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“That’s good,” he says, looking relieved. “I talked to dad this morning and he was headed that way to make sure—”
“Hello?” The female voice called out from the front of the house, timid and unsure. “Is there a Patrick Gilroy here? I have a package for him.”
A package? No one would send me a package here. I shoot Declan a puzzled look. He looks as skeptical as I feel. I cross the kitchen and cut through the butler’s pantry and into the dining room.
“Can I help you?” I say to the woman standing in the foyer. She’s on the phone with her head down. Through the open doorway, I can see a dark colored sedan and my crew watching like they’re in the middle of a life-action telenovela. I can see the fastpass hanging from the review and the bright yellow fleet sticker on the windshield. It’s a company car.
As soon as she hears me, she whispers, “He’s here,” into the phone before hanging it up. Looking at me, she smiles. She’s young and pretty. “Are you Patrick Gilroy?”
Behind me, Declan clears his throat. “What’s this about?”
Ignoring him, the woman repeats her question, looking right at me. “Are you Patrick Gilroy?” It’s obvious she knows who I am but she needs me to confirm my identity. For a second, I consider saying no, just to see what she would do.
But what will that accomplish? Not a goddamn thing.
“Yes,” I say, nodding my head. “I’m Patrick Gilroy.”
She produces a thick packet of papers, tri-folded and stapled together at the top. Still smiling, she pushes it into my hand. “You’ve been served.”
Fifty-one
Cari
When I woke upthis morning, I rolled over to find Patrick asleep beside me. Stretched out on his stomach, sheets pooled at his waist, face soft and so achingly perfect I felt the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch it. Him. Any part of Patrick I could reach. I wanted to feel him under my hands, just to prove to myself that he was still here. To convince myself that I hadn’t messed everything up as bad as I thought I did.
Instead, I got up and painted him.
Because of course I had. I’d gotten on my knees and reduced everything that happened between us down to nothing more than sex. Proved to him that he was no better than any other guy I’ve been with. That he’s going to use me and leave me, just like the rest of them.
I’ve been painting Patrick for three years—dozens of times between the first time we kissed in the front seat of his car to last—and I’ve hidden them all away. Never admitted to anyone how I really feel or what I want because, deep down, I know they’re things I don’t deserve. I painted him this morning because it’s the only way I can make him stay. Keep him with me.
I’m not sure when he wakes up but suddenly he’s watching me and for few seconds I can’t breathe. He doesn’t say anything. Tell me to stop. Laugh at me for being pathetic. Yell at me for ruining everything. He just watches me paint him, his eyes dark and unreadable.
As soon as I put my brush down he gets up and walks out. Fifteen minutes later, he’s gone. No goodbye, he just leaves, the sound of the door closing behind him sounds final. It sounds like an ending and as soon as I hear it, I crawled into my bed—our bed—and lay in the spot where he slept in the sun. And I cried myself to sleep.
I find my phonewhere Patrick said it was—on the kitchen counter. He plugged it into the charge cord he keeps the next to the coffee pot, a sticky note stuck to its screen.
It won’t work if you kill it.
P.
I peel the note off my phone and press it to the front of the fridge. Turning it on, I watch texts and voicemails roll across my screen. My parents. Tess. Miranda. Chase.
I call my parents back first and spend the next thirty-minutes convincing my parents that I’m okay. Next I call Miranda.
“This is Miranda McIntyre.” Her clipped, professional voice breaks through the third ring.
“Hi, Miranda—it’s Cari,” I say, suddenly afraid that my MIA routine is going to cost me my job. Patrick sent her a text on Monday but it’s mid-morning on Wednesday. A lot of time between then and now. “I’m really sorr—”
“I know who it is and you have nothing to be sorry for,” she tells me, giving me a slight, exasperated sigh. “Unless of course you’re calling me to apologize for holding out on me.”
“Holding out?” For one insane second, I think she’s talking about my thing with Patrick. I know she’s into him—I’d call it a crush if Miranda did crushes, which she doesn’t. What she does is chew through men like a wood chipper, tearing into them and leaving their mangled, bloody pieces behind her while she keeps on chewing.
“Chase called me,” she says. When I don’t say anything coherent, she sighs again. “About your paintings.”
Oh. God. “He shouldn’t have done that.” I manage to get it out without vomiting. “They’re terrible,” I say, because old habits die hard. “I mean they’re not—”
“I’ll be by tomorrow to look them over,” she says like I haven’t said a word. “Around noon? We’ll go to lunch afterward.”