“More like the bottomless Pat,” Tank says, chuckling.
“Good one, Dad.”
When I take a bite of my migas, my eyes almost roll back in my head at the taste. Maybe I’ll make my decision about this town one bite at a time.
“You look like you’re having some kind of life-altering experience over there,” Tank says.
“I might be. For all its foodie ways, Austin can’t beat this. Try a bite.”
Dad takes a forkful of my migas and practically groans at the taste. “I’m not usually big on Mexican food in the morning, but that’s spectacular.” He wipes a dribble of salsa off his chin.
Mari pats Dad on the shoulder as she walks back by. “Can I get you two anything else?”
“A little more coffee?” Dad asks, and Mari fills our mugs. “Everything is delicious.”
Mari looks pleased as she disappears into the kitchen again. Tank and I wolf down our food in relative silence, which gives me too much space to think about Lindy and the colossal mistakes I wish I could unmake.
The thing was—it never should have gotten serious between us. I knew the draft was coming and didn’t want to go into my pro career attached, while Lindy planned to travel the world. Our relationship was supposed to be fun and casual. We even made rules, which seems like the most ridiculous thing now, especially considering they didn’t do a lick of good keeping me from falling in love with her.
The closer it came to saying goodbye, the more I panicked about leaving her. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I could do it.
So stupid, twenty-two-year-old Pat ripped the bandage off. I thought our goodbye would be easier if we didn’t have to say it. I told myself I was doing us both a favor. Instead of meeting Lindy as planned on our last night together, I changed my plane ticket and flew out early.
I didn’t call. I didn’t text. I just … left.
If I had access to a T.A.R.D.I.S., I would go back and punch myself in the face. Repeatedly. But as any good Whovian knows, you don’t mess with your own timeline.
And did my grand bandage-ripping plan work? No. No, it did not.
I was a mess. A hot, hot mess.
A month into my new life, I broke and called Lindy from some awful club, feeling guilty, lonely, and miserable. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to tell her I made a huge mistake, not just leaving without saying goodbye but leaving at all. I needed her forgiveness, needed to explain, needed her voice to make my head feel clear again. Nothing felt right after I left her. Nothing.
Instead, I got a chipper Lindy on the phone. She didn’t seem fazed by the end of us. I barely got a word in as she told me how much she loved traveling alone, being alone. She made it clear she was happy without me.
Then: click. She was gone.
What followed that phone call was a string of deeper misery and even worse decisions. Like my quickie Vegas marriage to a lingerie model, which my family and I pretend never happened. Padma and I got it annulled almost immediately, so it technically didn’t happen.
Shattering my ankle was probably the best thing for me, as it ended my streak of self-destructive behavior. Being back home and around my family grounded me, but the ache of losing Lindy never faded. I just got better at pretending I’m not living with a perpetually broken heart.
At this point, Lindy can’t be as large as she looms in my memory. I’ve probably fictionalized her, idolized her. She can’t be as beautiful, as electric, as important as the memory lingering in my head. Even thinking about her now has my pulse doing some kind of ninja warrior course through my veins.
Mari brings the check, and I excuse myself to the bathroom to wash off my syrup-sticky hands. On the way back, I can’t stop myself from pausing by the little girl. She glances up at me with green eyes that remind me way too much of my very favorite green eyes in the world.