Patrick crawls up my body, presses his mouth against mine. “Are we doing this?” he asks me quietly, an echo of two years ago in his family room, the way it was all meant to happen before everything fell apart. “Mols. Are we—?”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding into his shoulder. He wants to, I can feel that he wants to. I want to do it, too. “Yeah, yes. We’re doing this.”
Patrick exhales in what sounds like pure relief to me, like he thought I was going to send him away. “I wanted it to be with you,” he mutters, tugging me up on top of him, my leg slung across his hips. “That’s always how I pictured it, you know? It’s corny as shit, but . . . the first time, I just, I always—me and you.”
I—what?
I freeze in his grip, this horrifying coldness running through me, like there’s lake water in my veins instead of blood.
He thinks—
He doesn’t know—
Oh, shit.
For a moment, I just stay there, rigid, wanting more than anything to get up and out of here—to run barefoot to Bristol or Boston, hair streaming behind me like a flag of retreat. How can I not tell him? I owe him the truth, after all this time. I owe him that.
“Patrick,” I tell him, sitting back awkwardly, one hand on his naked chest. I can feel his heart through the vellum skin there, and I swear it stops for a beat as he figures it out.
“It’s not the first time, is it?” he says slowly, staring at me in the darkness, his eyes like a midnight cat’s. “Not for you.”
“Patrick,” I repeat, trying to keep my voice quiet, the way you’d calm an animal or a little kid. “Listen to me. I thought—because of Driftwood, I thought you—”
“I thought it was just part of the book,” he says, jerking away so fast I land back on the mattress with a bounce; I reach for the sheet like an instinct, wanting so badly to cover up. “Because I’m a fucking moron, evidently. Dammit, Molly. Are you kidding me?”
“I—no,” I tell him, stumbling over my words, a hundred different responses ricocheting around in my brain all at once. You hated me that much, and you didn’t even think we had sex? I want to ask him, or maybe: Don’t you know I’ve loved you my whole entire life? “You told Gabe he should go to Boston,” I finally sputter, these hot ashamed tears burning in my face like I swallowed a mouthful of pool water, like I’m drowning. “You told me not to break up with him. You got back together with Tess, you’ve been messing with me all summer, you said—”
“I’m not talking about that, Molly,” Patrick snaps at me, up off the bed and flicking the lamp on, the room flooded with harsh white light. I pull the sheet more tightly around me. “I’m talking about sophomore year, when you fucked my goddamn brother like some kind of filthy whore.”
Like some kind of—
Okay.
Patrick shakes his head and we’re both on the verge of tears then, like we’ve finally destroyed each other, finally eaten each other alive. We’re never coming back from this; I know it. Both of us have finally gone too far.
Patrick knows it, too—I see it on his face then, my Patrick, whom I’ve loved my entire life. “I gotta go,” he says, reaching for his crumpled T-shirt. He slams my bedroom door so hard I wince.
Day 74
I get to work the next morning and find Desi and Fabian sprawled out on the floor in the office playing Candy Land, Penn digging her way through a pile of invoices at her desk. Desi jumps up when she sees me, wordlessly scrabbling halfway up my body like a silent, skinny squirrel climbing a tree. “Hey, Desi-girl,” I tell her, lifting her the rest of the way and smiling as she hooks her twig legs tightly around my waist. I’m hugely grateful for the affection this morning, honestly, my face puffy and tender from crying. I plant a smacking kiss on top of her head. “Hi, guys.”
Penn isn’t amused, though. “Get down from there, Des,” she snaps, more sharply than I’ve heard her speak to either of her kids since I’ve worked here. She stands up from behind the desk, arms out. “Come on.”
“It’s fine,” I promise, shaking my head and shifting Desi’s lanky body to one hip. “She can come with me on rounds if she wants; it’s totally okay.”
“It’s really not,” Penn counters, reaching out and peeling Desi off me. “I’ll take my kid, you take your notebook, how about that?” She hands me the pad I carry when I walk the Lodge and grounds at the start of every shift to see who and what needs attention. “Before you go, though, I want to talk to you about something. I want to send you up to Hudson, to scope out some club chairs for the lobby. An antiques dealer I know is holding them for me, and they’re cheap, but I can’t tell if he’s screwing me or not and I can’t face putting the kids in the car for that long to go check it out myself.”
“I—okay,” I tell her slowly, trying to figure out what’s happening here. It seems like I’m being punished for something, like I’m being sent to my room, and I can’t tell exactly why. In my head I know there’s no way it has anything to do with Patrick and Gabe, but it feels like that anyway, like the whole world can see the blackest parts of me, like there’s shame and scandal radiating off me in cartoon waves. Like even Penn can’t bear to look at me right now. “Sure. When?”
“Tomorrow, day after?” Penn sets Desi’s sandaled feet down on the rug, looks at me coolly. “It’s a long drive, probably an overnight, so check it with your mom, obviously. You can take Tess with you. I’ll give you my credit card to get a motel room.”
That’s all she’s got to say about it, apparently—no I trust you, no I’m sending you ’cause I know you’re the right girl for the job. I glance down at Desi, who’s watching me silently. “Sure,” I say, stuffing the notebook in my jeans pocket and wiping my clammy hands on my legs. “No problem.”
Day 75