Was I doing that, even back then?
Mama continues. “I know my girl. And as wonderful as you are, you seem determined to make yourself like Fort Knox and keep everyone locked out. Don’t push this man away, Lindy Lou. Not if you love him.”
“I already pushed him away, but not because I don’t want him. I was just … scared. And overwhelmed. Things have been hard lately. I haven’t had a lot to give, and I feel like I’ve taken too much from him without giving enough back.”
“I know your father and I didn’t have the best relationship.”
Understatement of the decade.
“But before he left, he was different. We had a good thing for a time.”
This is all news to me. Mama almost never talked about my father, and we kind of drew our own conclusions. I mean, a man who leaves his wife and two daughters without writing or calling, barely paying child support—it’s kind of a no-brainer to assume the man is a loser. I’m having a difficult time wrapping my brain around the idea of him and Mama having anything good, ever.
“With a relationship, you aren’t always on the same page,” she continues. “The important thing is to make sure in the grand scheme of things, the give-and-take is mutual. If you had a hard time and he was there for you, that’s a sign of love. Now, you just need to give that love right back.”
She makes it sound so simple. Could it be that simple?
“Have you told this young man you love him?” she asks. I shake my head, and she brightens. “Well, then, start there.”
“That’s just it, though. Telling him I love him doesn’t seem like enough. He loves big things, drama. After all that he’s done for me, I want to make some kind of grand gesture. I need to show him I love him, not just tell him.”
“I don’t need a grand gesture.”
My head snaps to the door, not believing what—or, rather, who—I see. Pat stands there, holding a big bouquet of flowers. He looks rumpled and sleepless and like he needs a good shave. Though day-old stubble is a great look on him.
“What?” I whisper.
“I don’t need a grand gesture,” he repeats, shaking his head for emphasis. “I just need you.”
Pat’s smile goes crooked and his espresso eyes soften, even though he doesn’t move. We’re just staring across the room that smells like baby powder and faintly like the disinfecting solution they use to clean everything. As far as romantic moments go, this one smells the worst.
Mama interrupts our staring. “Oh, wonderful! Patrick, come meet my daughter. Lindy, this is Patrick. He’s the one who’s been brightening up my life with the flowers and the birds.”
It takes my groggy, overworked brain a moment to catch up. The man Mama called her gardener is my Pat. He’s the one who’s been bringing Mama flowers and adding bird feeders. Not someone on staff here at the facility.
This is exactly the kind of man he is—the man I love. Always thinking of others—giving, giving, giving. Even when it’s in secret.
The sweetness makes me tear up yet again, and I am so sick of tears, I’d like to close down my ducts for the rest of the year. They can reopen after January first, or maybe next summer sometime.
Pat may have just said he doesn’t need a grand gesture, but I vow right then and there to keep finding ways to show him I love him. Large, small, medium. All the gestures in all the shapes and sizes will be coming his way. It will be a lifetime of Gesturepalooza.
That is, if he wants me.
Shut up, Lindy. He wants you.
I’m going to listen to the bossy voice in my head which sounds a lot like Winnie right now. I stand, and Pat meets me halfway between Mama and the door. With zero hesitation, he wraps me in his arms, crushing the flowers between us.
“You’re here,” I say, my mouth against his neck. “You’ve been coming here, doing all this for Mama?”
“You love me.” He says the words like they’re a precious treasure he’s holding. There’s awe in his voice and happiness too. “I heard you say it, didn’t I?”
“You did, and I do. I love you, Pat.”
“I think I might need you to pinch me.”
I do, right at one of his ticklish spots, and when he giggles, a tear drips right into the corner of my smile. “I’m sorry for pushing you away, and for not telling you sooner. I don’t know why you're still here.”
“I’ll always be here for you. Always, Lindybird. And I’m sorry for putting everything on you yesterday. It was terrible timing. I should have waited.”
“It was the worst timing. The absolute worst.”
Pat pulls back enough to look at me. “I’m so sorry.”
“I forgive you.”
He presses a kiss to my cheek then another, tracing a seemingly random path over my skin with his lips. It takes me a moment to realize he’s kissing away my tears.
“Just like before, we both made some missteps. Do you think we can forget about the mistakes and move on toward the good part?”
His lips curve, and his eyes gleam. “And what, pray tell, is the good part?”
I capture his lips in mine, showing him exactly what the good part will entail. Mouths, lips, hands—all the closeness, all the connection. The kiss is flame and sugar, hot and sweet. I’m starving, and Pat is delicious.
And finally, finally I feel the wall of my resolve for distance come crumbling down. It more than crumbles. Pat’s love is like a wave of water, slamming into that wall and obliterating any resistance.
Letting go feels like love. Giving in feels like freedom.
I want Pat. In all the ways I can have him. My husband. My friend. My lover. My family, my forever.
The spark of desire returns, burning brighter and hotter than two nights ago when I begged Pat to take me to bed. Now, the desperate need for closeness, to feel his skin on mine, is pure, and it’s about cementing the commitment we made to each other, in that courtroom and again, today. I’d happily make vows to Pat every morning and renew them again at night.
Because this? This is everything.