Page 82 of Taming Tesla

THIRTY-NINE

Cari

Con takes Tess home.Maneuvering behind the baras soon as his brother leaves, he picks her up and pushes his way toward the fire exit, her shoulders shaking silently, face buried in his chest. After seeing what I saw on the security camera, after what Conner told me about their past, I understand Declan and Tess better.

I go upstairs. It’s barely midnight, and the bar is an hour away from closing. Mounting the stairs, the cacophony of Gilroy’s fades away until the rowdy noise of it is barely a whisper. I think about the old place, how it was nearly impossible to hear yourself think on a Wednesday for all the drunken shouts and loud music. A year ago, I’d be down there, louder than any of them. These days, I just want the quiet.

As soon as I shut the front door, the noise disappears completely.

I clean the kitchen and straighten up the living room, plumping mashed pillows and wiping down the pristine coffee table before taking a shower. I use the same shower Patrick did earlier. His soap and shampoo. Lathering and washing, I think about the things Patrick said to me before dinner. Not just the dirty things—all of it. I think about what he wants from me.

Forever.

He said forever.

I thought I was ready for that. I thought I was ready to give him everything. That’s why I came home. Because I tried living without him and it almost killed me. So why can’t I say it? Why can’t I say what I wrote on that card eleven months ago?

I love Patrick. So, why can’t I tell him?

Because a part of me is beginning to doubt that the man I left behind and came back for still exists.

Stepping out of the shower, I wrap myself in a towel and collect my discarded clothes. I pad my way down the hall, toward the room I claimed as my own. Halfway down the hall, I stop and listen. I hear the low murmur of the television.

Patrick.

Despite my reservations, I quickly pull my dress back on and head for the living room, sending up a quick prayer that he’s alone before stepping into the room. I see the back of his head, slumped against the back of the couch.

He must hear me because he speaks. “I told you not to bother with the dishes,” he says, without moving from his spot on the couch.

Pushing myself forward, I round the back of the couch and his face comes into view. He has his eyes closed like he’s half-asleep. I almost stop. He looks exhausted. So tired, I almost retreat. Almost go back the way I came. Almost leave him alone.

Almost.

“You cooked, I clean,” I tell him, using the towel to squeeze water out of my hair. “That’s fair, right?”

He looks up at me for a second before looking away. “Yeah, that’s fair,” he says, his words pitched low. He looks uncomfortable. Unsure of what’s supposed to happen next.

“Can I sit down?” I gesture to the seat next to him on the couch and hold my breath, suddenly sure he’s going to tell me no.

He clears his throat. “Of course,” he says, scooting over a bit to make room for me and I sit, molding myself against his side, legs curled under me. I put my head on his shoulder, and I feel it stiffen under my cheek.

“Is this okay?” I say, even though I know it isn’t. I’m pushing him. Testing his limits. It’s not my intention—I just want to be close to him. As close as he’ll let me get.

He lets out a long breath, his chest deflating under my hand. “Yes,” he says, turning to press his lips against my forehead. “It’s fine.”

“Am I keeping you awake?” I ask. “Do you want to go to bed?” My fingers flex, digging into the hard muscles of his chest at the thought of Patrick in bed.

“No, I usually hang for a few hours after my shift,” he says, totally circumventing my question. Picking up the remote, he starts flipping through channels. “What do you want to watch?”

“Reality Rapper Bachelor Housewives,” I say, and like I’d hoped, he laughed at our inside joke.

“Well, you’re in luck,” he tells me, the tension between us melting away. “Where are you at in the season?”

“I haven’t watched TV since I left,” I tell him. “We only have one television in the house, and it’s Paw Patrol and Bubble Guppies all day, every day.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Well, if Grace and Molly make the move to Boston, you’ll be hip deep in grilled cheese and Nick Jr. in no time flat,” I say a moment before I realize what I’m implying. That he’ll be around. That we’ll be together.

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