31. Waverly
CHAPTER 31
WAVERLY
This week has dragged me through hell and back. Actually, I’m not sure I ever left hell. Patrick has taken over my Lovesac. He says he’s looking for a place to live, but I have yet to see him actively trying. He’s been spending a shit ton of time in front of the TV, eating all of my food, and acting like I’m not living here, too.
I haven’t been able to come home from work and unwind because right now, snuggling with abandoned dogs is significantly less stressful than repeatedly rewatching The Summer I Turned Pretty . Unheard of.
I haven’t seen or heard from Roman. I’ve texted and called repeatedly over the first few days until I realized he is avoiding me. I could go over to his house, but the idea of him rejecting me and my feelings toward him, despite Patrick being back, really fucking hurts.
“I sure could use some food,” Patrick snaps from the living room.
“We could go to the diner down the street. It’s still open.” The least I could give this man is some time. We need to have a discussion—or multiple discussions—that we’ve both been putting off.What is going on right now is most definitely not sustainable.
Patrick throws his hands over his head, leans back into a deep stretch, and groans. “I was actually craving your homemade chicken and potatoes.” Oh God, here we go . I am a terrible fucking human being. I don’t want to cook for this man. Quite frankly, I don’t want to cook for any man right now. Much less be in the presence of this one. I’d rather just go to bed. Hibernate and pray this is all a dream…er—a nightmare . Perhaps I’m just angry at myself…but why? I’m mad at him. No. I’m irate toward this entire situation.
“I don’t feel like cooking tonight, Patrick. I know you just got home from…dying? And I’ve had a tiring week at work” If I could pay someone to slap me right now, I would. “But I just… I’m exhausted.” I find my shoulders slumping, feeling defeated.
I stand to grab a bottle of water from the fridge when he decides to have the audacity—in my house—to say, “You weren’t too tired to have your tongue down my brother’s throat.” He moves into the kitchen, sitting down at the table like he truly thinks I’ll cook for him after that declaration. My peaceful bubble has been busted.
“Excuse me?” The fuck? Slowly, I turn to stare at the man who once had my heart.
He slams his hands down on the table, startling me. “Damnit, Waverly. I’m sorry. This is a lot to take in.”
Patrick’s right. If the roles were reversed, I’d be irate. I would probably throw things, hit people, I’m not sure. The least I could give him is some grace. “That was uncalled for, but I get it. I’ll make you your favorite meal.” I walk over and wait for him to look at me. His gray eyes finally find mine. I take a long hard look at him. He looks different. Exhausted.
“We have to have a conversation. It’s been a week, and I’m finally home. But we should do so on full stomachs.” I offer him a smile and he reciprocates.
“We can do that. You mind if I watch some TV while you cook?” Yes. Yes, I do.
Not waiting for me to answer, because I was actually going to ask him to peel the potatoes, he grabs the remote. I can hear my Lovesac crying from the foreign ass print that’s being embedded in my spot.
I graze the neon yellow peeler across the potato a little more aggressively than I should. Why am I not happy? This is how happy I wasn’t when he proposed.
Back to bending at his every wish. Constantly trying to keep the peace around him—walking on eggshells.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
“Goddamnit! Ouch!” The peeler falls to the floor along with fresh drops of dark red blood.
I look to the couch to find Patrick zoned out on the TV. “I cut myself. It’s deep,” I shout to him, weakened by the sight of my own blood.
“You okay?” He stands, doesn’t move toward me, but squints to see my finger from fifteen feet away. “Just apply some pressure. If I remember correctly, I stocked the first-aid kit with some bandages.”
Yeah. A fucking year and a half ago. I swallow back a sob. Or maybe it’s a primal scream that’s trying to escape.
He sits back down. HE FUCKING SITS BACK DOWN. Tears sting my eyes before they fall.
Violence threatens to surface before my mind drifts back to cutting my finger on the plane. Roman jumped at the chance to help me.
“There is no reason you need to take care of yourself when I’m here to take care of you.”
“I’m fine. You don’t need to help me.” Sarcasm drips like venom from my lips. More blood drips onto the floor. A nice chunk has been taken out from my finger, and I’m feeling queasy.
Patrick’s laugh comes from across the room. Something must have been funny on TV because he better not be laughing at me, or the Cruella de Vil in me might slip out. As I’m hunched over on the floor, trying to prevent myself from passing out from the sight of my own blood, anger surfaces.
“I hate it here,” I say through gritted teeth, tears threatening to fall. I hate how I cry when I get mad. I swear us women cry so we don’t murder people. I’ll die on this hill.
The room goes silent. “What’d you say?”
I’m sure to enunciate a little better this time. “I said, I hate it here!” I shout a little louder out of pure frustration. He’s still sitting on the damn couch, but now his shoe-clad feet are propped up on my cute new coffee table. The one I bought right before Roman broke into my house…with a key. I guess it wasn’t really breaking in.
“You picked the apartment. I didn’t. Remember?” And then his voice switches, trying to sound like me, except it comes out in a mocking tone. “We should live between your parents and close to Roman. Family…yada yada yada.” A chuckle falls out of him, and the only noise I can make is a loud grr- ing sound. “This couch is pretty decent, by the way.”
“I wanted to be near your family because mine are on the East Coast!” I growl; my eyes so wide, it’s starting to give me a headache. “And it’s not a couch! It’s a fucking Lovesac!”
Choking back more malicious words is my only option as I tend to my wound and try to lower my blood pressure.
Words I’m not sure I mean or not swirl in my head. I want to scream at him. I want him to know he’s hurt me. He has a second chance on life and nothing’s changed!
I wish you were still dead! I wish you never would have come back! I wish I never gave you the time of day! I wish I didn’t waste six years on you! I was stupid to love you!
Even though those words never come out, never making it past the filter, the taste of them on my tongue is bitter and cynical.
Every bone in my body, my brain, my heart is screaming to leave Patrick on my Lovesac and drive to Roman’s house. A loud crack of thunder sounds when I stand from the kitchen floor. That has to be a sign to not go, to stay put and have a conversation.
But I’m fucking going anyway.