by Nicole Deese
A soon-to-be long-distance friend.
Controlling the cadence of my steps as I approached him, I reached for my coat on the rack by the door, but Patrick’s hand was quicker.
Without a word, he held my coat open for me in invitation. I accepted.
Gathering my hair over one shoulder, I looped my scarf around my neck. “Thank you.”
“Can I walk you to your car?” The gravelly undertone in his voice told me he was going to follow regardless of permission.
“Yes.”
The blacktop shimmered under the light of the moon. No trace of snow or ice. Just tiny specks of salt that shone like diamonds in a black sea.
We’d walked together so many times over the last few months that we’d developed a cadence that allowed for our differing heights and strides, yet each step to my car felt out of sync. We were out of rhythm. Out of time.
I clicked the unlock button and the sound ricocheted through me like a gunshot.
He opened my door and clamped his hands to the top of the frame. “He’s right, you know. Your brother. You’re a . . . remarkable woman. An inspiration.”
“Says the man who’s helped save thousands of lives worldwide.”
His knuckles faded from pink to white. “No. Says the man who’s spent the last three months with you.” The passion in his voice made my chest ache—a pulsing, throbbing, raging kind of ache I wished I could mute.
“I should have told you that sooner. I should have . . .” His words trailed into a soundless thought.
“Patrick.” My fingertips burned to touch him, begged to soften the pain etched into each stressed line of his face. “It’s okay.” And for the first time, I believed it could be. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday. “You’ve given me back a piece of myself I thought I’d lost. Your friendship has meant so much.”
Patrick avoided my eyes; his Adam’s apple rose and fell. “I hurt you.”
I couldn’t stand it another second. I touched my palm to his cheek and pushed my fingers through the russet locks of hair at his temple.
“Look at me,” I whispered. “Patrick. Look at me.”
The torment in his eyes was enough to make me double over, yet I stood strong. My mind and heart were finally working in tandem. I wouldn’t allow the weeks we’d spent apart to erase the months we’d spent together. Wherever Patrick traveled, wherever he journeyed in this world, I needed him to remember—if nothing else—that his investment in me had been worth the risk.
“I don’t regret you or the time we spent together.” The truth of my words soothed the wound in my soul like a healing balm.
He placed his hand over mine. “I have something for you. A Christmas gift. Wait here.”
He pushed himself back a step and jogged to his car just three spaces away from mine.
I watched him fade into the darkness and reappear a few seconds later.
He handed me an oversized envelope, my address printed on the front.
“You were going to send it?”
His eyes shifted to the weighted package in my hand. “I was hoping I’d be able to give it to you sometime this weekend . . . just wasn’t sure.”
Just wasn’t sure if I’d let him.
I fumbled with the seal at the back, reached inside, and slid a rectangular object from the envelope.
Patrick stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket as I flipped it over. Tears sprang to my eyes before I had the chance to take a breath. Before I had a chance to remind my heart to keep beating.
Bathed in the bluish hue of the security light overhead was a picture of my freedom: head tipped to the heavens and my eyes closed in silent prayer, as a watercolor sunset radiated behind me. Peace. Joy. Love. Freedom. Patrick had captured every single one of those words in the blink of a shutter. That had been one of the most monumental moments of my life. A moment he’d shared with me.
My hand splayed over my mouth as tears streamed down my cheeks.
After a hiccup-turned-sob, Patrick touched the back of my head.
“You’re starting to make me wish I’d mailed it . . .” The humor in his tone made me laugh through my sniffles.
As I lifted my head, a wet, sticky blink of running makeup stung my eyes. The twisted grin on Patrick’s mouth confirmed what I imagined had happened to my face.
“You aren’t supposed to make a girl ugly-cry when she has mascara on. That is really bad etiquette for gift giving.”
That did it.
Patrick’s choked laughter started out as a solo but soon became a duet. Our laughs were a release, a liberation of tension. The sound, bordering on full-scale hysteria, echoed in the open night air.
The instant one of us would start to quiet, the other would start up again. I unwrapped the scarf from my neck and swiped at my black-smeared cheeks. Patrick guided my hand and pointed out spots that I’d missed, which of course only began another round of tireless chortles.
After a few long sighs and sobering smiles, I held out the canvas picture.
And this time, I was determined to speak without tears and without a certifiable fit of giggles.
I looked between him and my new treasure. “This is easily the best gift I’ve ever been given.”
Patrick’s hand covered mine as he studied the piece of art. Several seconds passed before he spoke. “This one.”
I wrinkled my face, confused.
“You asked if I had a favorite sunset and I told you I didn’t. But that’s not true anymore. This one’s my favorite.”
A surge of emotion rose in my throat again, and I knew Patrick could sense it. He always could. He leaned in and pressed his lips to my hairline and then backed away slowly.
The effort it took me to open my eyes was the same effort it took for me to accept what was coming in a matter of days. There were so many things I wanted to say, so many conversations I wanted to have, but none of them were suited for a parking lot.
I licked my bottom lip and stared down at my hands. “I wish I had something to give to you, something even half as special as this—”
“A dance,” he said. “Tomorrow night. At the wedding.”
“A dance?”
“Yes. That’s the only thank-you I want.”
A wavering sound came out of my throat. “Okay.”
He flashed a grin that I could feel in my toes. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Yes. Tomorrow,” I confirmed, the words a chiming benediction as I climbed into my car and set the generous gift beside me.
He closed my door and then stared at me through the glass. He searched my face, from the top of my head to the underside of my jaw.
We’d shared many glances over the course of the night—some stolen, some freely exchanged. But Patrick wasn’t looking at me; he was memorizing me.
My lungs burned for breath as I raised a shaky hand to the window and mouthed a good night.
Just a good night.
Not a good-bye.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“So, this ‘plus one’ jazz comes with some great perks,” Alex said, chowing down on the three-course reception dinner. She wiped her mouth on the linen napkin. “That was the first wedding I’ve been to in a theater. Looked like a friggin’ winter palace in there. Never seen so many twinkle lights in all my life.”
“That theater is a special place to Weston and Georgia—it’s where they fell in love.”
Everything about the ceremony had been flawless: the décor, the processional, the cheers for an encore after their first wedded kiss.
Alex slumped back against the tulle-wrapped chair. “Well, it was something. I even teared up.”
The confession pulled me out of my melancholy. “You did?”
“Yeah. Weston’s face when he saw Georgia . . .” She shook her head. “Thought that stuff only happened in sappy movies.”
I picked at my dinner roll. “It happens in real life, too. Timing is everything.” The words tangled into a knot in th
e pit of my stomach.
The reception was taking place in an upscale lodge just twenty minutes from downtown Lenox. I scanned the winter-wonderland-themed room and caught sight of Patrick. He was engaged in a lively conversation with a pocket of townsmen, and it was easy to imagine the peppering of questions he was receiving. Where was he going next? What kind of work was he doing? How long was this medical mission?
Would he ever come back?
He angled his head toward me and offered me a wink-smile combination that sent a fiery arrow straight through my heart.
Alex waved her hand in front of my face. “You know, your brother wasn’t the only man staring at a woman during the ceremony.”
My uneaten salmon suddenly called for an inspection.
Whatever Alex had seen in Patrick’s face was one ten-thousandth of what I’d felt on that stage. Weston and Georgia’s vows of undying love and commitment had been emotional enough without the added bonus of Patrick’s presence.
I dropped my roll onto my plate and slid my chair back. “I should go check on Savannah.”
“She’s right there. With your dad.” Alex pointed to the dance floor at the front of the room. “Looks like she’s gettin’ her groove on, too.”
“Then I’m going to get some water.”
“Uh.” This time Alex pointed to my water glass. The one I hadn’t touched all night. The one two inches from my plate.
“Fine.” A weary sigh. “I’m going outside for some air.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard. I’d need a break, too, if Dr. Dreamboat had been staring at me like that all night.” Legs crossed, her foot swung like a pendulum under the table.
I blinked twice. “Alex. You’re not wearing your boots.”
“Your observations skills really suck.” She snagged the dinner roll off my plate. “You aren’t gonna eat this, right?”
She was right. I should have noticed her dramatic wardrobe change way before now. “You look really beautiful.”
“A little rummaging in Syd’s closet and voilà.” Her fingers imitated a bursting firework, and then, “But my getup is trash compared to what you’re wearing. You look like you’re about to audition as Audrey Hepburn. Except for the whole blond-hair thing.”
I opened my mouth and immediately closed it again when Preston Wilkerson strolled up to our table. His Beach Boy hair and boy-next-door grin were quite possibly the sweetest combination of handsome I’d seen tonight—minus one tearful groom and one traveling doctor.
“Hey, Alex.” Preston’s tone was confident yet casual.
She eyed him like a stray dog. “Hey?”
He tapped his left foot—heel to toe, heel to toe, heel to toe. My jaw slacked. I’d known Preston since he was a toddler. The kid was a star baseball player, a debate class champion, and a theater buff. I’d never seen him nervous.
“I was wondering if you’d like to dance.”
Her body jerked back as if electrocuted by his question. “With you?”
“Yeah,” was his simple reply. “You look really pretty tonight.”
Air escaped her open mouth—just air. No words.
Somebody should record this.
“She’d love to,” I answered, pushing her shoulder.
Alex’s swift glare could have drawn blood. “Weren’t you needing to get some air, Willa? I think your brain is overheating.”
“Nice try.” I snatched the roll from her death grip and tossed it back on my plate. “Go dance.” I leveled her with my best mom eyes. “Go.”
Rolling her eyes as she stood, she twisted to face Preston. Her black A-line dress swished around her petite frame like ripples of water.
“I’m not a fan of hand holding,” she said.
“Noted.” His lips twitched.
“Or touching in general—unless absolutely necessary.”
“Also noted.” A slight shrug. “Who said slow dancing had to require touching anyway?”
Laughter burst from her throat—a beam of light in a dim room.
He crooked his elbow and offered to lead her to the dance floor. I held my breath, hoping she wouldn’t completely flatten his attempt at chivalry.
But Alex never failed to surprise me.
In a very ungraceful fashion, she shoved her arm in his and tugged him to the dance floor.
A chuckle still on my lips, I lifted my hem and whirled toward the exit door.
“Escaping your brother’s wedding is a punishable offense in some countries.”
Patrick’s voice reeled me in like bait dangling before a prize fish. Unlike a fish, however, I had zero desire to be thrown back after I was caught.
“And have you been to those countries?” I challenged.
“Maybe.” That lazy grin of his could melt an igloo. “But that dress . . .” He gestured to the emerald bridesmaid dress—a strapless, heart-shaped bodice with draping fabric pinned to my left hip. “. . . would definitely be illegal in some of the places I’ve traveled.”
Fine. If he was gonna play cheeky, then so was I. “Maybe I should have worn the Mrs. Claus costume instead?”
He groaned and swiped a hand down his face. “That costume should be burned.”
“Can’t disagree with you there.”
“I’ll add it to my list of things to do before I leave—right after transitioning the clinic back over to my father.”
Before I leave.
These three words sucked the joy from my soul. Lighthearted banter could only last so long before the truth settled back in like a coming storm.
“Hey.” He tilted my chin with the tip of his finger. “No frowning allowed on the dance floor.”
“We’re not on the dance floor.”
“But we will be as soon as I collect on my thank-you gift.”
I tried to salvage the remains of a smile I didn’t quite trust.
Deciding it was too intimate a present to be displayed in my hallway, I’d placed Patrick’s photograph on my nightstand—the first thing I saw when I woke up. And the last thing I saw before I went to sleep.
He offered me his elbow. “Don’t put it past me to beg. Because I will.”
How I was able to burn with both unexpressed laughter and unshed tears, I didn’t know. But one thing I did know: I was crazy about this man. There was no hiding it. No changing it. My feelings for him were as real as the breath in my lungs and the beat in my chest.
“You don’t have to beg.”
I linked my arm through his, and together we walked to the dance floor.
The wedding band had just started a new song. It was a slow melody I recognized, but the lyrics couldn’t break through the haze of my thoughts. I was only focused on one thing, and it wasn’t the music.
“So there’s a lot to do at the clinic this week with your father?”
Patrick slid an arm around my waist and pulled me close—so close that I shuddered when his breath swept across my temple.
“Understatement. But I did let him know that if he ever needed a good office organizer, you were the woman to call.”
“He knows I’d help him whenever and however I could. Anytime.”
Patrick pulled back slightly, studied my face. “He does know that. You seem to have made quite the impression on the McCade family.”
I remembered the conversation I’d had with Ivar on the wintry sidewalk just a few days ago. “He’s played an important role in my journey.” Like you have.
Patrick swayed and led us in a tight circle. Chest to chest, breath mingling with breath; his mouth was in dangerous proximity to my own.
“He’s a good man.” His voice was low, reflective.
“So are you.” My soft-spoken words were saturated in honesty. “It may seem like your calling is so different from his—but I don’t think that’s true, Patrick. The where and how don’t matter nearly as much as the why. And your why, your reason for serving others—whether that be in a small town, or a remote village, or a big city—is the same as his. Compassion is the t
rademark of a good heart.”
A look of quiet intensity crossed his face, and goose bumps traveled up my arms. “Is that a Rexism?”
“You don’t know? Guess the student just became the teacher.”
Patrick’s hand slipped away from my hip and pressed against my lower back. The scruff of his cheek brushed against the side of my face, and every bone in my body weakened.
One song faded into the next, in a continuous string of starts and stops, tempos and timing, rhythm and beats. Patrick guided me in twists and turns and spins and swings.
The music folded in on itself, building layer upon layer of melting notes and rising swells while a violent passion quaked within me. It was the kind of passion that birthed joy and sorrow, that clashed light and dark—the kind that moved and sang and lived.
Patrick slowed our steps and our movement matched the low purr of a reflective ballad. There was a sheen of sweat at the base of his throat where his pulse beat hard and steady. Our fingers intertwined, he brought our hands to his chest, and I nestled closer, resting my head against his shoulder and catching my breath.
“Maybe . . .” There was a slip in his voice, a slight release, as if someone had thrown open a gate and let his subconscious break free. “Maybe I could visit Lenox again this summer for a few weeks. Come and see you.”
A few weeks. The words tumbled to and fro in my mind. Imagining Patrick’s return was as easy as creating a countdown on our calendar. Only this countdown wouldn’t end at his arrival, it would keep counting, a continuous cycle of comings and goings. A relationship with Patrick would be an endless seesaw of emotions teetering between hope and heartache—a relationship with an indefinite time stamp.
“Internet can be spotty, and mail is slow, but maybe . . . maybe we could try. We could try to make this work. Make us work.”
Three weeks ago, I’d begged Patrick for options—any option that would make the two of us work. Three weeks ago, I would have gladly settled for a long-distance romance that spanned oceans and continents and bad mail carriers. But this option was only half the answer to my whole heart’s plea: to be with him.
“Patrick.” He pulled me closer at the sorrowful sound of his name on my lips. “You told me yourself that relationships in your field don’t work.” I fingered a button near the collar of his dress shirt and then pressed my palm flat against his chest, over his heart. “Let’s just enjoy the time you have left here.”