“How long have you been seeing a therapist?”
“Nine months. It’s going well. He’s helped me understand my behavior. I’ve already seen a huge difference in how I handle situations.”
“But you couldn’t save your relationship?”
“It was through therapy that I came to the conclusion I didn’t want to. Neither did Janessa, for that matter. We weren’t a good fit. In two years, we managed to grow apart instead of together. In hindsight, I should’ve chosen you, but I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of disappointing you. I worried that a relationship with you would require more than I could give and that you’d eventually figure it out and leave me.” Then Patrick does something totally unexpected.
He cries.
The next thing I know, I’m comforting him like he’s the wronged party. “I never meant to hurt you. You know how screwed up my childhood was. Apparently, I have something called a mother wound.”
I remember Patrick’s stories of an absentee mom and a workaholic dad. It’s difficult not to feel sorry for the boy who had no control over his chaotic upbringing.
He slides his fingers through my hair. “Every bit as soft as I remember,” he murmurs. “You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed about holding you again.”
“Technically I’m holding you.” And now I sound like Charlie.
The intrusive thought of Charlie Thorpe shocks me like a live wire. I jolt out of Patrick's reach.
“What is it?” Patrick asks in a soothing tone.
“I think you should leave.” I spent a full year carrying around a box of tissues wherever I went, knowing that at some point during my waking hours, a memory would surface that triggered waterworks. It was incredible how quickly the place I’d been born and raised became associated with a man who sought to claim my heart and then proceeded to shatter it into a million pieces.
“I thought we were having a moment.”
“And now the moment’s over.”
He tilts his head, eyeing me in that intimately familiar way of his. “Am I leaving your office or the campground?”
I sense his neediness. The camp is meant to be a welcoming space for everyone; we’re the Ellis Island of misfits. As much as it pains me, I hear myself say, “You can stay. I’ll speak to Hunter.”
“Cool. Glad to hear he’s back this year. And what about us?”
“There is no ‘us,’ Patrick. There never really was.”
“That isn’t true, and you know it. Remember how good we were together? Our long walks through the woods. Our moonlight swims.”
“Of course I remember.” And that’s why I hate the reminder. The fond memories are the reason it took me so long to get over him. Whenever my anger unfurled, it would be diminished by the happy thoughts I cherished. My brain had a way of blocking out his bad behavior and only focusing on the good.
His fingers brush my cheek. “See? You still have feelings for me. I know you do.”
I jerk my face to the side. “No, I have memories, Patrick, and only because I couldn’t Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind them out of existence.” I take a step back and look at him. “Anyway, I’m involved with someone else, and unlike you, I have absolute clarity on the subject.”
He does a slow blink. “Huh.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t expecting that. Well, whoever he is, I hope he likes competition.”
“As a matter of fact, he does, but it doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
My insides grow warm at the mere thought of Charlie. “Because he’s already won.”
