When I’m Twenty-Nine #2
“Thank you for that, but four years? Four fucking years? And now you just show up at my dead dad’s house?” I wish I could yell, but I’m too drained, so I just exhale. “You son of a bitch.” My voice is biting and filled with the vitriol he deserves.
I want to lash out, but he’s all Patrick with that damn leather biker jacket that both suits and doesn’t suit him. And with his infectious smile.
At least he agrees. “I am a son of a bitch. And I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
It takes all I have to control my breath, to not fall apart.
“You fucker,” I say as I let him in. “Why are you here?”
“Your dad died,” he says softly.
“No shit. How did you know?”
He smiles with his inherent, sincere, and charming smile. “You think I haven’t been following your amazing social media stuff?”
For what feels like ages, I just look at him. He’s my everything friend. But he’s just one person, and maybe it’s too much to put that demand on one person, even inadvertently. Yet, even as I tear up, he doesn’t look away because maybe it isn’t.
Because maybe I am that person to him too.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “About the last time I saw you. About disappearing. And now about your dad.”
I fall into him, just so happy he’s back.
After we breathe and rock each other back and forth in exaggerated hugs, I break away. “Can you get me out of this fucking insane house and back to my nice hotel?” I push a pile of tissues against my eyes and hand him my house keys. “I have a suitcase. Somewhere.”
“I can do both of those things.”
“And you’ll stay with me?”
“Well, you have a history of treating me to truly low-level hotels, and I can tell this one will be extra gross, but sure.”
Major sarcasm has apparently not died off in the past couple of years.
After he’s snagged my suitcase, he walks me outside and makes a dramatic display of ushering me to the car. “Madame? To counter those shoddy housings you’d subjected me to, I found this chariot.” He winks and mimics the sound of a fob unlocking the car. “Blink-blink-beep! But how’s this?”
I both balk and freeze. My dream car is sitting in front of me. It’s an old-school Volvo two-seater. Deep green with brown leather bucket seats. Vintage.
“It’s yours, kiddo. Ready to go?”
“No, I’m not ready to go. I can’t even breathe. What a ride!”
Patrick puts a gentle hand on the back of my neck and guides me ahead and opens the door. “Then I’ll breathe for you. Watch your head.”
Just before he hits the gas, he shares that this old car is not so old. It’s got all the possible updates, and he proves so when he plugs in an address on a screen. “See?” He grins and then drives way too fast.
Patrick deserves a speeding ticket, but I love every minute.
“And was I not clear? This is not just a ride. This car is yours. All paid for. We can drive it back to Boston together.”
I don’t even have words.
“Just as I thought!” he yells as we reach our destination. He slams the car into the valet parking. “Some dingy shithole!”
There are still no words, but I laugh as we walk up to the inn.
I managed to find a place not far from my dad’s that’s run by a local Kansas family.
They’ve only got ten rooms, but each one has a large bedroom and an en suite with a walk-in shower and a tub.
Plus, the inn is set on forty acres, so we could roam for ages.
After we’re checked in by the owners and after Patrick has frolicked a bit and investigated every cute thing about our room, I hold up a hand and stop him.
“This is important. Want to order in some Vietnamese rice noodles loaded with cilantro and take a bath together? There’s a really good restaurant nearby.
And then we can talk about all the stuff. Us.”
He raises an eyebrow. “One, I grew up in Cleveland. You think we ate cilantro?”
I cock my head. “And I grew up in Kansas. Think we ate much there?”
“Fair point,” he says.
“But trust me on the noodles?” I ask.
“Of course.” Patrick wavers. “But do you think a bath together is a good idea after I assaulted you?”
“Shut up. And don’t misuse that word. And I didn’t say a naked bath. I meant a platonic one. Partially clothed. It’s like being on a beach and wearing bathing suits.”
“Noodles and a bath it is!” He raises his eyebrows up and down excitedly and gives me the sweet and funny friend wink.
Before I have even placed an order, he’s ripped off his shirt and headed to the bathroom.
Over the rush of water, he calls out, “Come tell me about your dead criminal dad who you know nothing about and who probably left you with way messy shit! I’m in my undies!”
I smile broadly. I so, so missed him.
After our delivery arrives, I meet him in the soapy tub. I’m wearing a tank top and shorts, he’s in briefs, and we’ve got two cartons of great noodles and chopsticks.
So, I tell him that there’s nothing to tell because I truly have no idea who my dad was or what he did. He was just a greedy asshole in too many ways to count. Not one who was ever really capable of loving me or my mom. Or anyone. But it’s okay.
He inhales noodles, then asks, “Diana?”
“What, Patrick?” I am so happy that I’m back together with my friend; I couldn’t care what he asks or says.
He jabs his takeout container for ages and finally looks up at me. “I’m so fucking sorry about that kiss. It was gross. So very fucking wrong. I’ve never—”
“Never felt that way about me,” I cut him off. “I know. Same. You’re all cute and shit, but no. It was a horrible time, and you had a moment. We’re good.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you back more.”
After we have been soaking for too long and are both getting wrinkly, we step out and towel off, and I pull robes from the closet.
“Fucking hotel robes,” he comments. “These are always the best.”
“Agreed.”
As I’m blow-drying my hair, just enough to not soak my pillow, Patrick pats my arm. “Hey!”
“What? Two minutes!” I keep the hair dryer going.
He slaps my arm a few times until I turn off the dryer and turn around. “Okay, what?”
But instead of saying anything, Patrick is just pacing. He’s smiling and stressed, wandering around the suite with such a mix of expressions.
I just want to go to bed. It’s been a very complex and tiring day, and I’m aching to crash. “The fuck?” I basically yell. “That cozy bed is screaming at us.”
Finally, he stops in his place, and I’m not sure how to define his look when he collapses on the bed and spits out, “Katrina is five months pregnant.”
I can’t breathe, but in the best way. It’s almost a minute later before I can speak through my smile, but only because he’s also smiling.
“So, things are good, yes? She’s okay? The baby is okay?” I rush toward him. “You’re telling me because they’re both okay, right?”
“Yes.” His eyes are all teary as he struggles to speak. “She and the baby are both healthy. But what if they both don’t stay that way? We can’t go through this shit again.” He sits on the edge of the bed. “It nearly destroyed both of us. Our marriage. More importantly, her.”
As much as I can, I get it. It’s the worst déjà vu all over again.
The last time he told me about a baby, it ended in the worst tragedy, so sharing this news is huge. Scary. Living through what’s supposed to be a beautiful experience that ended up being a horrifying trauma? It must be terrifying to enter back into that world.
Patrick shows me a 3D image from an ultrasound. It’s a beautiful picture, but neither of us can say anything. As though we might jinx this moment if we even mouth a word.
I kneel in front of him. “First of all, close your legs because I just saw way too much.”
He laughs and slams his knees together before I continue.
“Second? You’re here to rescue me. But I’ve got you if you need me. Anytime and always.”
Patrick smiles sweetly. “Anytime and always.”