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.
“We’ll see,” I tell Mari.
She only hums at this. “You think he’s still out there? I need to open for lunch. He seems like the persistent type.”
I scoff. “Not as persistent as you’d think.”
Pat is a regular old Harry Houdini, slipping out of relationships like a pair of shiny handcuffs. He left me easily enough. Then he had a quickie Vegas marriage (which ended almost as fast) and a string of very public relationships and breakups until his career-ending injury. Since then, he’s been almost a ghost online—NOT that I have online alerts set up for his name or anything—but I think I’ve got a pretty good read on his character.
Mari tilts her head. “I can’t decide if you’re more afraid he’ll come after you, or afraid he won’t.”
You and me, both.
I DO want Pat to come after me, if only so I can say no to his stupid, handsome face. Yet there is a voice inside me growing louder that doesn’t want to say no at all. For years, I allowed myself to daydream about Pat coming to find me, apologizing and declaring his undying love for me.
And now, here he is. Just an hour after I joked about finding a husband on the side of the road. Not that Pat is husband material in ANY universe, but it feels almost like I conjured him out of thin air. It’s way too coincidental that he was right here in Mari’s diner at the precise moment I came to pick up Jo.
“Any update on Jo’s situation?” Mari asks.
Great—from one subject I don’t want to talk about to another.
I shrug. “The hearing is in a few weeks. Ashlee will do her best.”
But it looks pretty bleak.
Mari touches my arm. “You know I’m happy to help whenever you need me. You aren’t alone.”
I nod, the emotion swelling too thickly in my throat to allow a response. Normally, Val is the one with enough emotions for the whole town of Sheet Cake. Happy, sad, angry, enthusiastic—whatever Val feels, she feels it big. Today, apparently, I’m the one with all the feelings.
The thing is—I feel alone, because I am alone.
There is support all around me, but it feels just out of reach, even with Mari standing right here offering. Mari was my mama’s best friend—or, is my mom’s best friend. It’s really hard to know sometimes how to discuss my mama’s relationships with her dementia—but Mari isn’t a replacement for my mama.
“Thank you.” That’s about all I can get out right now. “Don’t tell Val about this, okay? She’ll tell Winnie, and I’d rather tell them both myself.”
“By tonight?” Mari asks.
I want to groan but manage to hold it back. With all the events of the morning, I haven’t even thought about the LLLS meeting tonight.
“Sure.”