Pat and Tank are probably both used to luxurious homes, or at least ones without massive holes in the driveway, a porch ready to detach from the house any minute, and knee-high weeds instead of grass in the yard. There’s more white paint chipping off the exterior than on the wood at this point.
“Is that okay if Jo shows me around?” Tank asks. “I have a feeling you two have things you need to talk about.”
Pat shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t say anything. I wonder if this is the longest stretch of quiet he’s ever maintained in his life.
The last thing I want is to dissect our past. We don’t need a postmortem on this relationship because it’s DEAD. Or, undead, if I’m going by the zombie butterflies.
Still, I need to tell Pat in no uncertain terms there is no future here. If I don’t slam the door firmly this time, he’s going to stick his boot in the crack and wedge the door back open, like he’s clearly trying to do right now.
My mission, should I choose to accept it: make Patrick Graham flee. For good this time. Then kill all the undead insects swooping in my belly.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Just watch out for snakes and broken boards.” Tank’s eyes, the same dark brown as Pat’s, go wide at the mention of snakes. “I think we got all the snakes out, but sometimes they come back once they’ve nested somewhere. Jo knows what places to avoid. You’ll be fine.”
Jo flies back through the front door, almost plowing into Amber, who has gone to sleep on the middle of the porch. Jo passes out two bottles of water, then grabs Tank by the hand. It’s hilarious to watch her drag the giant man behind her. Beast bounds after them.
As they disappear around the corner of the house, I hear him ask, “Your Aunt Lindy said you knew where to avoid the snakes?”
“Don’t worry,” Jo says, her voice fading. “Snakes are friendly, and I’ll keep you safe!”
It’s all suddenly too much. Without meeting Pat’s eyes, I sink down on the top porch step. Amber’s tail thumps but she doesn’t get up. I give her a quick scratch behind the ears, needing the touch to ground me.
“May I?” Pat asks, using the toe of his boot to gesture to the spot beside me.
“Might as well,” I answer. “I’m not likely to get rid of you otherwise.”
He sits down, and I’m hit with the scent of him. I asked Pat once what cologne he wore, because I was obsessed with it. He gave me the name of some generic store brand body wash and deodorant. In a moment of weakness years later, I bought both. But something in Pat’s skin or his essence must combine with the scent in the products, because on their own, they did nothing for me.
Except make me cry.
Now, that same combination of product plus Pat makes my hands tremble. I’m fighting the urge to grab him by the shirt and kiss him. I may be a messy tangle of emotions, but the desire for physical connection with Pat is very uncomplicated. I remember exactly how his mouth fit perfectly to mine, the heat of his body, and the way it felt to be wrapped up in his strong arms.
“You have a chicken,” Pat says, and I glance over to see Elvis strutting around the porch.
“A rooster, actually.”
This makes Pat smile, and I don’t like it when he smiles. Mostly because I like it way too much.
“He’s on your porch.”
I shrug. “Some people have house elves. We have a porch rooster.” Pat laughs, and I mentally kick myself for being playful. But it’s hard to stop. Even now, with good reason to be hurt and angry, Pat makes me … light. He always had that effect, like when I was with him, we existed somewhere above the normal plane of living. “Elvis thinks he’s a house cat. He’s always trying to sneak inside.”