PS: I Hate You

One

In between muttering curses at the funeral home's abysmal Wi-Fi, I consider if hiding in a supply closet to work during my brother's wake makes me a terrible sister.

"Well, you didn't want a funeral anyway, did you?" I whisper to the shelves of cleaning products, as if Josh is a ghost, invisibly sitting next to the bottles of lemon-scented floor polish. "You wanted us to rent a booze cruise and smash piñatas with your face on them."

My brother couldn't stand somberness. He was the funny one. A natural comedian who could take the darkest moment and make a joke that would have you laughing while the world around you was a shit show.

Like right now. If only he was here.

But if Josh was here, then there'd be no need for an over-the-top mourning ritual he never asked for.

If there is an afterlife where he's floating around, Josh is dying all over again, but this time from laughter, watching me sit on a half-empty box of toilet paper rolls as I try to put out a digital fire at work, all while wearing itchy tights I scratched so hard that I tore a hole in the left ass cheek.

"You're welcome," I say to my laptop as my updated report finally sends, not sure if I'm talking to my boss on the other side of the country or to the specter of my brother. Probably both.

And just when I'm sure I've gotten away with my sneaky errand and can rejoin the crowd of mourners filling the building, the closet door opens.

I squeak in surprise at the sudden intrusion and lean back, which is a mistake because that puts my butt on the empty half of the box. The cardboard lid collapses inward, taking me with it. I fold at the waist, laptop smashing against my chest, pantyhose-covered legs shooting straight up in the air.

This day got worse. I didn't think that was possible.

"Shit. Maddie." A deep voice says my name with too much familiarity. "Are you okay?"

No. No, I am not okay.

There is an endless list of reasons why I am the furthest possible thing from okay.

Top of the list: my brother, the person I love-loved-most in the world, is gone only three months before his thirtieth birthday.

But the reason I'm not okay in this particular moment is because the person asking after my well-being is the man who did an impressively thorough job of breaking my heart.

Dominic Perry.

Josh's best friend, and someone I was hoping to avoid for the rest of my life.

But that's hard to do when the man steps in close, reaching out his hands to help me unwedge myself from my bath tissue prison.

And of course, he looks like a heartthrob in shining armor as he comes to my aid. Dom has been devastatingly handsome ever since his face caught up with the long slope of his nose. Chiseled jaw, warm brown eyes that trick naive nerdy girls into trusting him, and black hair that swoops in an infuriatingly perfect wave over his pale forehead and around ears that stick out just far enough to be charming.

Today, he's dressed in a black suit that hugs his body.

Shouldn't funeral suits be ill-fitting? My theory is grief is supposed to make your clothes sag and bunch in all the wrong places. That's the excuse I'm using for the blockish, weirdly clinging dress I found in the back of my closet.

"I'm lovely. Seriously. Living the dream down here." I attempt to lift myself with the sheer strength of my embarrassment.

Doesn't work. All I manage to do is flip my hair into my face, reminding me that I spent all morning heating and spraying it to get my brown strands to curl half as well as Dom's do naturally. But I could comb super glue into the shoulder-length mass and still end the day with only a half-hearted wave left.

"Here." Strong hands grasp my elbows and pull me to stand with ease.

When I have my feet under me, I shove my hair out of my eyes and shuffle to the side, away from his broad chest and the scent of some mystery cologne that has me thinking of frosty cedar-filled forests where men in flannel go to chop wood just for the hell of it.

I could sell tickets to a place like that. Retire at the ripe age of twenty-six.

Breathing through my mouth, I search for the black heels I kicked off the moment I was alone, because they pinch my toes the way grief shoes should.

"What are you doing in here?" Dom asks, his voice a raspy rumble that gives me chills.

"Plotting world domination, obviously. Josh was supposed to handle the foreign policy, but now he's left me with double the workload. Rude of him. I plan on filing a complaint."

Did I mention inappropriately timed humor runs in the family?

Arguably, hiding myself in a closet is in everyone's best interest. These strangers want to watch me cry prettily. (But is that even physically possible? Who can have saltwater leaking out of their eyes and not look like a flushed, snotty mess?) No one came to this depression parade to hear my morbid sarcasm about my dead brother.

This whole funeral was my mother's requirement. Cecilia Sanderson needed the pomp and circumstance of tradition to mourn the son she never spent much time loving while he was alive. Some of the throng outside this closet are Josh's friends, but most people are here because of her and the articles she's been writing and posts she's been curating about her son's inspiring year-long battle against cancer. His death tripled her followers.

Somehow, I've ended up alone in a closet with the only person I want to avoid more than my selfie-obsessed mother.

"Noted," Dom says, taking my ridiculous statement in stride. He looms over me. "I was looking for-"

"For some toilet paper?" I cut him off. "You found the right place. Don't be ashamed. I hear grief often causes diarrhea. I'll let everyone know you're indisposed." Taunting him is the best way to distract myself from how my body reacts to his proximity. Going hot, then cold, then tingly and tight.

Like getting a disease. Dom is infectious.

He's also immune to me and my verbal barbs.

"Thanks for that," he deadpans, then his voice softens. "How are you doing?" Dom crosses his arms as he stares down at me. I can see his chin tilt and feel the weight of his eyes on my face. There's an air of demand in his posture, as if he expects me to answer with a thorough outline of my emotional state.

Dominic Perry is used to taking control of a situation.

This room-which was too tiny before he shoved his way in-now feels like his more than mine. The space is claustrophobic enough for my fingers to stretch for my inhaler. I shimmy around him, needing out. Needing to breathe air that's not infused with his essence.

"Spectacular. Like I'm the only survivor at the end of a slasher movie." In an effort to ignore the overpowering man, I check my laptop, making sure nothing got damaged on my short trip into the toilet paper box. Everything seems in working order. I close the computer, slip it into the padded pocket of my bag, and sling the strap over my shoulder as I reach the door.

All the while, Dom turns with me, tracking my every movement.

"I know it's been a while, but I'm here for you." His voice rasps over my nerves, leaving me raw and my fingers cold as they grasp the doorknob. "You can talk to me."

Been a while.

That's one way to refer to the night we spent together, and the day after where he . . .

Don't think about that.

I might finally start crying if I do. And if any tears come out of my eyes today, they better be for Josh and not some asshole who regretted me.

"That's so sweet of you, but I'm good." I shove out of the suffocating closet. "Got a few other one-night stands I like to call for deep, emotional conversations. You're low on the list."

Leaving him, I stalk down the hallway, toward the sounds of a gathering I do not want to join. But uncomfortable chatter with strangers is better than spending another minute in an enclosed space with bad memories personified.

If anyone at my day job heard the way I just spoke to Dom, they'd think I got bit by a bitchy zombie. But I don't care. No way in hell or any other dimension will I ever be vulnerable for that man again.

Younger Maddie had a different mindset.

There was a time I would've done anything to claim the smallest sliver of Dominic Perry's attention. He was the star of all my teenage fantasies. The guy I imagined would someday see me as more than his best friend's kid sister.

When I was nineteen, my dream came true.

But it quickly turned into a nightmare that sent me packing, escaping to the other side of the country just so I never had to see his handsome, heartbreaking face again.

Avoiding the thick crowd of unfamiliar attendees, I slow at a table covered in framed photos of my brother. There's so many. A few are of him and me. But a lot are of Josh with friends. Josh in beautiful locations. Josh on adventures. Josh traveling. Always smiling.

Always leaving.

The table is like a fun-house mirror of all the times he went so far and I didn't see him for so long.

I left, too. The absences weren't all his fault.

Now I'll never see him again.

"Maddie."

Dom followed me, and I hate how good my name sounds in his rumbling voice.

"Dominic." I pitch my voice low, mocking his deep delivery. There's no need to turn and face him when he casts a heavy gloom around me like I've stepped into the shadow of a mountain. "I told you, I'm peachy. Go pretend to care about someone else."

"I'm the executor of Josh's will."

The words take a moment to register. Mainly because I don't know what an executor is.

"What?" Unable to fight the urge, I glare up at the unfortunately tall bane of my existence.

"He named me executor," Dom repeats, and I still don't know what that means, which infuriates me. "There are items he wanted given to family"-he waves at me like maybe I forgot Josh was my blood-"and close friends. Since we're all here, I reserved a small room for everyone to meet. I'll distribute everything."

"Wait," I snap. "Wait wait wait." My hands wave in the air as I try to shut him up before he says more things that piss me off. "That's supposed to be, like, a lawyer's job."

Dom watches me, expression revealing nothing. "Executors don't have to be lawyers. You can assign anyone."

From his tone, I get a silent-judgmental-question. You don't have all your affairs perfectly in order for the day that you die, Maddie?

No, I don't. Because I'm a normal fucking twenty-six-year-old.

"And Josh chose . . . you."

My brother chose Dominic Perry, Mr. Responsible Asshole, for this special post-death job over me.

His sister.

Are you kidding me, Josh?

We weren't some estranged siblings that barely knew each other. We were close. We talked on the phone every week, even if he was on the opposite side of the world from me. We had enough inside jokes to fill a small-town public library.

When Josh told me about his diagnosis, he cried, and I cried, and we hugged and lied to each other that he would kick cancer's ass.

But when he needed a fancy official executor, Josh chose Dom.

I glare at the cluster of Joshes framed on the table, imagining my brother laughing at my frustration.

"I have something for you. From him." Dom steps back as he says the words, knowing the siren song he's singing to me.

Something from Josh. Even if my brother left it in the care of the man I hate most in the world, I must have the mystery item. I'm tempted to snarl Give it! and make grabby hands, but I have some sense of pride.

Just a little bit.

"Fine," I snap. "I'll come to your special executor room."

The man nods and leads the way. At least this gets me far from the crush of strangers again.

Although, if I'm going to a room with family, that must mean-

"Madeline!" My mother's voice sounds the moment I step through the doorway. "Oh, Madeline. There you are." She strolls up to me, looking red-carpet ready in her all-black suit and heels. In an effortless move, she scoops me up into a hug. Almost as if she's been doing it my whole life.

She hasn't. I can count the times Cecilia Sanderson hugged me on my fingers and still have a few left over.

"Mom." After an awkward pat on her back, I let my arms drop.

She sets me down and smooths her hands over my hair. "Here, we need to remember moments like this."

Before I realize what she's doing, Mom has her phone up, my head clutched against her breast, and the camera clicking. There's no time to say this is a day I hope I forget through an overindulgence in gin tonight.

Mom releases me so suddenly that I stumble back a step. Not that she notices, too focused on her screen, working on some social post or another about the grieving mother and the surviving daughter she loves oh so much.

A firm press on my lower back steadies me. Glancing to the side, I realize Dom has braced me, but before I can hiss at him, he steps away and strides past without a word.

"Black is not your color," Cecilia murmurs, distracting me.

Would you believe that's only mildly hurtful compared to other comments she's doled out over the course of my life?

"Thanks, Mom. Appreciate the feedback." I could put in the effort to say, Hey, Mom, maybe don't insult your daughter when she's only wearing black to mourn her dead brother.

But then I would get an eye roll followed by the claim that I'm being dramatic, which would then lead to a useless back-and-forth that would change nothing about the way she talks to me. If Josh dying wasn't enough to have Cecilia reevaluating how she treats her remaining kid, what hope do I have?