Page 106 of Taming Tesla

FIFTY-FOUR

Patrick

Icame up here to end it.

Driving home, Cari turned in her seat toward the door like she couldn’t wait to get out and away from me, I’d come to the conclusion that we weren’t going to work. I’ve changed, and so has she.

We’re together less than thirty-six hours, and we’re back to where we started. Angry and confused. Unable to say how we really feel. Ask for what we really want. It’s not good, for either of us.

So, yeah. I was going to end it.

I helped her out of the car. Unlocked her door and let her into the apartment. Grabbed a bottle of water because my mouth was so goddamned dry it felt like I’d been chewing on sand all night, and waited for her to catch up.

Then she told me to leave and started screaming at me about fuck this and fuck that. I dragged her to her old bedroom and then I almost fuck her to death because I can’t not touch her and the fact that she won’t tell me how she feels makes me feel insane. Like a total fucking pussy who can’t stop thinking and feeling and wanting things it’s becoming increasingly clear, I’m not supposed to have.

Turning my head, I see the shadowy outline of them, stacked in the corner. I told myself I was going to the charity opening to be supportive. After my spread in Bostonian came out, the event sold out in thirty minutes. I felt obligated to at least make an appearance—so obligated, I considered sending Conner in my place. It took less than three seconds to realize how bad that idea was.

So, I told myself I’d go. For Cari and for the charity. I’d drink a glass of flat champagne, eat a couple stuffed mushroom caps, pose for some pictures, write a donation check for a few thousand dollars and leave.

That was the plan.

Mingle. Pictures. Cut check. Leave.

At some point, I’m going to have to accept the fact that when it comes to Cari, there is no plan. At least not one I’m able to follow with any degree of success.

I wasn’t there five minutes before I found Miranda, standing in front of a painting of me eating a bowl of cereal, talking to a well-heeled couple about the artist’s motivations.

It was a total Twin Peaks moment. So surreal that for a moment, I forgot why I was there.

“I want them,” I blurt out, cutting into their conversation, Miranda looking at me like I’d lost my mind. “All of them.”

Miranda gave me a look that was part sympathy, part pity, and part annoyance. “Patrick, I was just telling Mr. and Mrs. Stegson about—”

“One million dollars,” I said, causing the guy standing next to me to choke on his mushroom cap.

Miranda gave me a small smile while laying a hand on my arm. “Patrick, I—”

“I’m dead serious, Miranda,” I said, shrugging off her hand. “I’ll give you one million dollars for every single one of them.”

I know what this looks like. Like I’m making some sad, desperate bid to get Cari back but that’s not what this is. This is about me and the fact that whether she knew it or not, Cari wasn’t painting me. She was painting the way she feels about me. And no one gets to own a piece of that.

Of us.

“Will you excuse us for a moment,” Miranda said, flashing the couple a thin smile while hooking her arm through mine to drag me to her office.

As soon as she shuts the door behind us, she turns on me with a scowl. “Look, Patrick,” she says, her face softening a bit. “I understand how hard this must be for you, but—”

I pull out my wallet and flip my Amex black card onto her desk. “Call my office in the morning and make delivery arrangements with my assistant.”

That shut her up.

Remembering the look on Miranda’s face when the word APPROVED flashed across her credit card terminal makes me smile, but it fades quickly.

Buying those paintings didn’t change anything.

Turning my face toward the ceiling, I watch the night sky framed by the skylight. Cari sleeps beside me, her cheek pressed against my shoulder. Her breath on my neck. Hand on my chest. Legs tangled around mine.

Laying with her like this makes it easy to believe she meant what she said earlier. What I made her say. That she’s mine. That she belongs to me.

With me.

Which might be the biggest lie I’ve ever told myself.

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