“Vodka gimlet,” the bartender announced, and I fisted the tumbler before it touched the cocktail napkin. “I know that look.”
“Listen, dude. This is a beautifully made gimlet, and for that, I thank you. I promise to tip generously. A few more of these and my day won’t look like such a monumental clusterfuck anymore, but I’m in no shape for bar banter.”
“My bar, my banter,” he quipped. “Like I said, I know that look. Either your boss is putting you through hell, or your boyfriend is. Am I close?”
Snickering, I set the empty tumbler on the napkin, and after I sent a purposeful glance toward the glass, he started fixing another. “They’re putting me through hell, that’s for sure,” I mumbled. “They’re the same person.”
“Shit.”
“Amen.” I lifted my glass in salute. “While you’re here, you should also know my oldest friend just told me that I’m a self-centered bitch, and my only other friend is my boss-slash-boyfriend’s future sister-in-law.”
“In that case, this one’s on me. Start talkin’, sister.”
Chapter Twenty-One
PATRICK
Iwas inlavender withdrawal, and though I didn’t know much about heroin withdrawal, I couldn’t imagine how that could be much worse. Andy, and all of her lavenderness, lived in my cells, and I suspected detoxing required the assistance of a witch doctor. Maybe leeches.
When I finally scraped my jaw off the floor Friday night, Andy was long gone. I gained an unhealthy amount of satisfaction from calling Dave Lin and ripping him a new asshole over the bullshit he was spreading. I stalked her apartment for hours, eventually giving up around one in the morning. All of my calls went to voicemail, and I ignored the possibility that fiendish texting was overkill. Convinced she’d show up at my door or text me in the middle of the night, I spent the entire weekend awake, watching a Spanish language soccer channel while the phantom scent of lavender mocked me from every corner of my apartment.
Eating, sleeping, and bathing took a backseat to staring at my phone, although there was the ancillary benefit of picking up some conversational Spanish.
There was no getting around that I was a steaming bowl of douche stew and there was no need to examine my failure to mention the firm’s partnership structure to Andy. It wasn’t a master plan to trick her into staying. I was willing to rewrite those documents when it was her time, and that time wasn’t coming until she spent a couple years at the firm and my siblings embraced the idea of her as a partner. It was an idiotic omission and I let it turn into a landslide of jealous, insecure bullshit.
Monday morning felt like a joke. We were going to be an official, legitimate couple—finally. All that rightness was now a pile of wrongs.
My bed earned a baleful stare when I shuffled toward the shower, and I hated the smooth blankets and neatly stacked pillows staring back at me. I remembered her making the bed while I bitched about my trip to Cornell last Thursday morning, and her wry comment that I had more separation anxiety about a night apart than most toddlers.
Sleeping there without Andy didn’t interest me. Hell, sleep in any location without Andy didn’t interest me.
Stepping into my closet brought me face-to-face with an assortment of dark-colored clothes, and a pile of absurdly random knee socks. My fingers stroked over a yellow pair with green bullfrogs, and I ached to go back in time. If it weren’t for the certainty I’d soon be able to lock Andy in an office and talk this shit out, I would have spent the day scowling on my sofa.
Taking the long route around Beacon Hill to the coffee shop Andy loved on Tremont Street gave me time to evaluate my precise depth in the insanity quicksand, and the route from Tremont Street to the office reminded me the quicksand was of my own design.
When I reached the office, I headed straight for the attic, grateful for the distraction of talking shop. At the top of the stairs, I rounded the corner into the small, safe room that always renewed my faith in my siblings and our work, the one room in the office free from any tint of Andy, and I froze in my tracks.
She was the last person I expected to see seated between Riley and Matt at the round table. But then I remembered: she was Matt’s apprentice now.
She didn’t belong to me anymore. If she ever belonged to me at all.
Laughing at a story Riley told, she didn’t shift her focus from him for a moment, and not a single trace of sadness over the state of us was evident.
I just needed a breadcrumb.
“Anytime you’re ready, Patrick,” Shannon whispered.
Clutching my messenger bag to my chest, I sank into my seat and turned to Shannon. “Can you get this started?”
She frowned. “Are you okay? You look…a little green.”
Andy was glowing. Her skin was sun-kissed and her dark eyes shone brighter than usual. She wore a thin gray v-neck blouse, the trendy kind that was a little too big and a little sheer, and I wanted to trace the edges of the fabric, feeling her smooth skin against my fingers.
“Run the meeting, Shannon,” I snapped. She recoiled at my tone, and I hated myself for it.
“It’s a lovely morning to see you all. We’re living in the middle of our own jobsite right now but I’m sure Riley can tell us about the progress on that in a few moments. If we can survive the next few days without injury or incident, I will gladly pick up the bar tab Friday night. But right now, no time to waste.” Shannon snapped her fingers and pointed toward Sam. “Go.”
I kept my shoulders hunched and eyes on my screen, typing nearly verbatim notes without listening. Their projects were not my primary concerns. They probably didn’t crack my top ten.
