Mari enters the courtroom with a bailiff and Jo beside her. Jo breaks away, running toward me with a face like the only sun I’ll ever need.
I crush her to me, much too tightly, but she doesn’t so much as complain. I’m tempted to locate duct tape so I can attach her to my person.
“You smell so good,” I tell her, and why this is the thing I say right now, I’ll never know.
“Can we stop for frozen custard?” Jo asks.
“Of course.”
Someone shouts for us all to clear the courtroom, but don’t they know WE ARE HAVING A MOMENT? I pick up Jo, being jostled from all sides as I carry her out. I need to find Pat, but I catch sight of his dark hair and broad shoulders somewhere behind me in the throng. He’s coming. He’ll find us.
The hallway is hardly better than the courtroom. As much as I love my best friends and Big Mo and Mari and Eula Martin and whoever that random dude was who just hugged me, I need to breathe.
I also need to work out or something, because my arms are exhausted from carrying Jo for more than two minutes. But there is no world in which I’m putting her down until she asks.
Where is Pat?
His is the one face I haven’t seen, and he should really be right up in here, a part of this hug, a part of this moment. The three of us, together. I’ve lost him in the throng of people.
“Where’s Patty?” Jo asks.
“I don’t know, baby.”
“I’m here.”
The two of us melt into Pat, and now—NOW—everything is right in my world. I wish the moment didn’t happen just outside a men’s restroom. It would have been so much more poignant without catching a glimpse of a man standing at the urinals. It’s also strange—Pat’s arms are like overcooked spaghetti. It’s not a real Pat hug.
When he pulls away and Tank steps in with a crushing hug, it only highlights how weak Pat’s embrace was. I can’t take my eyes off his face, which is strangely blank. Pat is never blank. He’s never on mute. It’s like he was yesterday, only worse.
I like my Pat dialed all the way up. He is best enjoyed at top volume and full strength. I’m not sure what’s happening here. We won—shouldn’t he be doing a dance worthy of an excessive celebration flag? Or tossing Jo up into the air? Maybe releasing doves or shooting off a confetti cannon? Pat is a grand gesture kind of guy. Not one to stand back, shove his hands in his pockets, and look distant.
Except that’s what he’s doing.
Ashlee stands before me suddenly, an envelope in her hand. “This is from the other attorney. Rachel wrote it for you. Do you want me to read it first? He said it’s personal, not legal.”
“No. I don’t care. Just shove it in my purse, will you?”
I’ll read it later. I don’t even care. Rachel, in typical Rachel fashion, created an enormous amount of drama, dragged all of this out only to make us drive down here for something we could have had our lawyers discuss on the phone.
I’ll be angry later when I’m not so bowled over with relief.
“My place isn’t far from here,” Tank is saying, and I don’t miss the way he eyes Ashlee. “I’d love to invite everyone over to celebrate. Lunch or drinks or—”
I’m already shaking my head no. I feel short of breath, suffocated by all the touching and the emotions. I need space from the crush of people bottlenecking and rubbernecking and that one couple I don’t know who is actually necking quite amorously just a few feet away.
“Could I take a rain check? All this is just … so much,” I say weakly, and of course, Tank understands. Something crosses Pat’s face and then is gone. Is he mad? Disappointed? I cannot get a read on him.