PS: I Hate You

by Lauren Connolly

With the tips of my fingers, I trace the message written in my brother’s hand, and when I reach the last two words, I know without a doubt what I want immortalized on my body. What I want to dig deep into my skin with ink.

“If I tell you I want to fuck you”—he speaks the words so close our lips brush—“can I kiss you, too?”

“Well, if you insist that there’s a certain order to these things.” My sarcastic comment comes out breathless. “Keep in mind, we can shuffle what people might label as the traditional sequence of events.” “Maddie Sanderson.” This time Dom growls my name, and I shiver at the sound of it. “How dare you suggest I do things out of order? I might malfunction.”

I’m in the middle of a laugh when Dom kisses me. He kisses me. Finally.

Dom isn’t helping matters, doing what has been widely established as one of the sluttiest things a man can do: wearing gray sweatpants.

But then there are people like Josh, who tried his hardest to make me happy. Adam and Carter, who sought me out when I drifted away. And Dom, who makes me want to believe I can trust someone. That not everyone I dare to love will hurt me.

It seems like I’ve tried to trust so many times before. But maybe, like the footsteps on a hike, when my lungs feel shredded and my muscles protest and ache, I should take another step forward. Keep going. Keep trying. Keep trusting. Even when it hurts, let yourself heal, then try again. Keep loving.

“People have left me before—they leave me all the time—but never like this.” I swipe the wetness from beneath my eyes and storm up to Dom, looming over him and the backpack. “I tell myself that’s part of him.” My finger jabs toward the bag. “But it’s just dust. Those letters were more him than the ashes ever were. And they’re done. And I hate him, Dom. I hate him for leaving me. And I know he didn’t do it on purpose. I know he would have stayed if he could have. I know I’m the worst sister because I hate my brother for dying. But I do. And I don’t think I can forgive him.”

“If I have one day left, or thousands, I want you to be in every one of them.”

“I’m not afraid of the days with you in them,” I whisper. “I’m afraid of the ones I might have without you.” “Because you think I might leave?” he asks. “Or die.”

“I can’t promise not to die, Maddie. But I can swear that while I’m living, I will always be loving you. And I think you’d enjoy being loved by me. If you let me do it up close.”