by Megyn Ward
The door opens, and there she is.
Cari.
Bare feet. Hair swept off her neck. Wearing yoga pants and a thin, loose-fitting shirt I’ve never seen before, the low, scooping neckline showing off her birthmark. The color of it deepens from pale pink to red wine in the space of a breath.
Instant. Hard-on.
Shit.
Her lips part, mouth opening slightly when she sees me. “Patrick...” Her tongue darts out to lick along her lower lip and I barely manage to stifle a groan. I want to grab her. Push my hands through her hair. Pull her against me. Put my mouth on her. Bury myself inside her.
Someone needs to follow me around with a spray bottle full of vinegar.
“Hey,” I say, amazed at how human I sound. “Just swinging by to check on things—thought I’d stop in and see if you’d like to grab a bite.”
“Uhh...” she looks over her shoulder, chewing on her bottom lip for a second. She looks nervous. Apprehensive. “Sure,” she finally says, just as I’m about to cut and run. She moves back, opening the door a bit wider, giving me room to pass through the door. When I don’t, we stand there at the foot of the stairs, too close for either of us to be comfortable, looking at each other like neither of us knows what to do next.
I clear my throat. “I thought we’d go to Benny’s,” I say, shoving my hands into the pockets of my coat in a last-ditch effort to keep them to myself.
“That would be perfect.” She smiles, and some of her nervousness evaporates. “Let me grab some shoes and—” She looks down at her shirt front and blushes. “change my clothes.”
I make the mistake of looking, my mouth open to tell her she looks perfect the way she is. Her nipples are clearly visible through the thin cotton of her shirt. She’s not wearing a bra.
Jesus.
“I’ll wait here,” I say, leaning against the doorframe while giving her what I hope to Christ is a smile and not a creepy stalker leer.
She looks like she’s going to insist I follow her up. Instead she nods. “Okay,” she says, tilting her head in the direction of the stairs. “I’ll be right down.”
She jogs up the stairs and disappears through the open archway. I can hear her moving around. Down the hall to one of the brand-new guest rooms. Not her old room. Our room. The only room in the apartment that didn’t get a complete overhaul.
After she left, I went a little crazy.
Okay, I went a lot crazy.
The kind of crazy that only total destruction can mollify. I knocked out walls. Pulled down ceilings. Ripped out cabinets and plumbing. I didn’t stop until it looked exactly the way I felt. Devastated. Damaged. Destroyed.
It didn’t matter that I’d only finished renovating it a handful of months ago. I wanted it gone. All of it. Anything that reminded me of her. How she felt. Tasted. Smelled.
I destroyed it all.
But when I carried my sledgehammer into our room, intent on tearing it all down, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t destroy the place where I felt her the most. So, I left it alone. Closed the door. Put it away. Moved on.
And then I started to rebuild. Fix it. Make it bigger. Better. Looking around the space, you’d never know it had been in ruins only months before.
The irony is not lost on me.
Twenty-nine
Cari
Patrick is here.
As soon as I know he can’t see me, I dash across the living room, bare feet slapping against shiny, hardwood floors that stretch in front of me in every direction. Careening around the corner, I slide down the hall and into one of the brand-new guest suites.
Guest suites. There are four of them.
The apartment is gorgeous. If not for the fact that I can look out the window and recognize the view, I wouldn’t believe it’s the same place I left. It’s easier four times bigger than it was before. The living room no longer a small, functional space, it seems to sprawl for days. It’s huge but feels cozy, leather couches and chairs scattered throughout the room in conversational groupings that flow seamlessly into a gourmet kitchen. High-end cabinets. Granite countertops. Gleaming appliances. All surrounded by a curved kitchen island, dotted with leather-backed barstools. I can see my Tiki bottle opener stuck to the front of the brand-new fridge.
Mouth gaping, I wondered around in a daze. Opening doors on spacious bedrooms with walk-in closets and stunning views. Luxury bathrooms with steam showers and heated floors.
But the walls are bare, and it smells flat. New. Empty.
It doesn’t smell like him. Us.
Venturing back the way I came, I see a door I missed, tucked into the far corner of the apartment. It seems out of place, disruptive to the open flow of the space.
It’s locked, and it bothers me that I can’t get inside.
Now, rifling through my suitcase, I find a bra. Ditching my shirt, I put it on, topping it with a random T-shirt and flannel. Grabbing a pair of winter socks, I pull them on before stuffing my feet into a pair of boots. Stopping in the bathroom long enough to run a brush through my hair and swipe on some mascara, I snag my bag and keys.
And then I stop. Take a deep breath. Force myself to close my eyes. Count to ten.
Patrick is here.
Shaking out my hands because they’re tingling, I take another deep breath, briefly wondering if I’m too young to have a heart attack.
You’re not having a heart attack. Just breathe.
Patrick is here.
Don’t fuck this up.
I want to run. Launch myself down the stairs and into his arms. I want his hands on me. His mouth. I want him.
I love him.
I want to tell him that. I wanted it to be the first thing I said to him when I saw him again.
I love you.
This is real.
We’re enough.
I’m enough.
But I don’t because even though he said he's waiting for me to figure it out, it’s been eleven months and we haven’t so much as talked and even though I finally know I’m enough, I’m no longer sure I’m what he wants.
We were friends before, and he told me that wouldn’t change, no matter what. Maybe that’s what this is. Friendship.
When I stop at the head of the stairs, I find Patrick where I left him, slouching against the door, hands dug into the pockets of worn jeans, button-down open at the collar, jacket unzipped in defiance of the bitter cold outside.
He senses me standing over him and looks up at me and smiles, watches as I pull my coat off the set of hooks in the entryway.
He opens the door for me and places his hand on the small of my back as he guides me through the office and down the hall, lifting it long enough to help me into my coat and wave goodbye to his uncle.
On the sidewalk, Patrick tips his head down the block. “Walk?”
“That would be nice,” I say, butterflies back in full force.
We walk side-by-side, hands jammed into the pockets of our coats, noses red from the cold.
“When are your folks flying in?’ he says, his tone friendly and conversational.
“The day before the show,” I tell him. “It’s not for another month, and my Dad would jump out a window if he had to stay in a hotel that long.”
“They’re more than welcome to stay at the apartment,” he tells me, flashing me a quick, dimpled smile. There’s nothing cocky or snide about it. “There’s plenty of room.”
“No kidding,” I tell him, happy to have something to talk about. “It’s like Hermione’s bag.”
“What?” he says around a laugh that’s open and genuine. Hearing it, I realize how badly I’ve missed it.
“You know,” I say, blushing like an idiot. “Hermione’s bag—it looks tiny on the outside, but it’s super huge and—” I stop explaining because he’s still laughing. “you really don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head. The perfect gentleman, he stops in front of Benny’s long enough to open the door for
me before placing his hand on the small of my back to usher me inside the crowded restaurant. “I know what you’re talking about, I just never took you for a Harry Potter fan.”
Remembering what he said to me that rainy Monday morning, I looked up at him and smile, heart, fluttering in my chest when he reaches out to unbutton my jacket. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Mr. Gilroy—you’d be surprised.”
He gives me a lopsided grin, one that makes me want to lick his dimples. One that tells me he’s remembering the same thing I am. “Is that a fact, Ms. Faraday?” he says softly, slipping the last button free, his hands linger on the lapels of my coat like he’s having a hard time letting go.
“It is,” I say, jostled closer to him by the crush of people that crowd the waiting area. Suddenly we’re standing chest to chest, and I can’t breathe.
“Well,” he says softly, gaze dipping low, brushing over my mouth. “I do love a surprise.”
Holy shit. He’s going to kiss me. I feel myself sway into him, my chin tipping to meet his mouth, my heart hammers in my chest...
“Veronica!” Nora’s voice cuts through my blissed-out brain buzz. “Where the hell have you been?”
I can feel my eyes widen slightly. I must look terrified because Patrick looks like he’s trying to smother a laugh. “I told her you were sleeping,” Patrick says, the corner of his mouth quirking again, his hands sliding down the front of my coat before letting me go.
“Sleeping?” I say, tossing a look over my shoulder. Nora is standing next to her throne, tapping the toe of her orthopedic shoe. I look back at Patrick. “You told her I was sleeping? For eleven months?”
His mouth softens into something too sad to be considered a smile. “My best friend left me,” he says to me. “It was hard to talk about.”
I open my mouth, not sure what’s going to come out.
“Veronica, get your ass over here,” Nora cuts me off. Saves me from saying or doing something stupid.
“You better go talk to her, or she’s going to have them put mushrooms in your omelet.” Patrick smiles, and he’s my friend again like the last thirty-seconds never happened.
Thirty
Patrick
I saw this whole thing going down differently in my head.
I was going to play it cool. Keep my distance. I didn’t plan on seeing her right away. I was going to give her space. Let her get settled. Not because I didn’t want to see her or because I’m trying to play games.
I want to do things differently this time. I want to do them right. I wanted to ask her out on a proper date. Take her someplace nice. Open the door for her. Pull out her chair. Take her home and walk her to her door and leave her there without pushing her up against it and shoving my tongue down her throat.
So, what do I do? I haul ass over here the second Con tells me she’s landed and drag her to Benny’s so Nora can harass her between coffee refills.
Not that she seems to mind.
“I can’t believe she smacked me,” Cari says, fingers dug into her cheek, trying to rub some feeling back into it. “Twice.” Despite the complaint, she’s grinning like a loon.
“Welcome to my nightmare,” I tell her, trying my best not to laugh. Lunch over, we’d squeezed through the throng of waiting people, hoping to sneak out without Nora seeing us. No such luck.
“Not so fast, Veronica,” she shouted, instantly causing Cari’s shoulders to stiffen against my chest as I tried to hustle her through the door.
Cari looks over her shoulder, aiming wide eyes at my face. Her cheek was still bright red from Nora’s last assault. “Is she gonna hit me again?”
“Probably.” I rolled my lips over my teeth to keep from laughing. “Better take your lumps, Faraday.”
She nods her head once and squares her shoulders like she’s marching into battle. “Right.”
She marches back to Nora’s station and stoops a little while the old woman shakes her finger in her face. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but whatever it is, Cari is nodding and genuflecting like she’s been given an audience with the Pope. As soon as Nora offers her blessing in the form of a loud, cheek-pinking smack, Cari straightens, only to have Nora call her down again. Cari goes reluctantly, and then something happens that I wouldn’t believe if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes.
Nora kisses the cheek she’s just abused.
“What was she saying before she smacked you?” I say, curious but also trying to fill the void that’d settled around us now that we’ve left the restaurant.
Cari keeps grinning “That the next time I leave without stopping in to see her first, she’s going to hunt me down and break her foot off in my ass.”
“She’s not kidding.” I laugh, bracing my hand on the small of her back as I guide her around a puddle of melting snow. “You better stop in before you head back home.”
Home. The word stuck in my throat. This was her home. Here. With me. I didn’t want her to leave. Not ever.
“I’m not... leaving,” she says, shooting me a quick, sidelong glance like she’s gauging my reaction. “I’m moving back.”
“Oh,” I say, nodding my head like it wasn’t the single best piece of news I’ve heard in almost a year. “Well, if you need help finding a place, let me know.” I nudge her with my shoulder. “I know a guy who happens to have a few empty apartments laying around.”
She smiles, catching her lower lip between her teeth to chew on it for a second before looking at me. “Thank you,” she says. “For letting me stay at...” she trails off, a pained expression on her face. “Anyway, thanks for letting me stay. I can give you the money I would’ve—”
I laugh, bumping her with my shoulder. “If you give me money, I’ll just set fire to it in the bathtub.”
She gapes at me, cheeks bright red.
“Too soon?” I ask in mock seriousness, and she rewards me with a laugh. “Seriously,” I tell her with a shrug. “It’s your home—or at least it was—and when Tess said you planned on staying in a hotel for an entire month I just—”
“Enlisted your cousin in a kidnapping plot?” she says, arching an eyebrow over some serious side-eye.
“Pretty much.” I grin at her for a second before it fades into something more serious. “You’re family. Family doesn’t stay in hotels, and they don’t pay either so you can forget it.”
“Okay,” she says, relenting before we fall into another short silence while we walk. Finally, she looks at me. “Grace and Molly are moving to Boston.”
I met Grace at Cari’s graduation, while she was still pregnant. “Grace and Molly are moving here?” I say, smiling because she’s smiling. Happy because she’s happy.
“Well,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, she tucks her hands against her ribcage, trying to warm them. “She hasn’t said yes yet, but I want Grace to go to college. It’s something she feels like she could never do because of Molly and because she’s been stuck at home, helping my parents while they help her—” She drops her hands and laughs. “I’m babbling. Sorry.”
Stopping on the sidewalk, I pull her out of the flow of foot traffic, taking her hands in mine. “I hope she says yes,” I say, lifting her hands to my mouth I breathe on them before rubbing them between my own. It’s something I’ve done for her a thousand times, but it feels different now. Everything between us feels different. Heavier somehow.
I know she feels it too because as soon as I lift her hands to my mouth, she flushes, bright red spreading up her neck from under the collar of her shirt, making me wonder what color her birthmark is. “I have a few vacant properties that would be perfect—” I take her hands and tuck them into her coat pockets and start walking again. “you can even rent the old place if you want. It’s got a room with a window seat and built-in book shelves that would be perfect for a kid.” I don’t mention that I built it with other things in mind.
“So, how’d you do it?” she says, walking along beside me. “Make the apartment—”
<
br /> “Into Hermione’s bag?”
She laughs. “Yes.”
I shrug, trying to buy myself some time. What can I say?
When you left, I went completely batshit and started tearing down walls because I couldn’t be in a place where I’d touched you without wanting to destroy something.
“I got my hands on some old blueprints of the bar and realized that the space was nearly four times bigger than the apartment my granddad built.” I bump my shoulder into her and grin. “Not that big a deal.”
“Really?” she says, sneaking a look at me. “I guess it wouldn’t be—not for Boston’s Best Catch.”
“Oh, Christ.” I groan, instantly mortified. “Did Con tell you?”
“No,” she says, enjoying my obvious discomfort. “I caught your spread on the plane and then my stewardess told me she met you, and all about your wild night of unbridled passion.”
“What?” I stop walking, her words rooting me in place. “She said we—no...” I’m shaking my head. “I never—” she’s stopped in front of me, laughing, waiting for me to catch up. “Oh.” I let out a long breath. “Fucking Conner.”
“Yes—fucking Conner.” She’s still laughing, pressing her hand to her stomach like it hurts her. “Literally. I mean seriously? What are the odds?”
“That you randomly meet a woman that Conner had sex with?” I look at her like she’s crazy. “Pretty good, actually—but it must’ve been a while ago,” I say. “Con’s off women these days.”
She looks at me like I just told her my cousin is an alien from another planet. “Off women?” she says. “As in... celibate?”
“As in,” I confirm with a laugh.
“The hell you say!” She laughs. “What prompted that?”
“He’s going through some stuff.” I shrug. “It’ll sort itself out eventually.” I hope.
She stops laughing and offers me a soft smile. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s pretty great. The magazine article, I mean.”
