Chapter 6
Ellie
It’s been over twenty-four hours since then, and I’m undoubtedly committed to continuing with the plan—if Patrick still wants to.
Turns out having a fake boyfriend for a while would be beneficial to me in more ways than just keeping the creepy men at work at bay.
I am naturally an introvert and always have been, so this should be a good excuse to bail on plans without all of the annoying questions.
When I do too much, I need time to recharge, and if I’m with other people, I can’t do that.
It probably wouldn’t be as bad if I didn’t work a job that requires constant human interaction, but I do love my job—and I’m good at it.
Also, if I can put on an act for the customers at The Brew, how hard can it be to be a fake girlfriend?
My mind starts to wander off again until I feel a buzz in my pocket.
Patrick: 349 Sycamore Ct. Walford, VA
Patrick: 6 still work for you?
Ellie: Yep! see you then!
When I put his address in the GPS app on my phone, I find out that Patrick only lives fifteen minutes away.
That gives me about forty-five minutes to get ready, which is more than enough time.
My plaid pajama shorts and oversized t-shirt stare back at me in the mirror, and I determine that there needs to be at least some effort to not look like a potato.
With my shower turned up all the way, I quickly strip down. Tying my hair into a messy bun is the only choice since wash day isn’t until Tuesday, and I don't need to be screwing with my hair schedule logic on top of everything else.
As soon as I step into the shower, the water scorches my skin—just the way I like it.
The shower is my safe space where I do a lot of my deep thinking, which is why I spent a solid thirty minutes letting the water soak me when I got home from work yesterday going back and forth on whether or not this whole thing was going to be a good idea.
If the shower thoughts dictate it a good choice, who am I to doubt it?
However, there is no deep pondering in this shower. I only need a few minutes to lather myself with my honeysuckle and orange body wash and rinse off, saving as much time as possible to choose an outfit.
It’s late June and stupidly hot outside, but I can’t stop myself from pulling on a pair of high-waisted jeans. Shorts seem too informal, and I hate having to worry about my thighs rubbing together to create my worst enemy: chub rub.
Why can’t a girl just have thick thighs and no issues? Is that too much to ask for?
Staring into the chaos that is my closet, I look for my comfort sweater—slightly oversized, beige, lightweight, and perfect for a summer evening.
Once the sun sets and a breeze sets in, I’m always thankful that I chose it.
I pull it over my head and tuck the front into my jeans.
The decision to put on the tiniest amount of mascara seems smart, and so does slipping on my gold pendant necklace.
It’s not real gold, but it’s my favorite and goes with any outfit.
When I look in the mirror and release my hair from the bun, my layers fall messily out of place, and my wispy bangs sit disheveled. I flip my head down and shake my fingers through. As soon as I flip it back up, the layers look perfectly imperfect with my bangs only needing some smoothing down.
Good enough.
Grabbing my keys and my purse, I stop as I move towards the front door, feeling a knot in my stomach.
Without a doubt, it’s my anxiety. As much as I want to, I can’t escape it, but for good reason it seems. I’m going to a random guy's house There are literal shows about this on Dateline. What is wrong with me?
In the middle of my freak out, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Patrick: There is an open parking spot out front labeled 349.
Ellie: Great! Thanks!
When I start to put my phone back, I decide to meet my anxiety in the middle.
Ellie: Hey random question. You’re not secretly an axe murderer or a serial killer?
Ellie: I have a busy week, and it’s not really in my plans to be murdered tonight.
Patrick: Nope, you’re all good!
Patrick: However, I’ve been thinking about picking up a new hobby.
Patrick: I’ll keep you in the loop… *axe emoji*
Ellie: …
Ellie: See you at 6
With that interesting back and forth, my phone goes back into my pocket, and it is time to leave the safety of my home.
Arriving in his neighborhood five minutes before the agreed upon time, I pull into the spot labeled ‘349’.
If I get anywhere early, I will sit in my car until the exact minute, sometimes down to the second, I need to go in.
One of the worst things in my opinion is inconveniencing people by being too early—or too late.
There’s something about inconveniencing people that bugs me to my core.
It also gives me some time to take some deep breaths and prepare what I am going to say.
Most of last night and this morning was spent making a list in my notes app of what I think the boundaries should be for our ‘fake relationship’ and writing down a couple of clarifying questions.
The clock on my phone reads 5:59.
It's now or never.
Turning off my car, I walk towards his front door.
While it is a very average looking neighborhood filled with endless rows of townhouses, there is still some personality in each one based on their colors.
Patrick’s house is the one on the end that looks the same as the others, but his has a light blue exterior with dark blue shutters.
As I take the six steps up to the front door, I consider turning around. I’m sure he would forgive me. Or, there’s always the option to move out of the state, change my name, and forget about all of this. Deciding to ignore my internal objections, I ring the doorbell anyway.
It takes about twenty seconds before the locks click open and Patrick stands in the doorway.
It’s funny how he looks strikingly handsome as he fills up the entryway.
He has on dark grey joggers and a black t-shirt that fits snugly on his chest and arms. How does one’s entire wardrobe fit them so well? Does he have a personal tailor?
It takes me a second to notice the quiet that is building up around us. The look on his face is something I haven’t seen from him before, and I can’t quite pinpoint it. Clearing my throat brings his attention back to me, and with a small smile, he steps out of the way and gestures me inside.
“Welcome to my humble abode. It’s not much, but I really like it.” He says as he walks deeper into his home, and I take in my surroundings.
The first thing that hits me is a delicious smell I can only assume is coming from the pots on the stove. The scent of Italian spices mix with the newly familiar scent of Patrick. My mouth waters, and I pray that it’s the food that causes the Pavlovian response.
The second thing is how put together his place is.
The townhouse has an open concept floor plan, so his whole setup is on display while I follow him into the kitchen.
The contrast from the outside to the inside of the house is insane, and it is much more warm and inviting than I was expecting.
The walls are painted a dark ash, and the furniture is mismatched with dark wood tones and mostly shades of greyscale.
Everything is perfectly organized with a surprising lack of clutter.
A large couch and two comfy-looking leather chairs sit towards the front of the house with a giant TV placed against the wall.
There are a couple plants obviously well cared for on the windowsill, and the curtains are drawn, leaving us in the warm yellow glow of multiple lamps spread throughout the level.
As I walk further in, there is a small dining room table and a granite-topped kitchen island with three stools.
“Here. Come take a seat. I’m almost done making dinner.” He motions towards the island while stirring one of the pots with a wooden spoon. “I figured we shouldn't talk on an empty stomach. Do you like spaghetti?”
I pull out a stool and sit down, propping my elbows on the counter top. “Yeah, I love spaghetti.”
“Great! I wasn't sure if you ate meat or not, so I left some sauce to the side before I put it in. This sauce is a secret family recipe. My grandma taught me how to make it when I was younger, and it’s delicious. It has a bunch of complex flavors and depth; you’re going to love it.
” He leans over the counter, so we are face to face and brings his voice to a low whisper.
“The secret is you let a bunch of vegetables cook down in the pot for hours then blend them into the sauce.”
He grabs a new spoon from a drawer to his left and uses it to taste the sauce. As he throws the spoon into his sink, he lets out a small moan that catches me off guard. My cheeks grow warm as my mind goes somewhere it shouldn’t.
I don’t know if it is the close proximity or the fact that he is cooking me food, but I am finding it hard to focus on anything.
Trying to gain my composure, I let out a structured laugh and sarcastically say, “You know, it’s not really a secret if you tell someone.”
“I don’t know, El. I feel like I can trust you with it.” He shrugs his shoulders as he goes back to mixing, and I find myself at a loss for words.
When we're done eating, Patrick takes our empty bowls to the sink, and I make myself comfortable at his dining room table. I’m grateful I chose pants because now I don’t have to unstick my thighs from the chair with every small movement or readjustment.
Reaching for my phone, I open up my notes app to the list I made earlier.
Patrick glances over my shoulder as he makes his way back to his chair. “You really came prepared. I like that.”
“Uh, yeah. I wanted to make sure we talked about all of the logistics.” For some reason, his comment makes me feel slightly embarrassed, so I explain more than I should. “It’s an odd situation, and I want to know what I’m getting into.”