Page 115 of Taming Tesla

SIXTY

Cari

Ileave Davey’s, offering a promise to come backsoon, and drive back to the garage. After our walk, Tess led me back to Con’s and slapped her keys in my hand. “Bring my baby back in one piece,” she said, jerking her chin toward her beloved ’67 Chevelle. Before heading through one of the bays. Within a few seconds, she had her music cranked back up and her coveralls back on, like Con didn’t completely lose his shit and fire her less than an hour ago.

I leave the keys under the seat like she instructed and head back to the apartment. My stomach is roiling, too much sugar being tossed around by anxiety and doubt. Part of me opened the front door, hoping he’d be there. That he’d make it easy for me. Let me say what I have to say, get it over with so we can get back to normal. Or at least try to.

But Patrick isn’t here and he isn’t coming back.

Not willingly, anyway.

Tossing my purse onto the counter, I head straight for the bedroom.

Our bedroom.

The room is almost exactly as I left it, right down to the pair of flip flops I keep behind the door. A new easel by the window. The table Patrick bought me to hold my paints and brushes. That’s when I finally see something different.

Something I’ve never seen before.

A polished wooden box with brushed brass hinges and a dainty knob inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Opening it, I feel my breath catch in my throat. Inside where paints and brushes. Next to the easel, a stack of fresh canvas leaning against the windowsill.

It happens again. Another orange tulips moment—a moment I can see and feel the way things used to be and the way I want them to be.

The way they should be.

Could be.

Standing there, looking out the window I see something I hadn’t noticed before. An Audi R8 parked on the street. Midnight blue. Though I can’t say for sure that it’s Patrick’s car, it’s a safe bet that not many other people in the neighborhood are driving around in a car with a six-figure price tag. Pulling out my phone, I tap out a text.

Me: We need to talk.

I see a man exit the building the Audi is parked in front of. He’s limping. Walking slowly. Carefully using a cane to steady and support his steps. He leans against the Audi and waits.

The man is no older than thirty. Dark hair that glints a dull red in the afternoon sun. A beard. Even from where I am, an entire floor up and half a block away, I get the impression of wounded pride. Barely suppressed rage.

For some reason, I’m sure this is the friend of theirs that Tess told me about this morning. Ryan. The Army Ranger.

While I’m watching him, my phone vibrates in my hand.

Patrick: Agreed.

Patrick: …

Patrick: …

I’m waiting for a long reply but what comes back is simple. A single word.

Patrick: When?

Before I can think myself out of it, I answer.

Me: tonight. After your dinner thing.

Patrick: It’ll be late.

Me: I don’t care.

Below, I watch Patrick exit the building his friend is standing in front of. He’s got his phone in his hand. Like he knows I’m watching him, he looks up and aims his gaze directly at me. His shoulders slump slightly and I watch as he taps out his response.

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