Chapter 29
Patrick
The best day of your life is the one on which
you decide your life is your own.
No apologies or excuses.
~Bob Moawad
“Who kicked your puppy?” Dustin asks on our run. He chuckles, but his eyes are sincere.
The whole crew is jogging through the neighborhoods around the station as a warm up to today’s workout.
These runs aren’t as innocuous as they were before the calendar spread like wildfire through the town.
Women stand on their porches gripping cups of coffee, their eyes riveted to us without any effort to disguise their ogling, they blatantly turn from their gardening to stare, screen doors clatter as they rush to watch us pass.
I’m taking it as a compliment, even if it feels like we’re jogging through an open casting call for The Bachelorette.
Yet another reason I cling to my podcast anonymity.
“I don’t have a puppy,” I remind Dustin.
“Maybe this is a sign that you need one.”
“So someone can kick it?”
He chuckles, “Nah. So you don’t have to look like the solo castaway survivor on the island of Patrick. Life is meant to be shared. Trust me.”
“I’ve got you guys.” My excuse falls as flat as it is.
“Is this about a woman? Or women? One of the two you have to pick between?”
I nod. I don’t know if he sees my affirmation of his guess. “Turns out they’re the same woman.”
His face scrunches. I don’t clarify. The weight in my chest feels like a thousand pound ball of knotted string. Untangling it in front of Dustin would be too complicated and lengthy.
His silence stretches for a half block. Then, in typical golden retriever style he says, “At least you don’t have to pick anymore.”
A short hiccup of a laugh bursts out of me. “Yeah. There is that.”
Our shift is uneventful except for one minor fire which we contain as if we’re going through the motions in our sleep.
The smell of smoke still clings to me long after the fire’s out.
I rinse off at the station, but it lingers—woven into my hair, my skin, maybe my bones.
The easy noise of our crew joking with one another fills the early morning air. The town feels hushed, expectant.
On the way to my car, I pull out my cell, scrolling past my dad’s name on the screen once. Twice. I’ve been avoiding him since I pulled away from Moss and Maple—fleeing the reality of my feelings for Daisy and her obvious lack of interest in reciprocating.
That kiss. And it wasn’t only our incredible chemistry.
We challenge one another, but there was this moment in the midst of the heat where she succumbed to the tug and relented.
I think she needs that—someone to be there for her, to be strength where she feels weak, to hold her edges together when she’s holding everyone else’s.
We’ve always had an intellectual compatibility. We’re well matched. Only she won’t let herself acknowledge it. Her body knew what her mind resisted.
I walked away from her.
I could’ve told her the truth—that I’m the voice she’s trusted online, the man behind the podcast. That the man she hates is also the one she wishes she could meet.
But she’d take my duplicity as betrayal, not the connection it’s been.
To her, my family will always be the Hatfields, and she’s a McCoy.
So I walked away—for her. And it’s killing me.
I can’t evade my dad forever, so on the way home from my shift I dial him.
“Patrick.”
“Hey, Dad.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I know. I’ve been busy.”
“Dressing up like you’re the entertainment at a child’s birthday party and riding carnival rides with your nieces?”
He’s got me there. “I spent a little time with my family. The girls aren’t going to be this young forever. I don’t want to miss even one special tradition with them.”
“You’ve always been so sentimental.”
I don’t know if he means that as a compliment or not, but I’m taking it as one.
“What did you need?” I ask, trying not to sound as impatient as I feel.
He hasn’t done anything to warrant my animosity. He believes he’s improving a town he cares about. He’s not a villain—just a single-minded man with a giant blind spot.
“Our crew is ready. Builds like this one can take up to a year from groundbreaking to the ribbon-cutting. I think we can get this one down to seven months notwithstanding any complications. I’m hoping to open late spring at this rate.”
“That’s fast.”
“Patrick.”
“Yes, Dad?”
“I had expected that you’d be more involved in the process. I want you to learn the ropes. You’re not doing that while you’re busy sliding down poles and driving your truck around town.”
“We don’t have a pole. Our station is one story.” He’d know that if he ever came by.
“I meant it figuratively.”
An awkward silence stretches, one where my father’s magnetic pull tugs at every well-trained cell in my body.
He’s the ruler of his empire. His plans are the plans.
Aligning with him brings blessings and approval.
Loving books, becoming a firefighter, and hanging out with my nieces don’t exactly align with me walking into my place as the rightful heir to O’Connell Development.
Anything short of my utmost submission to his vision will mean banishment from the kingdom.
Maybe he won’t go as far as cutting me out of the family, but in every way that matters, I’ll be exiled.
“What day do you have open this week?” He finally asks. “I’d like to tour the property with the blueprints this week.”
I can give him that much. We schedule a time to meet.
I’ll pass Moss and Maple. I won’t block her parking lot.
And I most certainly won’t storm in to claim a kiss that I believed on some level we both needed and wanted.
I want so much more. But I’m not a brute.
I won’t steal what she isn’t freely giving.
Sometimes love means letting go because you respect the other person more than your own desires.
Love. Man, I’m in worse trouble than I thought.
I do love her. I’ve known Daisy my whole life.
We’re not strangers. At one point, in what seems like another lifetime, we were genuine friends.
And now that I know she’s also M&M, I feel like I’ve had access to another facet of the dynamic woman I already admire and long for.
Maybe I’ve loved her for years. I don’t know when a switch flipped, but there’s no denying what’s being exposed in the light.
I love Daisy Clark. And nothing matters more than what she means to me.
Daisy’s car is out front two days later when I arrive home from working another shift.
She’s all I can think about these days. I wake with her on my mind.
She’s my last thought. My preoccupation doesn’t bother me.
If I can’t have her, at least I have my thoughts of her.
I imagine what it would be like, convincing her of my true feelings, having her give me an opening—a chance.
I’d spend every day proving how right we are together.
We’d still challenge one another. But in my fantasies we share something else—something deeper and private.
I grab my keys. It’s a weekday. She should be at the shop.
Did something happen? Is she sick?
I’m the last person she’d want to see, but … what if she’s not okay?
I ascend the steps to our porch, going straight up the middle, torn as to which door to approach. At the last moment, I veer right and knock softly on her door.
“Daisy?” I say at a volume that’s lower than a shout but still should reach her.
She deserves to know it’s me before opening the door. I’m tired of surprising her and having it devastate her.
What I see when she slowly pries open the door levels me. The sight of her red-rimmed eyes is a solid fist to the gut.
Her words land enough punch to put me down for the count.
“I hope you’re happy. Your family won.” There’s no bite. Only weary resignation.
“What are you talking about, exactly?”
We both know Home Mart is moving in. These are fresh tears. What did my dad do?
“Moss and Maple.” She avoids my gaze, running her sleeve under her nose and then looking at it with disgust. She lifts her head and squints at me. “I’m going to have to close the doors.”
“What?”
She just stares at me, an expression of disdain mingled with a pleading only someone who knows her well would discern.
“Seeing you sad doesn’t make me happy, Daisy.
Not even a little. I never wanted Moss and Maple to close.
And my dad just told me the building won’t even be finished til spring.
Possibly later.” I search her face for any hope my words may have given her.
“Even then, you don’t know if you’ll have to close. There might be a way to coexist.”
She shakes her head, lowering it so I lose sight of her eyes.
“Are you just going to give up?” My question isn’t a challenge, but I’m appealing to the stubborn fighter in her. She’s not a quitter.
“What do you care?” Her head snaps up.
I’m so close to blurting out that I’m the podcast host—the one who cares deeply and is always there for her. But she doesn’t need to process that truth bomb right now.
I will tell her when the timing is right. I’ve resolved that much. If she rejects me after she finds out, at least I’ll know I tried.
I stand in front of her, my shoulder holding the screen door, her hand bracing the other.
“Daisy. I care.”
She looks at me as if she could never believe any word that comes out of my mouth. What I wouldn’t give to go back to high school and show up for her—to change the outcome of that day.
Daisy is defeated. The usual fire in her eyes and her tone? Gone. She’s not feisty. And I can’t bear to see this fragile, beaten down version of her.
As risky as it is, I step toward her. She flinches, but steps aside as I stride past her into her living room. I take a seat on the armrest of a chair. She watches me, her eyes narrowed, arms folded over her chest. But she doesn’t kick me out.