behind me, forgetting that from the outside, I’m
locked out. I stay there, in the freezing cold, with
no coat on and stand under the hail that hits me
without pity, hitting me, like it wants to slap me,
like it wants to really hit home this idea: that
Patrick is not the one for me.
I cover my face with my hands as I start to
shiver in the cold, without being able to calm my
cries and unable to avoid shattering like a glass left
to crash into a million splinters on the pavement.
And then the door slams open.
And he’s here.
He’s worried, and scared and desperate.
He’s absolutely perfect.
He looks at me and in a heartbeat all the pieces
come back together and I can breathe again, as if
he were the air passing through my lungs.
“I … I’m sorry,” he yells, trying to drown out
the sound of the hail.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I yell back.
He takes a step forward.
“It is. I allowed all of this to happen. I
established a reputation that meant that trashy girls
like that would come here looking for me. I made
it so that everyone believed that I am the dickhead
that I really am. That you would think it too.”
“And you are,” I say, moving my wet hair from
my eyes.
“I am.” He smiles bitterly. “But I don’t want to
be like that any more.”
