Pointy Eyebrows and her friend had gotten their shots of Bushmills and were ninety percent of the way to passing out on the bar.
Will nudged Patrick’s attention back. “So what do you mean you and Anita aren’t together? I heard it from John Flaherty.”
Damn it, John.Though maybe some rumors might kick him out of friend purgatory. “We’re not. I promised to dance with her at this thing in Harrisburg in a couple of weeks. That’s all.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “That’s all?”
Patrick said nothing in reply. He focused on the black-and-white TV with the rabbit ears, though the image was too grainy to see any detail. Will watched him for a few moments, tapping his fingers on the sticky wood table.
“You know, I read some of your stuff from New York,” Will finally said. “My boyfriend wants to plan a trip now.”
New York. Patrick had gotten more work done in three months there than in three years in Lewis. And had hated almost every minute.
“It’s a great city. I got a lot of really good feedback. I can give you guys a list when you go.”
Will tilted his head curiously. “So if it was so great, why are you back? New York has a lot more opportunities for a guy like you.”
He was not sure he was actually going to say the words until they left his mouth. “Honestly, I have no idea.” He squeezed his cheeks between his palms, reveling in the pain. His mother was going to be right. He was wasting his potential.
Will polished off his second beer, then picked up Patrick’s and poured it down his throat as well. He patted Patrick companionably on the back. “You have really got it bad, don’t you, dude?”
“No, everythin—” Patrick sighed. “It’s fucking torture, man.” He covered his eyes with his hands, pressing the palms into them. “I honestly thought it was awful just being near her and not being with her, but I was wrong. It is a thousand times worse to dance with her, to touch her every single fucking day for hours on end, and she still does not want me. I think the woman could work at Guantanamo.” Shit. Had he really just said all of that out loud? He glanced around the bar, anywhere but at Will. The librarians were hanging onto each other’s shoulders, barely propped against gravity. The woman in the Phillies cap was staring at them.
She probably wanted to know why the has-been Patrick O’Leary was having a breakdown in a dive bar.
If the floor could swallow him now.
Will nudged a shot glass full of amber liquid in Patrick’s direction. He took it gratefully, though he was not the biggest fan. Toss it back anyway. Deal with the burn. It covered the ache in his chest.
“What are you going to do?” Will asked. He had gotten himself another Yuengling and took a long pull.
Patrick sighed. “I’m going to leave. I can’t keep doing this.”
Will raised both of his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “Are you still going to compete?”
The alcohol pulsed through his system, mocking his heartbeat. Would it be the same when he was not with Anita? “I promised her. I can’t break my promise.”
****
Neither of them noticed the blonde woman in the Phillies cap snap a photo before she slipped out the door.
Chapter Twelve
“Holy shit!” Anita cried and leapt backward four feet. Hot tears prickled at the backs of her eyes.
There on the doorstep of the studio was a dead bird, its wings splayed at an odd angle and its little head twisted off its body.
“Poor little robin.” Anita extended a hand toward it but then recoiled. It was clearly dead. A headless bird could not come back to life, and though she was a more than fair seamstress, this was beyond her capacity. It still hurt her soul, though.
“Hey!” she heard Patrick call.
The day had dawned a warm spring morning, and Patrick had clearly taken advantage of the weather by walking from his apartment. His thin leather jacket casually accented his musculature.Not a helpful line of thought.Spending so much time together lately had clearly addled her brain.
He smiled when he saw her but then followed her gaze.
“Holy shit, is that a robin?”
“I think so.” She shivered. “I don’t know what happened. I’ve seen birds hit the window and get stunned before, but that doesn’t rip their heads off.” She needed to find a shoebox and an old washcloth. Bird funerals had been her specialty at one point.
