Page 29

“She fired me because she loved my paintings. She wants to show them.” Pride swells in my chest. “She says I’m going to be too busy painting full-time to answer her phones and fetch her coffee.”
“Holy shit.” He gives me a smile. Not the cocky grin or snarky little half-smile he’s been addicted to lately. A real smile. Open and genuine. The kind he used to give me before I started this whole thing. “That’s the best news I’ve heard today,” he says, dropping a hand on my knee. As soon as he makes contact, he pulls back, and the smile fades around its edges. “Now you really have to stay.” He nods his head, looking around the living room. “You’ve done some of your best work here.”
Because you were here with me.
“I’m moving back home, Patrick,” I say it quick like I’m ripping off a bandage.
“What? Home?” His voice spikes and I hear it. Confusion. Disbelief. Anger. “Wher—this is your home.”
“Ohio,” I say quietly. “I’m moving home to Ohio.”
He drops his head and runs his hand over the back of it. “I thought you said Miranda wants you to paint full-time.”
“She does,” I say. “But she also fired me. Without a real job, without real money coming in, I can’t afford to live on my own. At least not right now.”
“You don’t have to live on your own. You can live here.” He says it slowly like he’s fighting to stay calm. Like he doesn’t get it. “You don’t have to pay rent. You don’t have to pay anything. Just—”
“I am not living off you like some—” Gold digger. I almost say it. “charity case.” Brushing my fingertips across my cheek, they come away wet. “Besides, stuff like what happened downstairs with that guy—it’s just going to keep happening. I... I think it’s best just to slink off and lick my wounds for a while.”
“Oh.” Patrick stiffens for a second before he drops his hand, giving me a nod. “Wounds. Right. Okay.” He thinks I’m talking about him. That he’s the reason I’m leaving. That he hurt me. Instead of telling him the truth, I let him believe it. It’s easier this way. “When?”
“Saturday morning,” I tell him.
He looks at me like he’s done the math and it doesn’t add up. “That’s two days from now.”
“Miranda is sending someone to pack and transport the paintings to the gallery.” I say it like I’m reading it all off a cue card. Like none of it is real. “I want to be here to supervise but after that...”
His mouth quirks again. It’s an expression I’ve come to recognize. It’s bitterness. “There’s no reason for you to stay.”
I look away, so I don’t have to see it. The hurt. The resignation. The same way he looked at me this morning when I told him it was over between us. “I’ll stay with Tess until it’s time for me to go.”
“No.” The word comes out, hard and fast and he stops himself, taking a deep slow breath. “You don’t have to do that. This is your home—you shouldn’t have to do that... because of me.” He swipes another hand over his face before standing. “I’ll keep my distance. Hands to myself,” he says, lifting them to shoulder height, palms out, fingers spread wide. “Best behavior. Just... stay here. Okay?”
I don’t want him to keep his distance. I don’t want him to keep his hands to himself. I want him to kiss me. Tell me he loves me. Ask me to stay. Not just for tonight or tomorrow. I want him to ask me to stay forever. But I know he won’t. Patrick’s a fast learner. He reached for me once and it stung. He won’t do it again.
I look up at him and nod my head. “Okay.”
He takes a step back, away from me. “I’m gonna go downstairs and help Declan prep for tonight.” He smiles at me, but he has the dazed look of a survivor, like someone who’s just watched a tornado rip their house from its foundation or been pulled from a raging fire.
That’s what I am. Something to be survived.
It’s what I do. Destroy everything good I touch.