Page 17 of Tell Me I'm Not Dreaming

PATRICK

N o words. Patrick has no words for the sight before him. It’s Aimee. His one and only. His heart and soul. The love of his life.

“Aimee,” he sighs her name like he’s been holding his breath waiting to say it.

She looks even more beautiful than when I last saw her . She looks ravishing . Her face, her body . She looks angelic and … very, very pissed.

“Patrick,” she says, her voice laced with disdain.

“Look, Aimee, I know things between us ended badly.”

“Ended badly? You broke my heart, Patrick.” She throws her mask at him.

“My heart got shattered too that night. Aimee, I didn’t want to end things, but you know my grandmother would not have paid for me to attend college, and your mother was against us getting married, too.”

“You could have fought for me.” Aimee has tears in her eyes.

Patrick reaches out to touch her. “Aimee?—”

“No! Don’t touch me.”

She hops out of the bed and picks up her robe, covering herself and heading for the door.

“A-Team, please.”

She turns around and looks at him, her brows furrowed and her lip trembling. He recognizes this look; she always made it when she was mad and trying not to cry.

“Please,” he begs.

He approaches her and gets down on his knees, looking up at her with tears in his eyes. “Please don’t leave. I’ll do anything just please don’t leave.”

Tears fall down Aimee’s cheeks. He slowly rises and unfastens her robe. His lips connect to her skin. He peppers kisses up her body until he’s facing her. He gently plants his lips on hers.

“You hurt me. You broke my heart.” Aimee breaks the kiss and sobs.

“I’ll do anything. I’m so sorry,” he whispers as he cries, too. “Please, just give me a chance. I’m not a scared eighteen-year-old boy anymore. I am a man who will do whatever it takes to get you back. Aimee, please. I have never stopped loving you,” Patrick pleads.

“Really?” She whispers.

“Yes.” He says without a second of hesitation.

“Goddammit, Patrick. Why did you have to get even handsomer? And you’re amazing in bed too. Seriously, fuck you,” Aimee says softly.

He lets out a light chuckle.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders. He, in turn, wraps his arms around her waist. Aimee rests her head on his chest.

They stand silently and hold each other.

March 1993

Patrick sits at his desk at home and writes on his notepad.

He struggles to find the right words to tell his pen pal about himself.

His teacher, Ms. Fraiser, assigned each kid someone to write to, and he’s trying to write his letter to a girl named Aimee Turner.

She lives in Compton. Patrick has heard of Compton but has never been there.

All he knows is what he’s seen in movies, most notably, Boyz N the Hood .

He lives in Brentwood, a neighborhood in Los Angeles that has mansions with pools.

He wonders about Aimee’s school and if she has a lot of friends.

He doesn’t have a lot of friends. His school is mostly white kids, and they don’t talk to him that much.

A school in Compton probably has a lot of Black kids.

He wishes he could go to a school with more kids who look like him.

Patrick puts his pencil down and thinks.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up to see his mom, Racquel, smiling at him.

“You having a tough time writing to Aimee, baby?” she asks.

“Yeah, I don’t have anything exciting to tell her.”

“It doesn’t have to be exciting, Patrick. Just tell her about yourself. Tell her how much you like gardening and visiting museums.”

“What if she thinks that’s corny?”

“Then you don’t need her as a friend. Just be yourself, sweetie. It’ll be fine.” His mom kisses his forehead then leaves.

Patrick takes a breath and starts writing.

Hi Aimee,

I’m Patrick. I’m eight years old and in third grade. I’m guessing you are, too. What do you like to do?

Patrick hesitates before continuing to write.

I like gardening with my mom and going to museums with her and my dad. I like to read. I like RL Stine’s books. What do you like to read? I also like to watch the Fresh Prince and Family Matters. What TV shows do you like? Sorry if I’m asking a lot of questions. Okay, bye.

Two weeks later, Patrick got what would become his first of many letters from Aimee.

Hi Patrick,

I’m Aimee. You didn’t ask too many questions. You only asked three, silly.

Patrick smiles at her calling him silly.

I like flowers and stuff, but I don’t like touching dirt.

I ride my bike to my friend Talia’s house, and we watch music videos.

I like Whitney Houston. What music do you like?

I like to read stories about princesses.

I also like the Fresh Prince, but I don’t like Urkel.

I don’t like his voice. I also like Martin.

My mom says I’m too little to watch it, but I watch when she’s not looking. Don’t tell her.

Patrick takes out his notepad to write her back.

After the assignment ended, Patrick and Aimee continued talking to each other.

Soon, they were talking on the phone, then came the visits.

When summer came, Patrick’s mom invited Aimee and her mom over to their house for a BBQ.

He and Aimee spent the day playing video games, talking and joking.

They didn’t just become friends; they were best friends.

By the time they were fifteen, Patrick asked Amy to be his girlfriend.

She said yes. Their mothers made jokes about their eventual wedding.

But tragedy struck. Patrick’s mom died when they were seventeen.

She had a misdiagnosed blood clot in her leg that caused her to have a stroke.

It was so sudden. Patrick was a mess, and Aimee was there.

His father dealt with his grief by distancing himself and diving into his work.

He and Patrick became more estranged as time went on.

His grandparents moved in to help, and things were good for a while, but when it came time for Patrick and Aimee to attend college and start their lives together as adults … that’s when everything turned to shit.

April 2003

It’s been a year since Patrick’s mom died, and the only thing that truly brings him joy is Aimee’s love.

Patrick loves his grandparents—and he appreciates everything they’ve done in his parents’ absence—but Aimee provides him with peace.

He can’t imagine his life without her. That’s why he plans to ask her to marry him after they graduate from high school.

He knows it’s crazy, but he can’t wait to start the rest of their lives together.

They’ve known they were going to get married since they were fifteen, why wait any longer?

He plans on proposing on their date tonight.

He looks in the mirror as he straightens his tie.

“Aimee, will you marry me?” he practices.

He takes a deep breath and tries again.

“Aimee, I love you, and I want you to be my wife,” he says.

He gives it a go for a third time. “Marry me, Aimee.”

His grandfather, Waylan, enters his room.

“Patrick, your grandmother and I need to talk to you.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Now, son,” Waylan insists.

Patrick nods.

He enters the sitting room where his grandmother, Celeste, is waiting.

She’s the brains of their marriage, and he’s the muscle.

He usually stands back and stays silent unless Grandmother Celeste needs back up, and she never does.

She always looks impeccable and wears nothing but designer clothes.

Mainly slacks and blouses. Patrick hasn’t ever seen her in anything that wasn’t elegant.

The woman doesn’t do casual. He’s never even seen her in pajamas.

She once told him she wouldn’t be caught dead in jeans.

Right now, she has on a Monique Lhuillier—her favorite designer—high neck floral print blouse and a checked tweed midi skirt by Alexander McQueen.

She’s had Patrick escort her on may shopping trips over the years.

Aside from gardening and museums, he knows a lot about women’s fashion.

Aimee’s the only person outside his family who knows that.

“Hello, grandmother. How are you this evening?”

Grandmother Celeste is older than old school. Using words like “Yeah,” “Kinda,” and overusing words like “um” and “like” are big no-nos around her. As much of a stickler as she is for all things proper, she’s one of the warmest, most loving people Patrick knows.

“Hello, Patrick. Have a seat, my love.”

He sits across from her. She smiles as Grandpa Waylan sits next to her.

“Patrick, I’m afraid you cannot propose to Aimee.”

“How did you?—?”

“Mitzy Pepperton saw you shopping at Van Cleef and Arpels.”

Damn . I should have thought about the gossipy old women who live to shop and spread everyone’s business .

“Patrick, stop frowning.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Patrick fixes his face. “Grandmother, I know Aimee and I are young, but?—”

“That isn’t my only concern. Aimee is a nice enough girl, but she isn’t who we pictured you with. Patrick, you are a Bryant, and there are expectations that come with your family name.”

“Is this about Aimee being from Compton?”

“It is an issue.”

“But how come? Mom didn’t come from money.”

“That may have been the case, but your mother knew to play by the rules. Aimee’s ambitions are also an issue.”

“You seem to think a lot of things about Aimee are an issue.”

“Unfortunately, they are. She plans to major in creative writing. While I fully support the arts, pursuing a career in them is unrealistic and unbecoming of the future wife of a Bryant.”

Patrick isn’t totally naive. He knows that Grandmother Celeste is a bit snobbish.

This comes as no surprise given the fact that she’s the wife of a renowned real estate developer and her son is a venture capitalist, but Patrick also thought she wanted him to be happy.

His mother’s death has left an ache in him that Aimee’s presence in his life helps soothe.

“But I love Aimee.”