Page 27

The Patricia Situation

Song : Good News - Shaboozey

Meanwhile, the house felt quieter—mostly because Jeanine had pulled the ultimate boss move the night before and picked up her kids.

One phone call from Blake telling her a registered sex offender was sharing a hallway with her children, and she drove straight down from Montana like a caffeine-fueled Terminator.

No small talk. No pleasantries. Just a text:

“Send them outside. Now.”

Valentina and Vance didn’t even get a proper goodbye, but I didn’t blame them.

If I had a ride out of that three-ring circus, I’d have jumped in the backseat like it was the last chopper out of Saigon.

So naturally, with the threat level slightly reduced, Jon and I decided to seize the opportunity to pretend our lives were normal for two hours.

We opted for Texas Roadhouse because nothing says “emotional recovery” like cinnamon butter and steak the size of a toddler.

Blake was working late at the dealership down the street, probably trying to sell a used Kia while pretending his life wasn’t currently an episode of Dateline: Domestic Disaster.

We took Jon’s truck and Nacho came along, lounging in the backseat like he, too, needed comfort food and a break from adult lunacy.

We slid into a booth and ordered like we’d just completed military service—fried pickles, steaks, baked potatoes, and sweet tea that could dissolve your teeth.

We were mid-bite, savoring the rare silence when Jon’s phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen, froze, and then looked at me with the face of a man who’d just seen a ghost… or maybe a bill from the IRS.

“What?” I asked, already fearing the worst. He flipped the phone toward me.

A text from Blake:

“Hey, have you guys been smoking meth and weed at the house?” I nearly choked on my fried pickle.

“Excuse me—what?!” Jon blinked. I blinked. Nacho sneezed because even the dog couldn’t believe the sheer stupidity radiating from that message. We said it at the same time, deadpan as if we’d been possessed by the same sarcastic ghost:

“Patricia.”

Of course, it was. The woman had been suspiciously quiet since the whole Tory-the-predator scandal broke. And now, here she was, pulling an Oscar-worthy performance as “concerned housemate” while whispering meth accusations to Blake like we were characters in a Breaking Bad fanfic.

“She’s trying to isolate him,” I said, stabbing my potato with the fury of a woman who’s seen this exact narcissistic play before.

“She’s Mark 2.0. Make everyone else look like the problem so she can be the hero-slash-victim-slash-only one left standing.” Jon nodded, jaw tight.

“She’s doing the thing.”

“The thing!” I agreed.

“The gaslight-and-burn maneuver. It’s like she’s got a manual titled How to Manipulate Emotionally Vulnerable Men in Ten Easy Steps .”

“Should we respond?” Jon asked, already regretting asking.

“I mean… I could send screenshots of her fake job history, her crockpot meatballs, and her child’s bare hands in the Oreo bag—but maybe we just let it ride.”

“I can’t believe she told him meth.”

“Why not go full soap opera?” I snorted.

“Why stop at meth? Why not say we’re running a dogfighting ring in the basement and laundering money through Uber Eats?” Jon grinned, but it was the tired smile of a man who’d just accepted that his life had veered into reality TV territory.

“She’s spiraling,” I added.

“Jeanine took the kids, Tory’s gone, and her fantasy cult is collapsing. She’s losing control.”

“She knows her days are numbered,” Jon said. I looked at him seriously.

“We have to move.” He nodded.

“Agreed. I’m already looking. Preferably somewhere with no felons, functioning adults, and ideally—Target curbside pickup.”

“And a nice yard for Nacho,” I added.

“And no one who’s ever been banned from living neara Chuck E. Cheese.”

We clinked glasses, toasted to our escape plan, and spent the rest of dinner pretending we lived in a different universe.

One where roommates didn’t fake careers, gaslight boyfriends, or text you accusations straight out of a narcotics task force report.

By dessert, Jon was already looking at rentals.

I was checking flights. And Nacho? He was curled under the table, living his best life and probably thinking, Y’all should’ve listened to me from day one.

We were halfway through devouring our shared basket of Texas Roadhouse rolls—Jon covered in crumbs, me blissfully carb-drunk—when he suddenly looked up and said, “Hey… want to go visit your mo m and dad in Texas?” I blinked at him, a bit of butter on my thumb, wondering if he’d just read my mind or maybe saw the SOS blinking behind my eyes.

“And then,” he added, voice low and sincere, “we find a house, just for us. We come back here for what’s left and move into a real home.

No chaos. No cult. Just us.” I stared at him.

God, this man. Where had he been all my life?

Oh, right—serving in the military and living in Idaho with a cast of characters that made the Manson family look organized.

Still, in that moment, I’d never loved him more.

Not because he said exactly what I needed to hear, but because he meant it. All of it.

We drove back to the house feeling like Bonnie and Clyde if they’d traded in crime sprees for emotionally responsible cohabitation goals.

When we got home, the silence was golden.

No screeching children, no chaotic shouting, no smell of crockpot meatballs gone wrong.

Patricia, as usual, was nowhere to be found—probably rotting away in Blake’s room like a Disney villain in hibernation mode.

No job. No errands. Just pure, undiluted madness marinating in stale air.

I called my mom from the basement. She answered on the second ring.

“Delilah? ”

“Mommy, we’re coming to Texas.”

I gave her the rundown. Tory the predator, Patricia the lunatic, meth accusations, the whole psychological dumpster fire. She didn’t even hesitate.

“Oh my God. Please come here. Both of you. Stay as long as you need.” Relief hit me like a Xanax to the soul.

She didn’t even ask follow-up questions, because when your daughter says she’s living in a house with someone who can’t legally walk past a middle school, you don’t wait for context—you just put the guest sheets in the wash.

Jon and I settled into the quiet basement room, the silence now tinged with relief.

We were finally escaping the Twilight Zone.

At least, I thought so—until Jon’s phone rang.

It was Blake. He took the call in the hallway.

When he returned, he looked like he’d just seen a ghost tap dance across the living room in a meth-fueled rage.

“Okay,” Jon said carefully, “I need to tell you something, but promise not to laugh until I finish.” That’s never a good start. I nodded.

“Blake says Patricia is going to call the police.” I raised an eyebrow.

“For what? Cooking emotionally traumatizing meals?” He sighed.

“She says we’ve been smoking meth and cocaine at the house.” I choked on my spit.

“WHAT?!”

“And…” He held up a hand like a traffic cop at a crime scene. “And she says you are running a sex ring in Texas. From Idaho.” I stared at him. For a good, solid three seconds, I thought he had to be joking. I laughed. Loudly. I laughed so hard I wheezed. Until I saw his face. He was dead serious.

“Oh my god, you’re not kidding.” My voice went flat.

“You’re not kidding.” Jon shook his head slowly.

“She told Blake she’s going to report us.”

“What is she, a failed improv student?” I muttered.

“This woman just woke up and thought, ‘You know what’s believable? An international meth-and-sex-ring operation managed out of a Mormon community home in Idaho Falls.’”

“And then,” Jon added like it was the final punchline in a cosmic joke, “Blake said to tell you to stop texting her.”

“TEXTING HER?” I barked.

“I haven’t texted that woman since she told me she was going to call CPS on Jeanine for allegedly kicking down a door!

” But now I second-guessed myself. I opened my messages.

Scrolled back. Nope. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

One text:‘I wouldn’t recommend that’—in response to her trying to weaponize CPS like it was her personal backup dancer.

“That’s it,” I said, shoving the phone at Jon like it was exhibit A in a criminal trial.

“I literally told her not to do something insane and now she’s out here acting like I’m the one who’s got a Breaking Bad lab in the garage and a brothel in Amarillo.” Jon looked exhausted, rubbing his forehead.

“She’s trying to make us the problem before we expose her as the problem.” I sighed, dropping onto the bed.

“She’s so deep in delusion, she’s probably got a mood board somewhere labeled ‘Revenge Scenarios.’” Jon climbed in beside me, wrapping an arm around my waist.

“We’ll pack tomorrow. Just ignore her. We’ve got Texas on the horizon and a house to find.”

“You’re right,” I muttered.

“But you know what? First, I’m ordering Chinese food again.

Because if I’m going down for fake drug crimes, I’m going down full of General Tso’s chicken and fried rice.

” We both burst out laughing. Nacho curled up at our feet and gave a tiny bark like even he was ready to file a restraining order.

We had one foot out the door. And if Patricia wanted to call the police, I hoped they’d come with a straitjacket—because they were going to need it.