Page 7 of The Caretaker
“Well, I thought we’d be spending time with each other at tonight’s masquerade ball.”
“When’s the last time you held me, Patrick?”
The random question caught him off guard. “Where did that come from?”
I thrived on affection, and not having it felt like drowning, like my own body was failing me.
“You deny me love, knowing how much I need it, and you won’t let me love you in return, knowing I need that just as much—even though it seems that you couldn’t care less,” I said bitterly. I’d come to realize that love deprivation was Patrick’s own form of passive aggression.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Solace. And what does this have to do with anything?” His hand tightened on the doorknob, the only indication that he wasn’t unaffected by my accusation.
“Why didn’t you remind me about the charity ball? I was sitting down here all day. Would it have been that hard to simply remind me?”
“You didn’t want to be reminded. You love to forget, to not pay attention to things.” His expression dared me to ask what he meant by that.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek to redirect the ache that had its sights on my heart. “When did seeing me in pain stop hurting you, Patrick?”
“I can’t do this right now.” He opened the door.
“Then when? Tell me when would be a good time to actually talk about this.”
Patrick turned slowly, the door still open. I tucked my balled fists under my arms, shivering from the cold.
“Do you even miss him?” I asked, voice giving out on the last word.
His gaze drifted to the picture frame still standing.
“He’s my best friend. Of course I miss him.”
“Don’t be deliberately obtuse,” I spat. “Do you even know what today is?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, the first real sign of any emotion besides detachment or simmering rage.
“It’s his birthday,” I whispered, slowly inching toward him, not wanting to scare off the sadness in his eyes.
“It’s been nearly a year, Solace.”
“So I should forget about it? Get over it? Like you have?” I’d drawn close enough to touch him. A few inches more and I’d be close enough to kiss him, to use my body to apologize since my words were never enough.
“Stop,” he gritted out, and I was unsure if he meant stop speaking or stop approaching him. I ignored him, still closing the distance and still talking.
“How have you managed to get over him? Tell me. Fuckingteach me,” I begged, those tears that disgusted him so much now running rampant down my face.
“I have my packed suitcase in the car. I’ll get a hotel room near the airport tonight—”
“Do you even love him, Patrick?”
“Enough,” he ordered, backing away until he was flush against the now wide-open door, snowflakes blowing in on the late afternoon wind. “Not another word.”
“Do you?” I asked. “D-do you love him?”
“Loved,” he snarled, dark eyes hard again beneath his silver mask. “It’sloved.I don’t get tolovehim anymore, because he’s gone.” Thebecause of youwent unsaid, but oftentimes silence spoke louder than words. It was the things left unsaid that destroyed people, and he’d left the silent blame hanging mid-air between us, effectively destroying me, something he did with surgical precision.
I stumbled back, and he left, the door meeting the frame with a slam. Seconds later, the car engine roared and tires crunched over the salted drive as he backed away and blasted down the street.
On autopilot, I plugged the record player back in and started the song from the beginning. Staring unblinkingly out the window, I let my tears run unchecked as I mused about how much Gavin loved the snow.
Two hours later I’d convinced myself that Patrick was right about me. Maybe I was too fragile, too needy. Maybe I had been grieving for far too long. I’d worked myself into an overthinking mess until I believed everything was my fault, because of course it was. I needed to stop worrying about my needs and for once be there for him, following his lead, learning by his example. And soI showered, slipped into my tux, and knotted my hair at my nape before donning my mask. At least it hid the puffiness around my eyes.
