Page 104 of Book and Ladder
What is he doing out here?
Patrick’s intense stare tracks me as I reluctantly do the walk of shame up my front steps,The Princess Bridein one hand and my purse in the other. For once, he doesn’t smirk or toss out some smug comment. There’s something quieter in his face—weariness maybe, or uncertainty. It throws me.
His gaze drops to the book and lingers. I want to chuck it at him. But why? It’s not like he was the one who left me standing next to a corn maze. He has many sins to his account, but this one isn’t on him.
“The Princess Bride,” I say, shocking myself as much as it appears I shocked him.
He nods. “Good book. And movie. I like them both.”
“If you’ll excuse me …” I grapple for my keys. “I’m not in the mood for book club tonight.”
His eyes look … hurt? Remorseful? Or maybe it’s the shadows on the porch playing tricks on me.
I’m not surprised Patrick has read the book. He always was bookish—at least in high school. Who knows what he is now.
A fantastic kisser, for one thing.
I shake off that intrusive thought and rush toward my door.
When I make the mistake of glancing back at Patrick, he’s still sitting on the top step, gazing up at me with that inscrutable expression.
“Good—” The word catches in my throat. Pride swallows whatever kindness almost escaped. “Night,” I finish, softer than I intend.
He might have consistently chosen his family over me—ruined important opportunities, changed the trajectory of my life, and lived off the generational benefit of being an O’Connell, but I’m still a nice person. So, I can muster up a goodnight even when my heart is cracking in two from being stood up—in front of him.
I shut the door and force myself not to collapse against it. If he heard so much as a thud, he’d glean a smug sense of satisfaction from my defeat.
My laptop taunts me from the coffee table. I pick it up and carry it to the coat closet, setting it on the floor and shutting the door. I won’t be messaging or emailing the man who stood me up. If he has a reason for raising my hopes and then abandoning me, he can reach out to me. Otherwise, sayonara.
“You’d better have taken over a pirate ship and have no way to reach me from your conquests at sea,” I mutter aloud at the closet door. “Short of you becoming the next Dread Pirate Roberts, I’m finished with you.”
No.
Nope. I won’t wither away like I’m pathetic.
I open the closet door and lift my laptop off the floor. I’m far too antsy to sit on the couch, so I set it on the kitchen counter, pull open my email app, and start typing. It doesn’t escape my notice that my inbox remains at zero incoming messages.
Dear BTTP,
I waited for you and you didn’t show up. You couldn’t know this, but I have a thing about being stood up. I can forgive nearly anything, but that’s a tricky one. If you are currently in traction because you were in a near-fatal accident, I’m going to feel like the bottom of my shoe. Worse than that, even. But, short of you being physically incapacitated, there won’t be an excuse that would lead me to forgive you for tonight’s no-show. You could have at least messaged me.
A tear runs down my cheek and I don’t stop it. I type the next line, exposing the longing and ache I’m feeling:
I wish you had come.
I stare at it for a long second, the cursor blinking like it’s waiting for me to admit more. My hand hovers over the keyboard, torn between deleting the line and adding something even more honest.
Instead, I backspace—slowly—until the words are gone.
This has to be goodbye.
- M&M
My finger lingers on the trackpad, unwilling to move. Then, finally, I click send. The screen dims, the blue light fading from the counter until only my reflection stares back.
Looking around my kitchen, I get the wildest—and probably the worst—idea. Picking up my phone, I text Tom. It may not be fair to him to take him up on the date he’s been pestering me for, but it’s not exactly wrong. And I need a distraction from hosts of podcasts who let me down and infuriating neighbors who kiss like they’re in some sort of kissing world championship.
Who knows. Maybe Tom will turn out to be my type. I won’t lead him on. I’m not cruel. But accepting his invitation isn’t a crime.
