Page 62 of Grift

Jessica

In the week after the Carney family dinner, there’s a distinctive temperature change with Patrick. From all heat to all ice.

It’s like he’s angry at me, which makes no sense. Dinner with his family went well, and every one of our interactions has been fine. Polite, respectful, and pleasant to a fault. If I’m honest, it has my skin crawling because it reminds me of my parents.

And when I try to approach it head on, he dodges my questions. He’s working long hours at the casino because there’s a big event in town, some trade show and series of parties that have bought up almost all of the space they have available. It’s a rowdy bunch, and apparently he’s dealing with some serious security headaches.

Up and out until all hours of the night, and then sleeping in late so he can start the same schedule again the next day. He’d warned me weeks ago that this was coming, so I know it’s not personal. Yet it’s hard to feel like it’s not.

Now that I’m due back in the office, I’m in bed by 11 and out the door at 7am. Not exactly compatible schedules.

It’s late one night when I text Patrick.

“How’s everything going?”

Immediate he responds. “What do you need?”

I think for a minute, and then ignoring the heat in my cheeks and the hope in my chest I send back, “You.”

The little dots appear when someone is typing and then deleting their messages. Finally, three words appear. “Good night, Jessica.”

Fuck him. I try not to cry as I stare at the ceiling, unshed tears burning my eyes. I don’t know what the problem could be.

We’d been getting along great.

But he’s pulled back so hard it’s like he was never really here. The more I consider, the more it’s starting to feel like that’s the real issue. Maybe I’d been wrong about this entire thing. Maybe for Patrick it really just had been fulfilling a family obligation. Maybe if he was getting close to a viable exit strategy it is easier to rip the bandage off. No need to pretend when the solution’s just around the corner.

I thought he was different.

The one man that I could trust. He is so unlike my brothers with their careless comments and their total lack of interest in the people around them. Completely different than my father, who saw me only as a tool in his own agenda. Who saw the whole world that way, in fact.

Patrick’s hardly perfect, but who is? Where there’s the potential for violence at those who threaten what he cares about, there’s also the urge to protect. Where there’s passion, there’s also bone shaking orgasms that go on for days. Where there’s domination, there’s the fiercest loyalty I’ve ever seen. There’s nothing like the cold, feelingless calculation that drove every decision my father ever makes.

Maybe that is my mistake.

But maybe being different from other bad men didn’t mean good. Or maybe he is good, but that doesn’t mean that he is obligated to me for a second longer than he has to be.

Night after night, I spiral through these thoughts. The conference finally ends. It’s a long day of work that eventually winds down. My heart’s pounding as I slide the key in the lock to the apartment, unsure of whether he’ll be there. As I’m coming through the door, I realize that he would have gotten home this morning after I left – after the last of the guests departed – and slept through day. He’s probably only just woken up.

There’s just a second where his face lights up when I come through the door, and then I watch as the mask falls back into place.

It sends me over the edge.

The thing I like so much about Patrick is his honesty. His forthright and straightforward approach to life. His commitment to trust. There isn’t a mask, a professional face. That bullshit is the way my parents lived their lives, and what drives every decision that takes my family one step closer to misery.

“Is there a problem?” I don’t sound like myself.

His eyes snap up to mine. “No problem here.”

“Then what the fuck is wrong with you?” He’s sitting on the couch in boxers and a t-shirt, eating which he slowly puts down on the coffee table in front on him. Plate. Fork. Knife.

Metal on the table rings out and I try to keep my mind from racing.

“What did you just say to me?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

I drop my bags on the floor by the door, kick off my shoes and stalk off to the laundry room. If I’m going to be leaving here soon, and the only thing I can conclude is that I am, then I’ll at least take advantage of the laundry while I have it.

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