“Grab your colors. We need to go.”
And quickly, before Pat bursts through the window or climbs down the ventilation system above the stove in the back. He’s persistent—when he wants to be—and harder to kill than a cockroach. He’s the kind of man who will squeeze through the smallest bit of wiggle room I give him, despite locked doors and closed-off hearts.
My stomach is fluttering with a horde of resurrected butterflies. They are still blinking awake, flitting blindly around in my stomach and trying to get their bearings after so many years.
It’s the Pat effect. Which is why we need to leave NOW. I cannot have Pat. Or butterflies. Nope.
Anger is far more productive and much safer. I can channel all the feelings Pat woke up into a pure, white-hot rage. The resurrected butterflies can be an avenging zombie horde. That’s a much better use for them.
With a last glance at the door, I pull Jo into the kitchen. “I have to pee,” she says, bouncing from foot to foot.
Big Mo nods toward the cramped stairway leading to his apartment above the diner. “Use mine, little Jo.”
He gives Jo a warm smile. Setting down her pencil case, she darts for the stairs. Big Mo is one of Jo’s favorite people, which makes him one of my favorite people. He also makes a mean breakfast burrito.
I count the thuds of Jo’s footsteps as she runs up the stairs. Sometimes when I’m stressed or overwhelmed, counting things helps calm me. Trees in a yard, cars passing by, number of times I overuse the words so and that in my articles.
The number of times I think about Pat in a day, or an hour.
The last number is embarrassingly high. Even after so many years. Even after he gave me every reason NOT to think about him. Now, after actually seeing him, not thinking about him will be impossible.
My Days-without-Thinking-of-Pat sign needs to be updated. It has been ZERO days since I thought about Patrick Graham.
I lean against the metal prep counter, trying to focus on the familiar scent of chopped cilantro and the pop of grease from whatever Big Mo is frying for the impending lunch rush. The familiarity of this kitchen does little to unknot the tension coiled inside me.
When Mari envelops me in a hug, there is a dangerous moment where her softness almost—ALMOST—loosens up a tear or two. I clutch her tighter, inhaling the scent of her hair.
I just have to hold it together for like seven more hours. Then, Jo will be asleep, and I can close my door, hide in the back of my closet, and sob or scream as loudly as I want. Jo asked me once why I had so many long coats when the weather doesn’t get that cold. I didn’t explain to her how well they muffle sound.
“He looks even more handsome in person than in pictures,” Mari says, jerking me back into the moment.
I wish it weren’t true. Pat has always been more handsome in person, though he’s certainly photogenic too. A two-dimensional picture can’t capture his personality or his charm. He also somehow managed to look better now than he did five years ago, in that infuriating way men have of aging well.
I pull away, clutching the strap of my purse. “Yeah, well. Him being handsome wasn’t the problem.”
“You were both so young,” Mari says. “Maybe the time has come to let the troll go under the bridge?”
Mari moved here from Costa Rica fifteen years ago when Val’s mom took off. It was the same summer Winnie’s mom died of cancer. Worst summer break ever! Mari’s English is almost perfect, but her idioms … not so much. She told Val recently that she needed to stop dating so many losers and find a man who would sweep her feet off.
Based on context here, I think she means water under the bridge, not trolls.
But I’m not planning to let the troll under my bridge sweep my feet off anytime soon. While it might sound easy from the outside to just forgive Pat, it’s more complicated than that. My hurt is a deep, deep current running through me. What’s more—I lied to him, and he doesn’t even know yet. With what’s happening with Jo right now, my complicated relationship with Pat is the last thing I need on my mind.