19:54 Patrick:do I know where you live?
I pocketed my phone, electing to concentrate on the issues at hand instead of the issues in Patrick’s bed—as if they were different. “Did anyone else notice?”
“No. And no one noticed the sneaky looks you were giving each other at Twenty-First.” Lauren sipped her drink and placed a soothing hand on my arm. “It’s obvious you’re a little frazzled, and I’m sorry for doing that to you. But it sounds like you need to let it out, so let it out on me. Just between friends.”
The story tumbled out in a tangled, frantic mess, and I told her everything—the flirty texts, the lunches, the fangirling, the bathrooms, the dirty fantasies, the anxiety I felt over the future of my career, and the secrecy—and she listened as if I was reciting some Emily Dickinson rather than describing the most wild experiences of my life.
None of it surprised her, and that surprisedme.
Lauren was right: I felt better getting it out, and I felt substantially better when she swore up and down she wasn’t peeping a word to anyone. Not even Matt.
“I gotta say,” Lauren laughed. “I love that you have this perfect storm. You’re so in sync at the office and it sounds like that carries over in bed. Too perfect. And the fact you held him off for so long blows my mind. I didnothave the same success.”
“Success with what now?”
Lauren licked her lips while a broad smile spread across her face. “So…I met Matthew on a Thursday, and went home with him on a Friday. Of the same week.” She lifted her hands. “And somehow managed to spend the next four days attached to his side, even though I was full-tilt obsessed with my work and not letting a guy get me off-track. I might have been a little crazy back then. And by ‘back then,’ I do mean a couple of months ago.”
That was the last thing I expected to hear from Lauren. I spent very little time piecing together her relationship with Matt, but I didn’t expect it to start with a glorified hook-up. She seemed altogether too innocent, too by-the-book.
“So, Andy, let’s get down to it. What do you want out of all of this?”
I watched the technician as she applied warm oil to my foot before digging her fingers into my tendons. She was getting an earful—I bet she could eat out for weeks on the stories she heard from her vantage point. My phone buzzed again, and I studied the screen.
20:28 Patrick:yeah I don’t know where you live. You don’t make a habit of telling me things like that.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just trying to enjoy Patrick, and not kill my career in the process.”
I typed a quick response while Lauren chuckled at a message streaming across her phone.
20:31 Andy:patience is one of the strongest warriors. the other is time.
“Yeah. I tried that too,” Lauren muttered. “Turns out you can do both. Who knew?” She shifted her attention from the sunny yellow color on her toenails, and gave me a serious look. “It’s been a rough couple of months for them, and they’ve been through a lot. I think…I think Patrick needs a soft place to land. They all do, but Patrick needs someone who will ride out the storm with him. He rides them all alone, and he can’t do that to himself anymore. Not now.”
I couldn’t tell whether she was warning me off or giving her blessing, and I decided not to ask, as I didn’t know what to think about either. “Rough couple of months?”
“Honestly, it’s been a rough twenty years for them.” My eyebrows arched and Lauren held up a finger to shut me down. “Do not misinterpret the Ivy League educations orBoston Magazinecovers or the fact they’re generally put-together, functional adults. They’re little orphans in nice clothes who know how to use big words.”
Lauren skimmed through the Walsh family highlights, and I started to see my colleagues in a new light. My eyes fixed on the first coat of polish as it went down, studying the brushstrokes instead of Lauren’s soulful expressions. The Patrick I knew was funny, and generous, and a great mentor—he wasn’t an abandoned child who rebuilt a family business from rubble and kept it going despite his father’s destructive ploys.
While two more coats of black cherry paint covered my toenails and our glasses were refilled with another round, Lauren recapped their history. Angus Walsh’s hate-filled blowout with his sons, and his subsequent stroke and death. The grenade attack will. The blame Angus levied on his children for their mother’s death. Their collective dedication to the business that left them without an ounce of free time. Their loyalty to each other. Their refusal to quit when all of the odds lined up against them. Their warm acceptance of her in their circle.
We eventually parted—after Lauren insisted that we meet for lunch and shopping over the weekend—and I hiked through the snowy streets of Beacon Hill toward my apartment. It was a lot to digest, and I knew a little something about growing up with an adequate degree of dysfunction to know that Patrickwasriding out a storm. It was a lot to process, and if I knew what was good for me, I’d back away.
Without thinking, I tossed a few items in my bag and headed straight for the North End. Icy slush and snow crunched beneath my boots, but I didn’t hear it while I reorganized everything I knew about Patrick, his siblings, and the firm.
I couldn’t explain why I was going to him. I only knew I needed to be with him, put my arms around him, and hold him tight.
I wasn’t the girl who paid attention to sad stories. I had my own, and I wasn’t waiting for anyone to pat my head and make it all better—no, I found my big girl panties a long time ago, and I expected everyone else to do the same. In fact, I steered clear of all sad stories unless we were talking solutions. The last thing I was qualified for was comforting friends in their times of need. I never knew what to do and empathy wasn’t my strength.
It’s not that I was a coldhearted bitch—I wasn’t. I knew sitting around and being depressed wouldn’t make a damn thing better, and if I wanted to stop feeling broken, picking up the pieces and gluing myself back together was the only way to do it.
Patrick glued himself back together, too. All the signs were there, waiting for me to add them up. He was a survivor, and he saw to it that his siblings made it through, even if it crushed him a little more along the way. He avoided asking personal questions because reciprocating led down a path few cared to explore. He kept a small, tight group of friends who knew enough to keep history in the past. Though he never brought it up, it was obvious serious girlfriends were few and far between. But when he let himself connect with someone, he gaveeverything.
I memorized Patrick’s building code the night he gave it to me, and barely noticed my gloved fingers moving over the keypad when I reached the door, or the climb up three flights of stairs. He answered within seconds.
“Was that a Tolstoy quote?”
“Yes, now come here.” My bag and coat dropped to the floor, and I sighed when my arms wrapped around him. My palms pressed against the corded muscles of his shoulders, absorbing his warmth. There was something charming about Patrick’s low-slung fleece pants and thermal shirt. It was a younger, less intimidating look than the dress trousers, Oxford shirt, and tie combo that he frequently paired with v-neck sweaters or half-zip pullovers, or suits. God help me, those suits were devastating.
