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Two days passed during which neither one of us could come up with an excuse to meet up at the restaurant.

Tiles were picked, as well as paint, countertops, and so on.

Patrick's workers were at the restaurant, painting, tiling, and whatever else needed to be done.

There was no reason for Patrick and me to be there.

Well, he might have to because he was the boss, but as much as I wracked my brain, I had nothing.

I busied myself at my restaurants or sat behind the computer working on a menu for the new place.

I caught myself smiling more often, so much so that my staff was getting suspicious.

Besides Evan, nobody knew about the coming restaurant in Cedar Hollow.

And when he asked me about my good mood lately, I told him it was because of that.

It wasn't really fibbing. I was excited about it.

I only left the part out where I was falling—again—for the man who was building it.

I was. Hard.

And all it took was a fucking egg sandwich!

Way to go, Ella .

It wasn't just the sandwich, though. It was the coffee he brought, the way he looked at me, the way he picked things up when he thought they were too heavy for me.

The way he let me have free rein in picking colors, tablecloths, accessories, everything.

Not to mention the memories. The memories were a big part of it.

Poor Henry. I didn't even want to think about all the lunches Patrick's dad had lost because of me.

Every time I thought about the damn sandwiches, I laughed.

Even more so when I remembered another incident, where Patrick discovered an entire case of whiskey in his parents' basement.

It was the summer of our junior year, and boy, did we ever have a summer!

At that time, there were eleven in our group.

Eleven seventeen-year-olds and a case of whiskey.

One night, about a month and a half after summer break, we were at Patrick's parents' place.

His parents were big on throwing parties.

Any occasion they could think of to invite their friends and the neighbors.

This one was for their wedding anniversary.

Henry went down into the basement. It took him a long time before he returned, all fired up. "Gabriel!" he yelled through the house.

Gabe had just graduated from college as the number one draft pick, starting his football career with a bang.

He’d come home for the anniversary party, much to Carol's dismay.

The two never got along. Thankfully, we didn't get together with Gabe very often.

The five-year age gap between the brothers kept them relatively apart, aside from their shared football love.

Anyway, Henry came out of the basement, yelling.

He accused Gabe of stealing his whiskey.

I smiled, remembering how I buried my face in Patrick's chest with a small cry. I was the worst liar in the world, and I knew that the guilt of what Patrick and the rest of us had done with the whiskey had to be written all over my face.

Gabe didn’t flinch. He just raised an eyebrow, like the idea of him sneaking booze was too stupid to dignify. “You really think I’d hide whiskey in the wheel well of my car instead of just drinking it in your recliner while watching the Packers game?”

Henry huffed and muttered something about entitled football brats with no respect.

Then he stormed back down into the basement, probably to make sure the shelves hadn’t grown legs. When he returned, Gabe added dryly, “Maybe the dog stole it. Like your sandwiches?”

From the kitchen, Patrick’s mom chimed in without missing a beat, “Or maybe you’re just getting senile, Henry. You probably drank it and forgot.”

None of us ever confessed. Though every time Patrick’s dad had a drink after that, he would narrow his eyes at Gabe like he was waiting for a confession. Did I feel guilty? Definitely not. Not after the way Gabe treated Carol. Plus, damn, it was worth every shot.

I giggled to myself. We did have a lot of fun times.

Funny, over the last ten years, I hadn’t really thought about those. When I thought about Patrick, it centered around the accident, the hospital, and the hurt of his breaking up with me.

We were eighteen … I reminded myself. Eighteen!

So young. So idealistic. And so in love.

For the first time, I tried to see the events, not through the eyes of a young, hurt girl, but with those of a mature woman.

Patrick had been eighteen. His entire life had come to a complete standstill, changed in the blink of an eye.

From an aspiring pro football player to a man facing life in a wheelchair.

As I thought about it now, my heart went out to that boy.

Years of pain and hurt had clouded not only my memories, but my judgment.

Patrick did what he thought was right at the time.

In retrospect, it was quite a mature decision.

Sure, at eighteen, I wouldn't have blinked twice at the prospect of living with a man in a wheelchair, but ten-year-older me realized it wouldn’t have been that simple.

How would I have handled a man in a wheelchair?

Had children? What if Patrick had been unable to work?

Could I have worked, raised a family, and cared for Patrick?

I don’t know. I know I loved him enough that I would have given it my best shot, but realistically speaking?

The chances of us still being together after ten hard years like that would have been slim.

Looking at it from his perspective, I understood his decision. Did I agree with it? Absolutely not. But I also had the benefit of hindsight now. I knew Patrick didn't end up in a wheelchair. He moved forward, became an architect.

But what about me? I went to culinary school in the city and opened two, soon to be three, restaurants.

I don’t know what the future would have looked like if we’d stayed together, but I knew for certain I wouldn't have gone to school in the city or opened restaurants.

I probably would have gone to college wherever Patrick went and, maybe, gotten a pro forma degree, then we would have started a family.

I wasn't averse to the idea of being a stay-at-home mom; that had always been my dream before. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the turn my life had taken.

I loved having built something. And I could still have that white-picket-fence family.

I still wanted it. The problem was that no man had ever measured up to Patrick Mc-fucking-Cloud, and no man ever would.

So, if I wanted family, it would have to be with Patrick.

But the pain was still there, the hurt, the betrayal, no matter how much I understood his intentions. He didn't give me a choice. He made a choice for me. Was I willing to give him the chance to do that to me again?

The phone rang, thankfully interrupting my deep musings. One look at the screen told me it was Carol. Just the person I needed.

"You don't know that he will leave you again," Carol said when I filled her in.

"I don’t know," I agreed, "but I didn't know it last time either. Had someone asked me, I would have told them I was certain he would never do anything to hurt me."

"Ella," Carol sounded exasperated.

"I know, I know," I waved my hand even though she couldn't see it, and started pacing my living room floor. "I'm willing to forgive. I am. I understand now. Well, at least better than before."

"But you're scared." Carol knew me.

"Yes. Scared to death."

"Look, there are no guarantees. No matter who you're with. Do you think, what's her face… thought she was dating a serial killer?"

"Oh, you mean Ted Bundy's girlfriend?"

"Yeah, her."

I tried to think, but her name eluded me. Until I realized that wasn't the issue. "Well, I'm not about to date a serial killer . If anything, I'm about to date a serial heartbreaker ."

"Haha, you're funny, Ella," Carol replied humorlessly.

"Alright." I huffed. "Fine, you win. I'll do it."

"Go on a date with him?" She clarified.

"Yes," I capitulated. She was right. I owed it to myself to give this a shot. I had tried the dating thing with other men, and it hadn't worked out. Now it was Patrick's turn to prove that he had changed.

"What's with you anyway? You're in a bad mood." I'd talked so much about myself that I had nearly neglected the fact that she had called me .

"I ran into Gabe," her voice sounded resigned.

"Oh shit. Wait, how did you run into Gabe?" It was football season. Gabe was supposed to be out there playing somewhere.

"I brought Henry some books, and he was there," Carol explained.

Oh God, how Carol could bring her semi-erotic books to the man who was like a dad to her was as much a mystery to me as how he could read them.

I shuddered. Not that I could write any of that stuff, or anything, but having my friends and family read it? Another shudder moved through me.

"Oh no, what did he do?" I focused on Gabe instead of the semi-erotic books Carol wrote. Ironically, they were sports romances. Many of them centered on star football players.

"What didn’t he do?" she groaned. "He was shirtless, for one."

My jaw dropped. “Why?”

“I don’t know, Ella. Maybe because gravity stopped applying to him and he just floated out of a sunbeam like a smug, six-foot-five Roman god? I think Henry had him moving furniture or something.”

“Oh, of course. Gabe McCloud, future Hall of Famer and part-time furniture mover.”

Carol ignored me. “He looked at me like I was the punchline to a joke he hadn’t finished telling.”

“What did you do?”

“I dropped a box of books on his foot. Then told him I hoped his deltoid tore in slow motion.”

I burst out laughing. “You’re such a disaster.”

“Oh, I’m the disaster?” she snapped. “He’s the one who’s treated me all my life like an annoying ferret that wandered into his gym bag. You know what he called me this time? Sassquatch. Sassquatch!” She rolled the double ss .

"What?"

"That's what I said, you know what he said?" She didn't give me time to reply. "And I quote, Half sass, half cryptid. Seen rarely, always loud!"

There was a beat of silence. Her entire life, Carol had been relentlessly made fun of because of her height. She was very sensitive about it.

"I'm sorry." I offered. Meaning it.

"It's fine, we all know he's a dick. Like a giant, enormous dick."

“Did you at least tell him to buy one of your books this time?” I teased. “Maybe he’ll recognize himself.”

Carol made a strangled sound. “Ella, if he finds out that I’ve written nine bestsellers with quarterbacks named Gage who all have tragic backstories and glistening abs— I will have to fake my own death . ”

“I’ll help you pick a new name,” I said helpfully. “Something low-key, like Chesty LaRue.”

“Ella.”

“Yes?”

“Stop talking.”

After we hung up, I not only felt better, but I had a plan.