Patrickinney.
He took a bite of his hot dog, chewed mindfully, and lickedhis lips slowly. Too slowly for my tightly wound hormones to handle, and Ifound myself staring mid-bite through half-hooded eyes. Following the trail histongue made over the curve of his upper, then lower lip, as I remembered quitevividly exactly what it was like to bite his upper lip, to suck its lowercounterpart into my mouth.
“Hey,” Patrick said, pulling me from my reverie. “Yougonnaeat that, or are you justgonnastare at me?”
I diverted my eyes to the water, washing my thoughts awaywith the gentle sloshing of the tide, and imagined I could see the Orient PointLighthouse across the way. The little sparkplug across the Sound felt like ahaven from the nostalgia and stirring emotions I had struggled to keep buriedfor over ten years. It wasn’t too late to steal that boat, I told myself as Ichewed. I could sail straight across, and get the hell away from that townwhere everybody knew my name. Away from him.
His thigh touched mine, and I glanced over at thejean-covered leg, partnering with mine on the bench we had occupied thousandsof times in our youth. It was hard to pretend to hate him in those minutes,eating our hot dogs. It was hard to remember why I pretend-hated him in thefirst place, why I ran, why I held myself back from accepting his incessantinvitations for those two years since my return.
“It’s because of you.”
“What?”
He uncapped his water bottle, and took a long sip beforefitting it between his legs. “I’m divorced, because ofyou.”
And then, just like that, the flood of unhappy memoriescame rushing back and I angrily shook my head.
“Don’t,” I growled.
“Hey, you asked.”
“Don’t blame me for your failed marriage, Patrick. I willnot—"
He shook his head. “Blameyou?Kins,if anything, Ithankyou.”
And before I could shove another obnoxious comment in hisface, Patrick took my plate from me and dumped the trash into the nearbygarbage can. If I had taken the time to look, I might have found the placewhere he had etched our names into that garbage can, a fitting analogy for ourown failed relationship, but I wasn’t looking. I was too busy tightening myarms around myself, shielding my heart from whatever else he had planned.
CHAPTER 4 |
Sticky Lips & Gaudy Rings
We were marriedwhen we were six.
Patrick had proposed to me with a plastic ringfrom one of those twenty-five cent machines at the supermarket.
He had told his mother the quarter was for agumball, but he had more romantic ideas in mind. I’d asked him what he wasdoing, when he inserted the coin and twisted the crank. He flashed his dimplesmy way, and simply told me that he was getting me a present.
My girlish heart fluttered in my littlesundress and sandals, and I anticipated what could be in the little plasticbubble as it tumbled its way down. Patrick gripped it between his hands andpopped it open to inspect the surprise gem, and a smile slowly spread over hisface.
That was the precise moment he dropped down tohis knees, and took one of my sticky ice cream hands in his.
“Kinsey, will you marry me?” he announced tothe store front, and his mother turned to look on with adoration, hands clappedto her heart.
“I can’t get married!” I cried with horror, pullingmy hand out of his. “I’m six!”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “I want to marry you,because you’re my best friend,” he said, as though that somehow made it better.
And it did. “You’re my best friend too.”
The plastic green ring was on my finger in theblink of an eye. The fit was perfect, no adjustments needed, and I made theannouncement the moment I walked through the door after being dropped off. Myparents shared a smile with Mrs. Kinney—"How cute are they?”—and theycongratulated me on finding such a worthy man.
Plans were made immediately. My sister offeredto perform the ceremony, Molly the Dog was to be our flower girl,Shadow/Murdoch/Mister the Cat was to be our ring bearer, and his three-year-oldbrothers were to be our witnesses. The dress was my favorite—something one ofthe Ingalls girls might have worn on Little House on the Prairie; long andfloral with an eyelet bib. Mrs. Kinney had braided my hair, as she laughedabout her hairstyling skills going to waste with three little boys. On my feetwere the black patent leather Mary Janes my mom allowed me to wear, althoughthey were bought for school. “It’s a special occasion,” she had said, and witha splash of cherry Chapstick, little Kinsey Ingalls was set to make herself anhonest woman.
And then, there was Patrick.
I could still see it. He looked so genuinelyhappy, standing there in his bow tie and suspenders. His dimples deepening bythe second, and his hands remaining clasped tightly together, as I made myimpatient approach.
The summer breeze swept his fluffy blonde hairoff his forehead, and my sister cleared her throat.
