I lean in, letting Jo’s laughter and Pat’s familiar scent curl around me like smoke rising from a fledgling fire. His arm tightens around me, warm and strong, and just for a few seconds, I let myself sink into him, into the moment.
Family, I think. This feels like family.
The sensation is strange and new, yet as worn as the pair of jeans I can’t bring myself to throw away, the ones with holes where my thighs brush as I walk. I’m shocked by the fierce fire of longing, exploding from wherever I’ve kept it locked away for years.
Longing, hoping, dreaming—they’re liabilities I haven’t been able to afford. Not even if there were some kind of no-limit, no-interest credit card could I consider these things. At least, not if I don’t want to be buried alive under disappointment later. I swallow, my mouth feeling dry and papery. Can I possibly allow myself to feel these things now?
“I have an idea,” Jo says brightly, sitting up suddenly. The beauty of the moment bursts like a soap bubble—delicate and beautiful, then gone.
I force myself to stand on wobbly legs, then hold out a hand to Pat before I can think better of it.
He rises slowly, much too close to my body, his eyes fixed on mine. Pat doesn’t let go of my hand when he’s on his feet. We are inches apart, the lack of distance feeling strangely obscene, even though we were just pressed together closer than this. I hold my breath, counting the number of boards in the wood paneled wall behind his head.
“You guys,” Jo says, grabbing at us both, her whine a reminder that she’s trying to tell us something. “My idea!”
Pat turns to her, but keeps my hand trapped in his. I’m a willing prisoner, not even pretending I want to escape.
He smiles at her. “What is it, Jojo?”
Hearing Pat use her nickname so easily is a pinprick to my heart.
“You can get rid of some of your coats,” Jo says, turning to me. “Then Pat could fit his things in your closet.”
I glance quickly at Pat, who’s probably wondering why I have so many coats in the first place. “Good idea, bear cub. We’ll take it under consideration. For now, though, let’s help Pat move his things to the guest room.”
She obeys, bounding after Pat. I have a feeling I’m going to need those coats. Every. Single One.
Whether I’ll be screaming or crying in the closet, time will tell. I have a strong feeling it will be both in equal measure.
“Why do I feel as though I’m entering a cage fight to the death?” Pat asks, walking into the kitchen where I’m seated at the small table.
I tilt my head. “Not a bad idea. Maybe later.”
He pulls out the chair across from me and sits, angling his long, jean-clad legs out to the side. His feet are bare, which makes the moment suddenly more intimate, and as I watch, he grabs a stray fork off the table and scratches underneath the ankle monitor.
“Do I smell coffee?” he asks.
I get up, refilling my mug and pouring him one. “Do you still take it black?”
“Like my heart.”
I start to shake my head, then stop as the coffee sloshes over the rims of our mugs. Pat does not have a black heart. In fact, I think he might be the sweetest person I know.
My favorite kind of sweet too. He’s not the cloying kind that makes your teeth ache, but more like the dark chocolate sprinkled with salt or with a hint of pepper to give it bite. There is always push and pull with Pat. So much friction, a delicious amount of tension.
I love it. I’ve always loved it.
“You have the furthest thing from a black heart.” I set the coffee down in front of him.