by Megyn Ward
They feel sorry for him.
He fucking hates it.
“And how the hell is this supposed to help anybody?” He crosses his arms over his chest and sends a glare around the room. “I don’t even get what you’re trying to do here.”
Yes he does. He’s stubborn, not stupid. Instead of arguing, I explain it to him again. “The plan is simple—offer reduced rate housing to vets. In exchange, they put in volunteer hours at the community center. Vets get a nice apartment and something to do that’s worthwhile. Neighborhood kids get a place to hang out and decent role models to look up to.” I give him a grin. “Everybody wins—even asswipes like you.”
He narrows his eyes at me again. “And I don’t have to spoon Mrs. McGintey?”
“Only if you want to.”
Ryan laughs. It sounds forced. Practiced. I made a joke, so he laughs because that’s what he’s supposed to do. It’s what a normal person would do.
The problem is, Ryan isn’t normal. Not anymore. I’m beginning to wonder if he’ll ever be normal again.
“I’ll think about it,” he says, heading for the door, the thumping shuffle of his cane fading as he goes.
Sixty
Cari
I leave Davey’s, offering a promise to come back soon, and drive back to the garage. After our walk, Tess led me back to Con’s and slapped her keys in my hand. “Bring my baby back in one piece,” she said, jerking her chin toward her beloved ’67 Chevelle. Before heading through one of the bays. Within a few seconds, she had her music cranked back up and her coveralls back on, like Con didn’t completely lose his shit and fire her less than an hour ago.
I leave the keys under the seat like she instructed and head back to the apartment. My stomach is roiling, too much sugar being tossed around by anxiety and doubt. Part of me opened the front door, hoping he’d be there. That he’d make it easy for me. Let me say what I have to say, get it over with so we can get back to normal. Or at least try to.
But Patrick isn’t here and he isn’t coming back.
Not willingly, anyway.
Tossing my purse onto the counter, I head straight for the bedroom.
Our bedroom.
The room is almost exactly as I left it, right down to the pair of flip flops I keep behind the door. A new easel by the window. The table Patrick bought me to hold my paints and brushes. That’s when I finally see something different.
Something I’ve never seen before.
A polished wooden box with brushed brass hinges and a dainty knob inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Opening it, I feel my breath catch in my throat. Inside where paints and brushes. Next to the easel, a stack of fresh canvas leaning against the windowsill.
It happens again. Another orange tulips moment—a moment I can see and feel the way things used to be and the way I want them to be.
The way they should be.
Could be.
Standing there, looking out the window I see something I hadn’t noticed before. An Audi R8 parked on the street. Midnight blue. Though I can’t say for sure that it’s Patrick’s car, it’s a safe bet that not many other people in the neighborhood are driving around in a car with a six-figure price tag. Pulling out my phone, I tap out a text.
Me: We need to talk.
I see a man exit the building the Audi is parked in front of. He’s limping. Walking slowly. Carefully using a cane to steady and support his steps. He leans against the Audi and waits.
The man is no older than thirty. Dark hair that glints a dull red in the afternoon sun. A beard. Even from where I am, an entire floor up and half a block away, I get the impression of wounded pride. Barely suppressed rage.
For some reason, I’m sure this is the friend of theirs that Tess told me about this morning. Ryan. The Army Ranger.
While I’m watching him, my phone vibrates in my hand.
Patrick: Agreed.
Patrick: ...
Patrick: ...
I’m waiting for a long reply but what comes back is simple. A single word.
Patrick: When?
Before I can think myself out of it, I answer.
Me: tonight. After your dinner thing.
Patrick: It’ll be late.
Me: I don’t care.
Below, I watch Patrick exit the building his friend is standing in front of. He’s got his phone in his hand. Like he knows I’m watching him, he looks up and aims his gaze directly at me. His shoulders slump slightly and I watch as he taps out his response.
Patrick: Okay. Tonight.
Me: Do you still have the
painting I gave you?
Patrick: ...
Patrick: ...
Patrick: yes
Me: Bring it. I want it back.
Sixty-one
Patrick
I drive Ryan back to Sojourn and drop him off. He doesn’t say anything else about what we talked about. He seems angry—which is totally normal for him these days—but he’s not telling me to go fuck myself, so I’ll take it as progress.
He doesn’t say a word until I pull up to the center and put the car in park. “Things not going good with your girl?” he says, hand poised on the door handle to open it. He’s never met Cari but he’s heard about her plenty. When he first came home, he was nearly catatonic. I spent a lot of time talking.
I consider telling him to mind his own fucking business but this is the first time since he’s been back he’s taken any sort of interest in... anything. “No.” I give him a one-word answer, because even though I don’t want to shut him down completely, I still don’t want to talk about it.
“She’s come around,” he says, popping his door open. “I wouldn’t worry.”
“You think so, huh?” I shoot back, unable to keep the aggression out of my voice. “What makes you so sure?”
“Please.” Instead of challenged, Ryan seems amused. “Look at you,” he says with a sneer. “Fuckin’ Boston’s most eligible bachelor.” He shakes his head, raking his gaze over me. “Goddamn Captain America lookin’ motherfucker. Rich as God. Do-gooder, Mr. Save the World... plus, I’d bet that giant dick of yours still works just fine, so yeah—she’ll come around.” He laughs, the sound cold and humorless. “And if she doesn’t, there’s fifty more just like her, lining up to take her place.” He pushes his door open and climbs out, slowly, like an old man who doesn’t trust his own body to keep him upright.
Finally clear of the car, he uses his cane to push the door closed before stooping slightly, aiming his flat brown eyes in my direction. “If you’re looking for someone to feel sorry for you—keep looking. Because it sure as fuck ain’t gonna be me.”
I head back to the office, stopping in just long enough to give the inspection paperwork to Jane and ask her if she’s seen or heard from Declan.
She hasn’t.
“If he comes by or calls, shoot me a text,” I tell her. I’m trying not to worry but I’m about 24-hours away from encouraging Con into hacking his brother’s cell phone. If he hasn’t done it already.
“Of course, Mr.—” Jane stops herself, brow slightly furrowed. “Patrick.” She says my name like it’s causing her real pain to use it.
“See—you called me Patrick and nobody died,” I tell her, giving her a smile that doesn’t sit well on my face. Since smiling seems to be a foreign concept to her, she doesn’t notice.
“I’ll inform you immediately if he checks in. I’ll also register and file your inspection paperwork, submit your permit application and I’ve rescheduled the inspection for the Turner property for Monday morning—is there anything else I can do?” She sounds eager, like the more shit I throw at her, the happier she is. It makes me wonder what kind of life she leads outside this place. I can’t help thinking it must be pretty fucking sad if she’s excited at the prospect of staying late to file paperwork.
Not that I have room to judge.
Dealing with Ryan and the business and my cousins’ bullshit on my own is wearing me thin. The fact that Cari wants m
e to bring her the painting she gave me when she left is the shit frosting on an enormous shit cake.
Like I’m supposed to go home, get it, take it to dinner with me. Sit there and bullshit my way through a five-course meal, knowing the end of things with her is locked in my trunk, just waiting to happen.
Fuck that.
“Yes,” I tell her, scooping my car keys off my desk. “Cancel my seven o’clock dinner. I’ve got something to take care of that can’t wait.”
Sixty-two
Cari
I’m almost finished when the door buzzer sounds. Confused, I look out the window, trying to gauge the time. It can’t be later than eight o’clock. Brushing my hands against the seat of my pants, I head for the door.
“Yes?” I say, pressing the intercom button.
“Open the door.”
It’s Patrick. He sounds angry.
I stare at the intercom for a second, suddenly unsure what to do next. This afternoon, when I demanded he bring my painting back, it all seemed so clear. Now, it’s like I’m stuck in place.
“I thought you had a dinner,” I say, stalling for time.
“Cancelled it,” he says, his tone impatient, like he just wants to get it over with. “Now, open the goddamn door.”
“I—okay.” I jab my thumb against the lock release before turning the deadbolt on the laundry room door. As soon as I hear the door slam downstairs, I scramble back to the living room, my heart jammed in my throat.
Jesus, what am I doing?
There’s no time to second-guess myself. Within seconds I hear Patrick on the stairs, getting closer. In the laundry room, I hear the door open and close. The deadbolt being re-engaged.
And then he’s here. Patrick is standing in front of me. No suit this time. No cufflinks. Just jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. The same battered jacket he’s worn every winter since I met him. Hair tousled. Jaw set at a wary angle I’ve come to recognize. Green eyes clear and sharp. His fingers are hooked around the canvas frame of the painting I gave him before I left. The first one I ever painted of him. The night we met.
The night I fell in love with him.
He stops in front of me, leaving a few yards of space between us, like he doesn’t want to get too close. Looking around the room, seeing the stack of wrapped paintings I’ve moved out of my old room and parked my suitcase near the front door, his expression hardens. Goes from wary to angry.
“Was this a lie?” he says, holding up his free hand. Only it’s not free. Between his fingers is the card I left with the painting. I know what it says. He doesn’t even have to show me.
I love you too.
My first instinct is to lie. Pretend I have no idea what he’s showing me. Asking me.
For once, I fight those instincts. “Will you let me explain—please?”
His shoulders tighten and he looks away from me, swallows hard like he can’t breathe. “I’m listening.”
Opening my mouth, I’m not surprised when nothing comes out. Okay. I didn’t expect that. I expected a fight. Angry accusations. Instead, he’s willing to listen. To let me explain myself.
Another indication of how much he’s changed since I left.
I open my mouth again. Instead of giving an explanation, I ask for one. “Why did you buy my paintings?” I say, shaking my head before he can give me the same answer he gave me last night. “The real reason, Patrick. I want the truth.”
He tilts his face away, like he can’t look at me head on. “I wasn’t trying to buy you, if that’s what you’re getting at—I just...” He sighs, shaking his head. “You didn’t even ask me how I felt about you selling them.” He makes a sound, deep in this throat. I think it’s a laugh. “You just did it. Like they didn’t matter.” He doesn’t say it but I know what he’s thinking.
Like we didn’t matter.
“I know,” I tell him, shame burning its way across my chest. “I didn’t think—I mean, I should’ve...” I feel like a fish out of water, flopping and struggling against my newfound freedom. Taking a deep breath, I try again. “I didn’t want to sell them.”
“If you didn’t want to sell them, why did you?” he says, tone impatient, voice nearly raised to a shout.
Truth. He deserves the truth. “Because I was ashamed of them.”
He stares at me for a second, mouth slightly open before it snaps shut, slashing a thin, hard line across his face. “Wow...” He tosses the monogrammed notecard on the coffee table. Rubbing his free hand across his mouth, he looks at it like he expects it to come away bloody. “Ashamed? Good to know,” he says, nodding his head. “At least you’re finally being honest with me about the way you feel.” Stepping forward, he leans the painting in his hand, carefully against the stack. “They’re all yours—do what you want with them. Set fire to the whole fucking lot of them if you want to—” he looks up at me, giving a cold smile that tightens the nape of my neck. “just don’t do it in my bathtub this time, okay?”
He turns away, is halfway to the door before I find my voice. “You didn’t answer my question,” I say, expecting him to keep on walking. Instead he stops, forcing me to continue. “Why did you buy my paintings?”
“You want to know why?” He turns around, pinning me with a look that causes my heart to seize in my chest. “Because those paintings aren’t just about you and the way you feel about me.” He jabs a finger at them, never taking his eyes off me. “I’m exposed too. I’m loving you in every single one of them, and the thought of someone else owning a piece of that makes me more than a little crazy.”
Because he loves me.
He bought them because he loves me.
“You’re different,” I say, looking him in the eye. “It scares me a little.”
“I am different,” he says nodding his head. “So are you.”
“You’re right.” I catch my lip between my teeth, working up the courage to say what comes next. “I know what I’m worth—and it’s a hell of a lot more than I thought,” I tell him, taking a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I’m not perfect but I’m enough.”
“I’m glad you finally figured it out,” he says in a low tone.
“It wasn’t you or the way I felt about you that I was ashamed of, Patrick.” I take a step toward him, relieved when he stands his ground. Lets me come to him. “It was who I was when I painted them.” I’m close enough to touch him now but I don’t. Not yet. “Someone who felt like she didn’t deserve someone like you.”
He looks down at me and sighs. “I’m not perfect, Cari,” Patrick says, shaking his head. “I never have been.”
“I know,” I tell him, my lips curving slightly. “But I love you anyway.”
“What?” He looks at me, brow furrowed like he’s not sure he heard me correctly.
“I should’ve said it sooner,” I tell him, shaking my head. Now that I have, I don’t know what I’d been waiting for.
“Say it again.”
“I love you, Patrick.” I reach up, cupping my hand around his jaw and it flexes under my hand. “Not just the way you take care of me or the way you fuck me. You. Sweet-considerate-nice guy-you and demanding-aggressive-asshole-you.”
“You love me.” He says it softly, like he’s afraid to say it out loud.
“Yes.” I smile up at him, when his jaw goes slack under my hand.
His arms come up, hands wrapping around my arms to pull me closer. “Say it again.”
“I love you.”
I barely get the words out before he’s kissing me, his mouth devouring mine, hungry. Urgent. Breaking away, he glares down at me. “Why are your paintings stacked up in the living room?”
“Because they’re our paintings,” I tell him, pressing my lips against the corner of his mouth. “And I want you to help me hang them in our apartment—this place needs some color.”
He laughs, turning his head, he catches my mouth with his. His tongue is sweeping in, kissing me until I’m clinging to him, breathless. “And the suitcase?” he sa
ys, his mouth sliding away from mine to travel up the length of my throat to my ear.
I pull out of his grasp so I can wrap my arms around his neck, tilting my head back as his mouth moves lower. “I unpacked. It’s empty—I thought maybe we could burn it.” I laugh when I feel his lips curve into a smile. “You, know... for old times’ sake.”
Epilogue
Patrick
“Hey, boss,” the voice below me calls out, and I look down to see Jeff grinning up at me between the cracks in the sub-floor of the custom house we’re building.
“I swear to Christ, Jeff,” I say, shooting him an annoyed glare. “If you tell me the plumbing crew is running behind on the Thompson job, I’ll—”
“Plumbing crew’s already here, boss.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothin’ wrong, boss,” Jeff said, breaking into a wide grin. “Your girlfriend’s here.”
I sigh, looking away from him long enough to re-roll the blueprints I’d been using to spot-check work. Stuffing them back into their tube, I leave what will eventually be the master suite. Rounding the last few steps on the curved staircase, I find Jeff at the bottom of it. Still grinning.
“How many times do I have to tell you,” I say, slapping the tube against his chest as I stride past him. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Sorry, boss,” Jeff says to my back. “Your fiancé is here.”
Fiancé.
Cari’s going to marry me.
Goddamned right she is.
Tossing my hardhat onto one of the work tables set up in the entryway, I see her, leaning against my dusty work truck, shading her eyes with her hands, the ring I put on her finger, sparkling in the late morning sun.
She’s wearing a pair of cut-offs and a baggy, paint splattered T-shirt—one of mine—and flip-flops. Her hair is pulled away from her face, piled on top of her head and she has paint smudged on her cheek. Streaked across her thighs.