“This is one of the things I love about you,” Pat says, finally recovering. “You are fire.”
I hold up a finger. “If you utter so much as one Backstreet Boys lyric, I will end you.”
He puts a hand over his heart. “I’d never. You know I’ve always been Team NSYNC. I still hope Justin and Britney will find their way back to each other.”
“You would.”
This is the strangest, most intense conversation I’ve ever had, and I’m suddenly exhausted. I’m so worn down that I think if Pat were to ask me the marriage question again, a yes might pop out of my mouth. I don’t think I could stop it.
When Pat grabs my hand, I’m not quick enough to move away. Or maybe I don’t want to. His hand, warm and strong and instantly reminding me of a thousand and one good memories, envelops mine. He links our fingers, and I can’t help the sigh that escapes me.
We are holding hands.
We. Are. Holding. Hands.
I want to pull away. I also want to climb over the table and kiss him until we get kicked out of the restaurant, then continue making out in the parking lot like a couple of teenagers.
I want to tell him off.
I want to forgive him.
I want—
My throat grows tight, not used to the swell of emotion. I keep things lake-calm in my life, a glassy waterfront on a warm, breezeless day.
Pat is a tempest, blowing a surging storm of waves and wind my way. I haven’t felt anything this strongly in years. I haven’t allowed myself to feel. It's simultaneously refreshing and terrifying.
I love it; I hate it.
But inarguably, I feel fully alive.
“Lindy, I want to marry you,” Pat says, and that tempest becomes a tsunami.
I blink. Swallow. Remind myself to breathe. I tell my heart it needs to start back up and do its job so I don’t drop dead in this vinyl booth, my hair forever smelling like grilled onions.
“This isn’t how I wanted to ask you,” Pat says, squeezing my fingers. “But Chevy told me about Jo and the custody hearing. I figured there was no point in waiting.”
My stomach sinks. Chevy told Pat I need a husband. Pat wants to help. He wants to marry me because I need help.
I’m not an idiot—Pat isn’t asking just because he’s a nice guy and wants to help. Our chemistry is its own living thing. It has a zip code. He at least thinks he loves me. This proposal isn’t just an offer of charity. But he also wouldn’t be asking me right NOW if it weren’t because of Jo. Of that, I’m certain.
His offer is like a mixed cocktail including five types of alcohol, the kind that tastes delicious and leaves you wishing you were dead the next morning.
I open my mouth to answer, though I have no idea what I’m going to say. Before I can speak a word, a mariachi band descends on us. Surrounding Pat, they begin a rousing version of happy birthday. There are at least ten people involved. One is playing guitar and another shakes maracas in a way that would make his mama proud. One guy’s job seems to be just making celebratory noises which are all at ear-piercing decibels.
Our server plops an oversized sombrero on Pat’s head and then smacks a dollop of whipped cream right on his nose. My side of the booth is momentarily clear, and I take advantage of the distraction to make my escape.
“Lindy, wait!” Pat calls. I ignore him.
Chevy, who is a dead man ten times over, is laughing and slapping his knees at the bar, while Pat, still in the sombrero and a face full of whipped cream, tries to fight his way through the band.
I bolt for the front doors before Pat and his terrible ideas that sound way, way too tempting can catch up to me.