“Like,literallyshot you, with a gun, and I vehemently despise guns.”
“I know that.”
“I got scared and paranoid in this house. You know, waiting for thugs, who seriously could have shown up. I’m now basically working with a mix of fury and paranoia. It’s a weird cocktail of emotions.” Ihold out my trembling hand. And the disgusting gun. “Can you take this from me? And unload it?”
Patrick takes the horrid gun from my hand and somehow knows how to make it nonlethal. The sound of bullets being expelled is both terrifying and reassuring.
Now that accidental shootings are off the plate, I hurl my hands against his chest, wishing I could scream, but unable to produce more than a crying whisper.
“Thank you for that, but four years? Four fucking years? And now you just show up at my dead dad’s house?” I wish I could yell, but I’m too drained, so I just exhale. “You son of a bitch.” My voice is biting and filled with the vitriol he deserves.
I want to lash out, but he’s all Patrick with that damn leather biker jacket that both suits and doesn’t suit him. And with his infectious smile.
At least he agrees. “I am a son of a bitch. And I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
It takes all I have to control my breath, to not fall apart.
“You fucker,” I say as I let him in. “Why are you here?”
“Your dad died,” he says softly.
“No shit. How did you know?”
He smiles with his inherent, sincere, and charming smile. “You think I haven’t been following your amazing social media stuff?”
For what feels like ages, I just look at him. He’s myeverythingfriend. But he’s just one person, and maybe it’s too much to put that demand on one person, even inadvertently. Yet, even as I tear up, he doesn’t look away because maybe it isn’t.
Because maybe I am that person to him too.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “About the last time I saw you. About disappearing. And now about your dad.”
I fall into him, just so happy he’s back.
After we breathe and rock each other back and forth in exaggerated hugs, I break away. “Can you get me out of this fucking insane house and back to my nice hotel?” I push a pile of tissuesagainst my eyes and hand him my house keys. “I have a suitcase. Somewhere.”
“I can do both of those things.”
“And you’ll stay with me?”
“Well, you have a history of treating me to truly low-level hotels, and I can tell this one will be extra gross, but sure.”
Major sarcasm has apparently not died off in the past couple of years.
After he’s snagged my suitcase, he walks me outside and makes a dramatic display of ushering me to the car. “Madame? To counter those shoddy housings you’d subjected me to, I found this chariot.” He winks and mimics the sound of a fob unlocking the car. “Blink-blink-beep! But how’s this?”
I both balk and freeze. My dream car is sitting in front of me. It’s an old-school Volvo two-seater. Deep green with brown leather bucket seats. Vintage.
“It’s yours, kiddo. Ready to go?”
“No, I’m not ready to go. I can’t even breathe. What a ride!”
Patrick puts a gentle hand on the back of my neck and guides me ahead and opens the door. “Then I’ll breathe for you. Watch your head.”
Just before he hits the gas, he shares that this old car is not so old. It’s got all the possible updates, and he proves so when he plugs in an address on a screen. “See?” He grins and then drives way too fast.
Patrick deserves a speeding ticket, but I love every minute.
