“The feeling is mutual.”
James leans forward, his gaze intense. “What happens to her when this all goes south? Did you think about that?”
“Of course I have.”
But maybe not enough. What’s seemed like a game at times with Lindy is suddenly all too real. Not like chess, where we’re moving pieces around the board, but something a little more deadly and with possible casualties outside of the two of us.
Groaning, James leans back, running a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I just unloaded on you.”
I want to tell him it’s okay, but I’m teetering on an edge here. Instead, I find myself shredding the paper napkin in my lap. When I realize Mari will probably be the one to have to sweep this up, I feel even worse and try to gather up all the pieces of the mess I made.
“Look, just make sure, okay? Don’t settle,” James says. “The timing is bad with all of this, so wait until after the hearing. Then talk to Lindy. Actual words, not flirting and wordplay. A serious conversation. Make sure it’s you she wants.”
In a rare show of brotherly affection, James slaps my shoulder. “You’ll be okay, Pat. You always land on your feet.”
Not this time, I think. This time, I’m not sure if I’ll land at all.
But I swallow down the rising panic and force a smile, because it’s what he expects. It’s what everyone ALWAYS expects from me. “Of course I do.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lindy
As expected, the loft is a huge hit with Jo.
“Can we stay forever?” she asks from the very top of her sliding ladder.
She’s been channeling her very best Belle, complete with singing “This Provincial Life” for the past five minutes. Which was cute and all, but five full minutes of it is a LOT of minutes.
I glance at Pat, grinning, expecting some kind of witty response from him. But he’s staring out the window, his hands in his pockets. I’m not even sure he heard Jo. Ever since I got back with Jo, he’s been strangely subdued. Very un-Pat-like.
When he doesn’t answer, I give Jo the best answer I can, given the circumstances. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
After tomorrow, I don’t add. We’re all thinking it. That’s probably what’s wrong with Pat. I know he’s grown incredibly attached to Jo. The man usually hides his worry behind layers of cheer and optimism, so maybe this is the version of Pat with all those layers peeled back. Ashlee said only in the most extreme circumstance would we come home tomorrow without Jo. But this certainly is a kind of final night, and it’s all I can do not to duct-tape Jo to my body. Pat’s probably feeling the same.
I link my fingers through his, and he blinks a few times, like he’s just waking up.
“Did you ask me something?” he says, his voice rough.
I shake my head. “Everything okay?”
He’s silent for too long, and when I give his fingers a squeeze, it’s again like he’s just waking up. “Sure. Fine.”
Aside from how he looks—where it most definitely applies—fine is not a word that belongs to Patrick Graham. It’s way too middle of the road, not superlative enough to encapsulate the grandness of him.
He seems to have shrunk down into someone I don’t recognize. As the evening goes on, our last evening together, I find myself filling up the space he’s left vacant. I sing silly songs off-key. I play loud music through the speakers he’s had installed through the loft.
We pick up food from Mari’s since the fridge is empty, and after we’ve finished and cleaned up, Jo asks us both to tuck her in. “Patty can read, and you can scratch my back,” she says in a tone that doesn’t allow for questions. I’d do just about anything she asks tonight.