“Why? Would it be so bad to marry me?”
Actually, no. I can imagine folding Pat right into my tiny life. Only, he wouldn’t fit. He wouldn’t last. I’m just another shiny object to him, another exciting new thing to try before he gets bored. I mean, supermodels and actresses couldn’t keep Pat. How in the world would I?
And when he left, where would I be? Still here, alone with Jo, heart-broken for a second time.
Pat frowns. “And why is asking you to marry me worse than saying I love you?”
“People throw love around all the time. I love this fajita and I love my cowboy boots and I love the latest Adele album. Saying marry me is like putting your money where your mouth is.”
Pat leans back, crossing his arms. “Then, that’s what I’m doing. I love you, and I’m putting my money where my mouth is. Marry me, Lindy.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“I am, actually. But I’m also very, very serious about this. About you and Jo.”
Pat leans forward now, steepling his fingers and giving me his best Very Serious Face. I’ve never seen him maintain this expression for more than ten seconds, tops. I count the seconds until more than half a minute has passed. He still hasn’t cracked.
But I have. My response is to go back to my original plan: stuff food into my face. With my fingers now, since I lost my fork. I’ve eaten almost everything that came with my meal, even the parsley garnish and the little taco cup holding the sour cream.
“I can’t change the mistakes I made,” Pat says. “I know I gave you every reason not to trust me. I don’t know if I can convince you how sincere I am. But I’m going to try.”
I shake my head. You don’t need to do that is what I want to say. My mouth is full, so what comes out is more like Moofomeedtovovat.
Pat seems versed in Lindy-mouth-full-speak, because he answers like he understood perfectly. “I know I don’t need to convince you I mean it. But I’m going to. Whether you want me to or not.”
I finally manage to swallow. “We are living in the age of consent. And I say no. I do not consent to this.”
“I’m all for consent. But I won’t ask your permission to prove I love you.” His voice lowers. “Now, when it comes to kissing you, I’ll wait until I’m sure you want it.”
My thoughts catch on the word kissing, and I’m staring at Pat’s lips when they start curving up in a smile.
“I will respect you,” Pat says, and why won’t he stop talking? It just keeps getting worse! “I do respect you. But I will keep coming after you like the Terminator.”
I am a jittery mess. My brain is still trying to find its way around basic programming after the forced reset, which is the only way I can explain what comes out of my mouth next.
“Which version? The T-800 or the T-1000?”
Pat stares at me with surprise that morphs into awe and pure pleasure. I’ve gone back to speaking his language, our language. I’m horrified as my mouth keeps going.
“Because I think I could handle the T-800. But the T-1000 …” I shake my head. “That one, I’m not so sure about.”
Who am I and what have I done with Lindy? The bitter, shriveled-up version of myself I’ve grown cozy with? I feel a strange warmth spreading in my chest. It feels a lot like waking up.
The warmth grows as Pat begins to laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that makes heads turn and conversations cease. He has no shame, no pride, and no concern at all for what anyone in this room thinks of him. Except me. I command his full, rapt attention and, based on his expression, adoration.
Pat throws his head back, howling with laughter. I can see his pulse jumping, and when his Adam’s apple moves, a cloud opens above, beaming down a ray of sunshine on his perfection. The throat is an underrated and unbelievably sexy part of a man, if you ask me.