Page 33 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

"I told her I'd introduce you two sometime."

"You don't want that."

"In fairness, she thinks you're a girl."

His thick eyebrows flatten. "Tell me you put her out of her misery."

"She's not miserable thinking of me talking to another girl. She couldn't care less."

"Then she wouldn't have asked if I was hot."

"Believe me, you don't know Ash like I do," I say.

"And you don't know women like I do. If she asked, she cares," Patty says over the sound of the notes.

His words are like a hand strumming the first chords of my favorite song. They fill me with anticipation and excitement, both of which are dangerous. "Don't give me false hope, man. She probably wanted to set me up. She's always trying to set me up."

He shakes his head, and his scruffy brown hair falls into his face. Patty is disheveled enough to look like a rough-and-tough bartender type but with a classical music background that only scratches the surface of what makes him complex. In a white T-shirt and jeans—his uniform of choice—he looks part bouncer, part distracted artist.

He resumes playing, and if it were anyone else, I'd wonder if he was disappointed or judging me. But Patty, Sean, and me? We were forged in the same fire … with dramatically different results. Pat's six years older than me, and every kid from Mullet Ridge and Sugar Maple grew up watching his star rise, no matter how abruptly it fell. I'm past the hero worship stage I had as a kid, though, and in the last several years since he moved back home, he's become like a big brother. I trust him as much as I do Tripp or Duke. Unlike them, though, he has a way of worming info out of me without opening his mouth.

The song has alternated between blazingly fast and a more relaxed pace, raucous and something almost—but not quite—calm. Now, it's all power and speed. Octaves and flying fingers that I can't follow no matter how raptly I watch. He pounds on the piano in octaves as he slows down, and it's playful and somehow moving at the same time.

Then he slams his hands down in one final note. It's so abrupt and powerful that it hits me in the middle of my chest.

Patty gets up from the bench and claps a hand on my shoulder.

"Let's go punch some stuff."

CHAPTER TEN

RUSTY

"Not so hard," Patty says from next to me as I jab my fists down. "No need for a knockout here."

His words cause a spike of frustration. My mind keeps turning to Philip, Teddy, and Bill, and their swirling faces show up like a target that makes me want to vent all my anger instead of exerting control, the way I normally do. "You said I'm supposed to punch?—"

"We're talking about a delicate, living thing," Patty says. "Use a softer touch."

I comply as sweat rolls down my face from my brow. I tossed my hat to the side earlier and rolled up my sleeve, so I wipe the sweat from my face on my bicep. Patty's gets hotter than Duke's home gym in the middle of summer. Granted, we've been at this for hours, and that's longer than I ever workout at Duke's.

Also, my forearms are trembling and my hands are cramped.

"I don't know how you do this all day."

"I'm not going in for the kill the whole time. In fact, let's try something different altogether."

My mind hears him say this, but I give one final punch, because the feeling is so satisfying. And then another. And another. It would be easy to turn my head off and keep this up indefinitely.

But Patty's hand grips my shoulder, and I realize how badly I've overdone it when I see the lifeless mass in front of me.

"Easy, Rocky," Patty says. "You're done here."

I nod and step back, wiping my brow with the back of my arm again. I'm panting like I just finished two rounds against Mike Tyson instead of two hours baking Irish Brown Bread.

My phone vibrates, and I wipe my hands on my apron before grabbing it. My heart stumbles.

ASH

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