Page 57 of Taming Tesla

TWENTY-NINE

Cari

Patrick is here.

As soon as I know he can’t see me, I dash across the living room, bare feet slapping against shiny, hardwood floors that stretch in front of me in every direction. Careening around the corner, I slide down the hall and into one of the brand-new guest suites.

Guest suites. There are four of them.

The apartment is gorgeous. If not for the fact that I can look out the window and recognize the view, I wouldn’t believe it’s the same place I left. It’s easier four times bigger than it was before. The living room no longer a small, functional space, it seems to sprawl for days. It’s huge but feels cozy, leather couches and chairs scattered throughout the room in conversational groupings that flow seamlessly into a gourmet kitchen. High-end cabinets. Granite countertops. Gleaming appliances. All surrounded by a curved kitchen island, dotted with leather-backed barstools. I can see my Tiki bottle opener stuck to the front of the brand-new fridge.

Mouth gaping, I wondered around in a daze. Opening doors on spacious bedrooms with walk-in closets and stunning views. Luxury bathrooms with steam showers and heated floors.

But the walls are bare, and it smells flat. New. Empty.

It doesn’t smell like him. Us.

Venturing back the way I came, I see a door I missed, tucked into the far corner of the apartment. It seems out of place, disruptive to the open flow of the space.

It’s locked, and it bothers me that I can’t get inside.

Now, rifling through my suitcase, I find a bra. Ditching my shirt, I put it on, topping it with a random T-shirt and flannel. Grabbing a pair of winter socks, I pull them on before stuffing my feet into a pair of boots. Stopping in the bathroom long enough to run a brush through my hair and swipe on some mascara, I snag my bag and keys.

And then I stop. Take a deep breath. Force myself to close my eyes. Count to ten.

Patrick is here.

Shaking out my hands because they’re tingling, I take another deep breath, briefly wondering if I’m too young to have a heart attack.

You’re not having a heart attack. Just breathe.

Patrick is here.

Don’t fuck this up.

I want to run. Launch myself down the stairs and into his arms. I want his hands on me. His mouth. I want him.

I love him.

I want to tell him that. I wanted it to be the first thing I said to him when I saw him again.

I love you.

This is real.

We’re enough.

I’m enough.

But I don’t because even though he said he's waiting for me to figure it out, it’s been eleven months and we haven’t so much as talked and even though I finally know I’m enough, I’m no longer sure I’m what he wants.

We were friends before, and he told me that wouldn’t change, no matter what. Maybe that’s what this is. Friendship.

When I stop at the head of the stairs, I find Patrick where I left him, slouching against the door, hands dug into the pockets of worn jeans, button-down open at the collar, jacket unzipped in defiance of the bitter cold outside.

He senses me standing over him and looks up at me and smiles, watches as I pull my coat off the set of hooks in the entryway.

He opens the door for me and places his hand on the small of my back as he guides me through the office and down the hall, lifting it long enough to help me into my coat and wave goodbye to his uncle.

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