P.S. I Hate You

“You worry too much.” I lean down, kissing the top of her head, which smells like stale, unwashed hair. I’ll have to call Calista over to help her shower soon. “I’m going to the grocery store. Your cupboards are empty.”

Her frail hand lifts to my cheek and her full mouth bends. “Don’t tell the others, but you’ve always been meu favorito.”

I smirk. “I know.”

My cart is overflowing, filled mostly with organic non-perishables. Unlike my siblings, I decided not to be a cheap ass. She deserves good quality food that’s not going to make her sicker than she already is, which is why I drove all the way to the Whole Foods in Brentwood instead of hitting up the discount grocer with the bars on the windows down the street from her apartment.

I count forty cans of soups and vegetables, twenty boxes of all-natural rice and pasta dinners, eight loaves of bread I intend to stick in the freezer, ten cartons of shelf-stable milk, and a few other necessities; mostly soaps and shampoos and paper products. Passing through the candy aisle, I grab a few bars of her favorite Mayan chocolate.

I didn’t earn the title of Alba Torres’ favorite child by accident.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m loaded up and headed back to her place, waiting at an infinite red light. Two green arrows light, allowing the left two lanes to go, but the rest of us are stuck waiting.

Checking my phone, I fire off a text to an old army friend who lives nearby, asking if he wants to get drinks later, but before I get a chance to press ‘send’ a metallic crunch fills my ears and my car lunges forward several feet, stopping the second it smashes into the back of a cherry red Mercedes Benz.

“Motherfucker.” I pound my hands on the steering wheel before stepping out, and by the time I head back to examine the damage, the driver who caused this mess is already there, crouched down with her hand grazing a section of her dented Prius bumper.

“The fuck is the matter with you?” A man in a gray suit is shouting at the two of us, his phone plastered against his face as his tawny complexion turns fifty shades of red.

“I’m so sorry, sir.” The girl rises, her hands cupping her face. “I saw the green light and I hit my gas. I didn’t realize it was only for the turn lanes. I wasn’t paying attention.”

I lift a finger to silence her. Clearly she’s never been in an accident before or she’d know not to accept the blame.

“Great. Now I’m going to miss my reservation.” He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “Hope you’re happy.”

“Man. Come on,” I say, tossing my hands in the air. “It was an accident. She apologized. Let’s do what we need to do here so we can all get on with our lives.”

Returning my attention to the bumper of my vintage Porsche 911T, I examine the deep scratches and blue paint remnants littering her once-pristine Carrara White bumper. As much as I, too, would like to berate this woman for forgetting how to fucking drive and denting up my most prized possession, I take a deep breath and gather myself. Last thing I want is to look like el douche bag over there in the Mercedes.

“Here you go.” The girl hands me her insurance card, and I grab my phone, taking a picture of the front and back before handing it over. Our hands graze in the process, and it’s only then that I finally get a good look at her.

Jesus Christ.

It’s the waitress.

From the pancake place.

The second our eyes lock, her expression suspends. She recognizes me too.

“You got your insurance card?” The huffy bastard interrupts us, practically yanking the little piece of paper from her hands. “You are insured, right?”

“Dude, calm the fuck down,” I tell him, head cocked.

“Don’t call me dude, you fucking prick, and don’t tell me to calm the fuck down,” he says, lips pulled into an ugly sneer. “Have you seen what your piece of shit did to my bumper?”

My “piece of shit” happens to be a 1969 Porsche 911T, of which there are only a few hundred left in the world. Actually, I found her in a junkyard years back and did the restore job myself in between deployments. She’s good as new, but if it makes him feel better to berate it, that’s on him.

“What an asshole,” the waitress whispers, hand cupping the side of her full mouth like we’re a couple of pals sharing a secret.

“You were texting and driving, weren’t you?” I ask. My hands rest at my hips and my brows furrow. Just because we’re both on the same page about this tool over here doesn’t mean we’re suddenly best friends.

She shakes her head, arms crossed. “I told you, I was looking at the wrong light.”