“Full of good memories then?”
“Yeah.”
I weighed my options. Should I let him offer information or should I ask for it? I didn’t want to pry, but he did seem to be in a good place this morning. Maybe he’d be receptive. “When did your dad die?”
“I was fourteen.” He laid back on the blanket, tucking his hands behind his head. “Long time ago.”
“What’s your favorite memory of him?”
He was silent so long I almost regretted asking. “Being here with him. He’d get me out of bed, take me to get donuts, and then we’d come up here. Sometimes, he’d talk a lot and tell me stories about Grandpa or old war tales and fables. Other times we’d sit in silence. But every time the sun started to come over the horizon, he’d cry.”
“Why?”
“Moved by the beauty, I reckon.”
“Sounds like he was a great dad.”
“The best.”
Silence settled between us as the purple streaks lengthened, and the dark grey turned lighter.
Pat shifted on his side to look at me. “I lied to you, and it’s been eating me alive.”
I rolled to meet his gaze. My heart thumped.
“Tracy Moore wasn’t my wife.” He shook his head. “She was my high school sweetheart, Gracie Scott. Her father was an abusive, disgusting man, so she ran away from home and changed her name. I’ve always thought I’d eventually find her.”
He took a deep breath and blew it out. His brow was furrowed, and he looked down at his hands. “I went to Denver and Atlanta that weekend to follow a lead. I ended up finding the woman she lived with, Shaye, who told me Gracie’s gone. She overdosed eleven years ago.”
“She died eleven years ago, and you didn’t know?”
“In a way, I did. Shaye confirmed what I was too scared to admit.” He twiddled a piece of grass in his fingers. “I’ve been grieving Gracie for years, wondering why she never came back, never wrote, never called. My heart knew the truth although my brain wouldn’t let me believe it.” He shrugged. “I loved her. Still do.”
My vision blurred. “Pat, I’m so sorry.”
I placed my hand on his forearm and he continued. “Everyone that has ever meant anything to me is dead. Made me want to be dead too. It’s taken me almost three weeks to feel strong enough to talk about it. I’m sorry to make you wait so long.”
Pat was a man of few words, and his willingness to open up threatened the floodgate of my own emotions. He faced his problems with such bravery. I was jealous. Why couldn’t I do that, too? In the quiet of the last few weeks, I’d tried to be honest with myself. But the harder I pursued the truth, the more it receded into the darkness. When I mustered the courage to try, my heart bucked.
“You didn’t have to talk about it at all.”
“I wanted to. You deserve to know.” Patrick’s hand came to my face, and he gently brushed a strand of hair off of my cheek.
His hazel, knowing eyes were wide, diving into my own. I felt naked under his gaze. He would see all of my insecurities and the way I doubted and hated myself. I wanted to appear strong and confident, but I knew he would see through my flimsy facade.
“Look, I know enough about you to know you’re fighting battles of your own. But you’ve given up almost three whole weeks to sit by my side. Being whatever I needed in the moment, without expecting anything in return.”
He made it sound heroic. In hindsight, I saw I did it for me. Pat mademefeel better. I started shaking my head.
“Not only did you physically save my life when I tried to end it, but you gave me a reason not to try again.” He turned onto his back and rubbed his sternum. He spoke, looking at the sky. “I hated the idea of you hovering around, but I needed it. I still don’t know why you chose to, but I’m thankful. I’m glad I’m still here.”
The morning’s rays illuminated our surroundings. The hills surrounded a valley plunging below our perching point. Blue and purple light chased out the darkness and glistened off the dewy grass. Pat turned to look at me again, but I didn’t want to be seen. Not straight through the way Pat saw me.
He lowered his voice to an almost whisper. “I’m glad you’re still here, too.”
The words sent chills down my back, and I froze. Did he know? I’d never mentioned to him my own desires to end it all. There’s no way he could know about the times I’d done 70mph down country roads, drunk and fisting a bottle. Or the times I’d rock climbed alone, purposefully setting my pitons too loose. He couldn’t know how angry I’d gotten when I made it to the top alive, and how close I was to jumping and finishing the thing.
But something about being with him made me glad to be alive, too. Glad the universe took none of my dares very seriously. His natural serenity attracted me like the opposite pole on a magnet. I needed an anchor in my life. An anchor like Patrick.
