He snickered, curling his lips into a half-smile. One dimple.“Well, yeah, but I could put myself in your shoes. I may not have gone away, Imight not have wanted to break up with you, but I could understand how yourtaste of freedom could makeyawannasee what else was out there. We were young, we had only ever been with eachother …”
He shrugged, and continued, “Nah, I had gotten that,Kins. But what pissed me off was, you didn’t cry. I mean, Ihad seenyacry overdroppin’afeckin’hotdog. But when you brokeup with me? Nothing. You were like …” He shook his head, pressing one handagainst my cheek while the other raked his fingers through my hair. “You werelike a robot. Likeyadidn’t care—likeyadidn’t care aboutme. Aboutme, Kinsey! Iwasn’t somefeckin’ guy you hooked up with at a fratparty. It wasme! Do you know how pissed off I was that we had gonethrough everything together, yet I had to face being crushedalone?”
Pain fractured his voice, and he cleared his throat,squaring his jaw and pulling himself together. “Like I said, I was too angry tofight, and then, I messed up. After that, well, I couldn’t even look at myselfin the mirror, let alone fight for someone I no longer felt I deserved.”
My lower lip clamped between my teeth, tipping my chintoward my chest. I had to look away from him, from the old pain heating hiseyes. The pain I had caused. I whispered my apology under my breath, feelingthat he finally deserved that after all those years. He grabbed my chin andmaneuvered my head to look in his eyes. His hands held me, and I couldn’t move.I didn’t want to.
“There’s nothing to apologize for.”
I touched my hand to his face. My eyes welled up, and myfingers dug into his cheek. “But ten years, Patrick. We didn’t talk to eachother fortenyears.”
“It was a really long time,” he agreed, nodding.
“You could have called, or—”
“I was married, and you were stillfightin’yourself andrunnin’ away from the shite neither ofus could face. I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me, or if I should—” Hestopped himself, and his brow furrowed. “You know what? I don’t need to makeexcuses for it, because sometimes things just take time, Kinsey. Sometimes youneed ten years to realize that nothing is getting’ better and nothing ishurtin’ less, and nothing isgettin’thatfeckin’ woman out of your head.”
A tear dropped from my eye. “So, you really left her,because of me.”
Patrick nodded, his fingers playing along the edge of myear. “ChristineKinney never sounded as good. Never sounded right.”
I rolled my eyes, dropping my hand from his cheek to hisarm. “I am not marrying you.” I said it, but it lacked the extraoomphIhad registered over the past two years. I just didn’t have it in me anymore—thefight.
His hand fell from my face to take mine. “You always didlook good with a ring on your finger.” His thumb ran over my ring finger, hiseyes never leaving mine.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I groaned, as I attempted topull my hand away, that little smile playing on my lips. I wondered what everhappened to my gaudy green ring. The things we lose, even the things that meanso much.
He held my hand tight, stroking along the hills of myknuckles. “Can I ask you a question?”
I nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
“Why haven’t you been with anyone else,Kins?”
The question left me unhinged, opening and closing my mouthwhile words struggled to form. I shook my head, looking away.
“I don’t think so,” he said, grabbing my chin. “I’ve toldyou everything. You owe me that too.”
Patrickinneywas arelentless glob of peanut butter, hanging on for dear sweet life to thefurthest corners of my mouth. He was impossible to get rid of, and even if Icould, his flavor would linger there forever, making me crave him until thatnext taste.
I would never stop craving him.
“Because I can’t!” I shouted, and he lifted his head withthe beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips.
“Why?” he asked, and I struggled on my answer, the words Icouldn’t yet say. It was infuriating; breaking through that thick, ten-year-oldwall with nothing but my weak little fists. But Patrick did the heavy work,always had—setting things up, making things happen. “Because you chose me?”
“Yeah, I did then, but now? Hmmm … I don’t think so,Kinney,” I teased, pulling from his reach and scooting away to drop back on thecouch.
“Oh, no?” He stalked after me, hunting me with those eyes.A Celtic tiger after his prey.
My heart thrust into my chest—boom, boom, boom—and Ithought, maybe I couldn’t handle this. Maybe I should repair my walls, put upmy defenses again. Maybe this was a wrong move, deciding to stay there with himand giving him his one precious night.
But then his fingers were against my ribs. “Oh, God,” Igasped, unable to contain my obnoxious laughter as I cackled through the tinyhole of a living room. First shouting and now laughter in the matter ofminutes. I wondered what the church lady was thinking, if she could hear it allhappening above her garage. If she was calling Mayor Connie Fischer, giving herthe play-by-play of the inevitable reunion of River Canyon’s greatest lovestory.
I toppled over, unapologetically kicking the rest of mydrink over the coffee table and onto the carpeted floor. I heard it drip intothe woven fabric with paused plops as Patrick clambered over me to continue hisassault. I knew what he was doing. I knew what he was recreating, what he wastrying to pull forth from my memory, and I didn’t care. Because in that moment,I wanted him to. I wanted to feel the weight of completion sitting over me, andso, I didn’t stop him.
Then, just like that, his fingers stopped moving, restingdangerously close to my underwire, and I imagined if he just slid his hand up acouple inches … Cupping, stroking … Would I have stopped him? Pushed him away?Scrambled out from underneath him?
No.
