by Nicole Deese
His eyes narrowed. “You’re right. I knew you’d never give it. Just like I knew you wouldn’t say yes to soccer. Just like I knew you wouldn’t keep your promise.”
Tears climbed my throat. “Don’t make this about me.”
“Fine. I’ll make it about me.” He pushed closer, his eyebrows pinched into a stony expression. “Because if I don’t teach her to enjoy life, who will?”
Patrick planted a firm hand on Weston’s chest. “Weston,” he warned. “I think you should take a break.”
My brother’s steely eyes didn’t blink; his hardened mouth didn’t twitch. “When will you get it through your head that you can’t prevent tragedy from happening—you’re not God, Willa.”
I clenched my fists. “You don’t know the first thing about loss!”
The flash of pain in his eyes made me shrink back. “I almost lost you! And sometimes I still wonder if I didn’t.”
“That’s not the same.”
Patrick’s gaze burned into the side of my face.
“Isn’t it?” Weston ripped his hat off his head and fisted his hair with both hands. “You think it’s been easy for me—watching you in pain? Watching you hide? Watching you wait for the next disaster to strike? It’s not. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” His eyes turned glassy. “But I refuse, I refuse, to sit back and watch your fear rob your daughter the way it’s robbed you.”
My heart slammed into my throat. “That’s not fair. I’ve tried . . .”
“Then tell me, Willa. Tell me how your life looks different now than it did last year? Or the year before that? Or the year before that. Tell me that your fear doesn’t control every little thing you do—or I should say, every little thing you don’t do.”
I didn’t respond, and he shook his head. “I don’t know who I’m more disappointed in—you for giving up, or me for believing that you would try.”
“That’s enough.” Patrick pulled me back a step. “You both need to take a walk.”
I swiped at my damp cheeks. I could do better than that. “I’m going home.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Georgia closed the door to our bedroom while I tried in vain to fit Savannah’s nightgown and teddy bear into her suitcase. My window to escape without the interference of my parents was growing narrower by the minute.
“You don’t have to leave.” The tears I heard in her voice tore at my heart.
Georgia’s gaze remained fixed on the old hardwoods. “I should have stopped him from taking her up—”
I closed the suitcase with a snap and turned to hug her. “This has nothing to do with you.”
She held on to me. “I know you’re hurt, but your brother loves you so much.”
But that truth didn’t change anything.
I pulled back just enough to see her eyes. “I promise you, I won’t let any of this interfere with your wedding plans.”
“The wedding is the least of my concerns.” The inflection in her tone indicated what her words had not. “How long . . . how long have the panic attacks been back?”
My bones suddenly chilled, I dropped my arms to my sides. She wasn’t here to discuss Weston; she was here to discuss me.
“You saw?” Although I knew the answer before the question even registered on her face.
“Are you okay?”
I reached for the strap of my duffle bag. “They don’t happen often.” True. But they had come back, a fact I’d failed to reveal to any person in my family.
With a resigned sigh, she grabbed Savannah’s blanket, suitcase, and pillow. “What should we tell your parents when they get back?”
She might not be an official member of our family, but even Georgia knew that nothing beneficial would come from my parents knowing—either about my attack or about my argument with Weston.
“Tell them I wasn’t feeling well and I wanted to sleep in my own bed. I’ll call them once I’m through the pass.”
She opened the bedroom door and together we carried my luggage down the hall.
Savannah sat on the sofa, her arms crossed over her chest and a pout on her mouth. “I don’t want to go home.”
“I know, baby. But we are.”
Georgia held out her hand, and begrudgingly Savannah accepted it.
I’d prepared myself to see Weston waiting beside my car, braced myself for his quick apology and refusal to let me leave.
But it wasn’t Weston standing at my car. It was Patrick.
He met me as I stepped off the front porch and took the bags from my hands. “You’re sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. I’m going to drive you back. I gave Weston the keys to my dad’s truck. He’ll take care of getting it back to Lenox.”
“Oh, no. No, Patrick, please . . . don’t let what happened today ruin your stay—”
But by the look on his face, he was as set on driving me as I was on leaving the cabin. He popped the trunk, loaded my bags, and helped Savannah get situated in the backseat.
With one last glance over our property and cabin, I slipped inside the car, refusing to acknowledge Weston’s final blow.
His absence.
At Savannah’s seventeenth Kid Travel Trivia card, I was starting to wish I’d never purchased the car game. Ever the gracious companion, Patrick answered her riddles, laughed at her made-up jokes, and even pretended to be stumped on the bonus multiple-choice questions. I kneaded my temples in a circular motion, hoping the effort might stop the throb of this post-panic-attack migraine. So far, my efforts had been in vain. The pressure behind my eyes was enough to wish for voluntary blindness.
As she read a new question from the backseat, Patrick snaked his hand behind my neck. With expert precision, he managed to pinpoint each of the tension spots.
He answered Savannah and then quieted his voice. “You get these every time?”
Every time. Amazingly, what I’d managed to keep hidden from my family for years, Patrick had picked up on in one afternoon.
Maybe he wasn’t a doctor after all, but a detective.
“Yes.”
The massage down the column of my neck continued until we pulled off the highway and passed the WELCOME TO LENOX sign.
Tilting my head in his direction, I peeked through the narrowed slits of my eyes. “I can drop you off at your house. It’s just a few blocks away.”
“I don’t think so.”
He turned onto my street.
“But—”
“Let’s get you and Savannah taken care of for the night, okay? Don’t worry about me.”
Even through a raging headache, Patrick’s profile was shockingly handsome. The messy tufts of hair sticking out at various angles begged to be touched, as did the light stubble along his jaw. I closed my eyes to keep the temptation at bay.
My phone buzzed from the middle console.
He picked it up. “It’s your mom again.”
I held out my hand and silenced the call as he parked. If I hadn’t had a headache before, there wasn’t a chance I’d escape one after that conversation.
Patrick came around to open my door. “How about you settle on the couch while I get you some ibuprofen and figure something out for dinner.” His hand, firm on my lower back, guided me up the driveway. “Then you can call your mom back.”
Holding the front of my head, I stepped lightly. “Can we trade places? I think you secretly want to talk to my mom instead.”
He laughed. “Not on your life, sweetheart.”
Savannah jogged ahead. “Can I unlock the door? I know which key is for the house. It’s the green one.”
“Sure. Here you go.” Patrick handed her the keys. She turned it with ease and opened the door.
Two steps past the entryway, Savannah spun back around, hands on her hips.
“I think you’re like . . . the bestest, Dr. Patrick.”
He placed a hand on her head. “Feeling’s mutual.”
Maybe I didn’t need medicin
e for my head as much as I needed it for my heart.
Though it was only half past eight, exhaustion radiated from my bones.
The remnants of Patrick’s take-out order from the Golden Dragon were still scattered between the coffee table and the breakfast bar, and as much as I wanted to clean up, I’d been doctor-ordered to stay put. To rest.
He handed me a hot cup of tea. I took it, grateful for the quiet, and even more grateful that I’d managed to convince my mom to stay at the cabin.
“How’s the headache?”
The soft scent of chamomile soothed the remaining tension in my skull. “Better, thank you.”
I pulled my knees up to my chest. “Please, feel free to take my car for the night, I’m sure you’re ready to be home.” And away from my crazy.
Patrick shifted on the couch opposite me and leaned forward, the vivid blue of his eyes glinting in the low evening light. “If you don’t mind, I’d feel better if I stayed.”
Something grabbed in the pit of my stomach.
“Really, I’m okay now.”
“Even still, today was . . . eventful.”
As my hands pressed against the warm mug, I toyed with the hangnail at the edge of my thumb. “Yes, too eventful, I’m afraid.” I tried to smile but knew it fell short. Much like my attempt at small talk. “I owe you an explanation and probably the world’s biggest apology.”
“No, you don’t.”
“If you hadn’t been there today . . .”
“I don’t play the what-if game, Willa. It’s a lose-lose. For everyone involved.”
I considered him, took a deep breath, and then started again. No games or pretenses. No sugarcoated words. No therapeutic mantras.
Just truth, raw and ugly.
“I was never the kind of kid to chase a ball into the street or climb a tree in the neighborhood park or jump off the diving board at the city pool. My mom called it being ‘extra careful,’ which was exactly how my parents wanted Wes and me to be, only . . . one of us didn’t mind them so well.”
Patrick gave me a meditative smile.
“But as I grew older, I knew this feeling—this nagging static—wasn’t just caution. It was fear. And it didn’t matter how rational or irrational the worry, the fear—the anxiety—felt the same on the inside. Chad was always so good at reminding me to focus on the here and now while still encouraging me to chase after my dreams. And for a while, life felt almost perfect. I got hired on at Lenox Elementary as a second-grade teacher, and we found out we were expecting six months later. We were so happy.”
I sighed into my mug, watching as the hot liquid swirled with my breath, the way I wished I could avoid the truth of my next words.
“I had my first panic attack the week Chad died. I was in my second trimester. And it was . . . much worse than today’s.” I searched the darkness outside the window that faced my backyard. “I was hospitalized several times during my pregnancy because of them, saw a grief counselor weekly, and ingested all the right herbal supplement combinations I could find. Savannah felt like my only reason for hope—my only reason to be alive, really. The second she was born, all my energy shifted to her. To being the best mom I could be despite . . . despite my issues.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out three peppermints. “I know there’s nothing scientific about these . . . but for whatever reason, they became a comfort, and the attacks stopped.”
Patrick stared at the candy and then lifted his eyes to me again. “And then Savannah was diagnosed with cancer.”
My grip tightened on the warm mug. “The doctors assured us time and time again of her optimistic prognosis, but I felt so helpless, so powerless, so distant from the God I’d always believed in. I had so many questions and so few answers. I struggled to pray, couldn’t even form the words most days.” I glanced up at the art on the wall above the dining room table. “When your father gave me the sunset pictures before her first big treatment . . . something, something shifted inside me. It’s hard to explain.” A wave of self-consciousness rolled through me. I’d never been so honest, so vulnerable.
“Will you try?”
“It felt like your father handed me a picture of hope, not the kind that comes in the form of a good prognosis, but the kind of hope that can transform the horizon. If I could believe God was responsible for every sunset, then I had to believe He was with us, too.”
Patrick’s expression was so thoughtful, so peaceful, that I wished I could end this story right there. But that wasn’t the end.
“The day we heard the words cancer free, I truly believed that Savannah’s cure would be my cure, too. That all my fears would vanish and that all my doubts would lift.”
“And that’s not what happened.”
“No. It’s not.” I tapped my fingernail on the ceramic, the soft ting, ting, ting pushing me to continue. “It’s back—all of it. The anxiety, the restless nights, the constant fear that someone I love will be hurt. Sometimes it feels impossible to turn the worry off.” I lifted my gaze to Patrick. “But I promised her that things would be different when she was well again. I promised her that I would be different . . . and I just keep failing.”
“You haven’t failed.” His voice pierced the space between my chest and throat.
I sucked in a sob. Hadn’t I? Hadn’t I failed over and over and over again? Too afraid to say yes, too afraid to let go, too afraid to—
Patrick was on his feet, lifting the mug from my grasp and setting it on the coffee table. He positioned himself on the sofa beside me and captured my hand, folding it into his as silent tears streamed down my face.
“Willa, you haven’t failed,” he repeated. “That little girl has more love in her life than she knows what to do with. And if she were given a choice, she would choose you as her mom. Over and over again. This battle you’re fighting is much bigger than keeping a promise you made to Savannah. It’s about dealing with what’s going on inside you.” He looked down at our joined hands, and a surge of hope filled me. “The only way you fail is by giving up.”
“I’m not giving up.” I meant it. I was tired of running in circles, tired of living in a maze with no way out. I needed to keep trying—for me as much as for Savannah.
“Good. Because we have work to do.”
“We?”
“What—you thought I was going to quit on you?”
Laughable, really, the idea of Patrick quitting anything. “No.” But I might have thought about quitting you. Only about a million times in the last few weeks.
“What aren’t you saying?” he asked.
“It’s just that . . .” How do I even . . . ? “Your time here is just so limited and sometimes I worry about . . . complications.”
I slipped my hand from his and gripped my kneecaps. Safer. Much safer.
“My time here is limited, yes.” Patrick’s voice was strong and steady. “But I’d say complication started the minute a beautiful blonde challenged my credentials.”
The cadence of my pulse shifted into a rhythm of stutters and stops. “We’ve switched roles since then.”
“A lot of things have changed since then.” A whisper of fingertips skimmed the base of my chin and forced my gaze upward. “I’m not sorry about the days we’ve spent together, Willa. I value your friendship.” He exhaled. “That said, if you think it’s best we don’t—”
“No.” I wouldn’t quit. He’d helped me far more than I’d ever believed possible. “I meant what I said. I want to keep going. I want to kill this fear.”
“Then we’re gonna have to raise the stakes.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
I dreamed of coffee: dark and rich and boldly brewed. The aroma was so strong that it lingered even after my eyes searched the spaces between my dusty blinds. But there was no wink of dawn to be found. No golds or reds or pinks illuminating my bedroom ceiling. The sky was still asleep.
I tapped the screen on my phone. 5:13 a.m.
Patrick is on my couch!
A trai
l of goose bumps sped up my spine.
In record-breaking speed, I swung my feet to the floor, tied my robe around my waist, and smoothed the bed-head out of my hair. After a quick traffic check outside my bedroom door, I tiptoed across the hall and into the bathroom. Crazy hair was one thing, but there was no excuse for morning breath.
Mouth minty fresh, I padded down the dark hallway and into the living room.
The couch was empty. Has he already gone home?
“Morning.” Elbows on the breakfast bar, pen between his fingers, he lifted his head. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
For the third time since leaving the bathroom, I checked the knot at my hip. Secure. “Coffee is always the best way to wake up.” By the sound of my raspy morning voice, I could use a cup. Or maybe ten.
“I’ll pour you a cup before I go, unless you think you can get back to sleep? It was a pretty short night.” Yet he looked ready to take the day by force. His clothes from yesterday had been replaced with workout attire. And running shoes. I scanned the room. The fire was roaring hot in the fireplace, the blankets and pillow were folded near the couch, and his overnight bag sat next to the front door.
Wait. The kitchen. Spotless. No sign of Chinese take-out to be found. Not a noodle or even a fortune cookie.
“Um . . . looks like you had an even shorter night. How long have you been awake? I can’t believe you cleaned up like this—”
“Is this a scolding?”
My laugh sounded rusty. “No, it’s a thank-you. Thank you, Patrick. For . . . everything.” That pretty much summed it up. Everything. For every day. For every conversation. For every moment of friendship he’d given me.
His grin said so much about him—especially considering he couldn’t have slept more than a few hours. “I was just leaving you a note.”
“Oh, you’re leaving . . . now?” Again, I glanced at the presunrise time on the clock.
He handed me a steaming mug of my favorite drink on earth and gave me a half grin. “Thought I should probably be gone before Twenty Questions wakes up.”
My heart double-tapped. “Right.” I hadn’t thought about my daughter’s curiosity. “Thank you.”
