or so?”

  “I am.” She smiles. “When would you like me to start?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “See you then, Principal Hawthorne.” Bree tugs on the hem of her scoop neck top once she’s out of her father’s periphery. If she’s trying to give me a show, she’s wasting her time.

  There’s nothing there.

  And I don’t fuck my students.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ford

  “Tell me about Grandma and Grandpa.” Arlo shoves a spoonful of Lucky Charms into his mouth.

  I do the same.

  “What has your mom told you about them?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Just that they were nice. And they would’ve loved me.”

  “They would’ve adored you,” I say. “They would’ve been obsessed with you.”

  “What does that mean? Obsessed?”

  “It means they think about you all the time. They can’t stop thinking about you.” Eh, good enough. “It’s a grown-up thing.”

  Arlo takes another bite. “What happened to them?”

  I almost choke on my cereal. “What’d your mom say happened to them?”

  “She won’t tell me.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, I mull it over. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Uncle Ford.” His big blue eyes blink. “I want to know. Will you tell me?”

  Checking my watch, I calculate that Bree’s going to be here in about five minutes, so I’ll give him the condensed, Grimm’s fairy tale version.