Her mouth lifted and she reached for her fork. “I’m not used to being the one waited on. I haven’t had someone make a meal for me, not including the cafeteria or a personal chef, in . . .” her fork stilled above her plate, her forehead lining, “thirteen years,” she said, and I half expected her to add the number of months, days, and hours from the certainty she’d said it with. “Can you believe that?”
No, I couldn’t. Especially since that meant she’d been making breakfast, lunch, and dinner for herself and, knowing her, her brothers too, since she was a first-grader.
Cutting a chunk with the side of her fork, she spun it around in the syrup and lifted it to her mouth. “I’m going to enjoy this.” She winked at me as she took her bite.
I lifted my hands and took a step back. “Don’t let me interfere,” I said, tidying the kitchen to distract myself.
“This is amazing, Patrick,” she said around another bite. “Are you sure you don’t have a chef locked in one of those cupboards?”
I tossed some utensils in the dishwasher. “I’m positive there are no chefs, butlers, or anything of the sort around.”
“What about of the female sort?” Emma asked, her fork pausing above her plate.
“Um, no,” I replied, confused. “Why?”
She waved her fork around the room. “All this,” she said, pointing her fork at me. “All you,”—her eyes looked away from me—“this kind of package deal doesn’t stay on the market. Unless it’s by choice,” she added, looking back at me.
“It isn’t by choice,” I said, closing the dishwasher. With this turn in conversation, I didn’t need a distraction. “At least it isn’t anymore.”
“But it used to be,” she guessed.
I nodded. “It did.”
“All those girls, how many have you loved?”
Honesty, I reminded myself, before answering, “Just one.” The words tasted tart in my mouth, but less bitter and more sweet. Like a memory that was as fond as it was painful because it’s brought me to that point. To that point in life that matters.
“And what happened?” she asked, looking just over my shoulder. “Did you break her heart?”
That was the first time I’d really allowed myself to think about it, the first time I’d openly talked about it, but time had done me justice. The scar was healing, but still tender enough to remind me what I’d endured, what I’d lost, so hopefully, I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
“Other way around,” I said, tapping my fist against the counter.
“There’s a story there,” she said, watching my pulsing fist.
I nodded.
“Care to share it?”
Maybe one day, but not today. “Not right now, at least not all the gory details, but I will say that now I’ve tasted love. The real kind,” I said, making no mistake about looking intentional as I looked at her. “I’m ruined for it.”
She smiled a ghost of a smile. “So what happens the next time you fall in love?”
I stared at her until she acknowledged me. When she did, I held her eyes to mine and answered, “I’m marrying her.”
She was the first to look away, distracting herself with her French toast. “Well I’m sure she’s sorry she let you get away, Patrick. I’m sure she regrets it.” She lifted her fork and dug into another bite.
“Nah,” I said. “She ended up with a better man than me. She might regret hurting me, but she doesn’t regret losing me.” That verbalized truth stabbed me in the side— honesty was a painful thing.
“Well I would,” Emma said, staring at her glass of milk. “I’d regret it if I let a guy like you get away.”
Was this one of those signs, the good ones, that I needed to pick up on and run with?
“You would?” was my profound response.
“I’m stuffed,” she said, bulldozing over my question and hope as she shoved off the counter to a stand. “Thank you for the best meal I’ve had made for me in over a decade.”
“You mean the only meal you’ve had made for you in over a decade?”
She responded to my question with a smile. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“The world is your playground,” I said, reaching my arms wide. “Consider me your genie in a bottle. I won’t even hold you to the three wish rule.”
She looked out the windows, where the waves were astormin’ and it was still early enough the mass of high school boys I competed for waves with would be asleep for another couple hours. Opportunities didn’t get any better for a guy who bled salt water and board wax, I knew this, but it held no sway over me. My sway had shifted to a woman with a look of concentration on her face, her index finger tapping her chin.
“So,” I said, clapping my hands together. “What will it be?”
Planting her finger over her chin, she spun my direction. “I want to lounge on the beach this morning, and by lounge I mean my only physical undertaking will be flipping from front to back, no games of Frisbee, no building a sandcastle, no beach volleyball,” she said, knowing me too well. “Lounge,” she reiterated. “And I’ll go from there. Who knows, maybe this afternoon I’ll feel ambitious enough to take a leisurely walk down the beach.”
“Done,” I said, grabbing her empty plate and sliding it into the dishwasher. “Should we go get changed and meet back here in T minus ten?”
“Government super assassin, for sure,” she said. “Who talks like that other than someone with a license to kill?”
“Uh, awesome people,” I said, lifting my hands at my sides.
“Sure.” She winked, making an okay sign with her hand.
I rolled my eyes, slamming the dishwasher door closed as she turned to head back to her bedroom.
“Em, hold up!” I shouted down at her.
She spun around, raising her hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot.”
I gave her a really look. “For someone who possesses such wit, you have a terrible sense of humor.”
Running to the front door, I grabbed the myriad of bags overtaking the walkway. “I picked you up a few things to make your stay at Casa de Patrick more comfortable,” I said, balancing the dozen bags between both arms as I turned the corner of the hallway. “I knew you didn’t have any of your own stuff and you girls don’t exactly pack light, so . . .” She was shock silent, staring at me like I was the bearded lady. “What?” I asked, checking to make sure everything that should be covered was still that way.
“You picked up a few things?” she said, her eyes wide.
“Okay, so maybe it’s more than just a few, but that’s how it started out. I thought I’d get you a toothbrush, toothpaste, some deodorant, that kind of thing,” I said, fumbling for words.
I’d gone to six different stores at the crack of dawn to find just the right lip balm because I was falling in love with her. I was smart enough, or coward enough, not to admit this in my justification. “But then a few things turned in to a few hundred. I know how you girls are when you pack. It’s like your motto is expect the worse and pack accordingly.”
She wasn’t saying anything and I was getting all self-conscious standing in the hallway with an armload of girlie things, so I passed by her to drop the bags on her bed.
She followed behind me, still eyeing me like I was unstable.
“All right,”—I clapped my hands, rocking on my heels—“I’ll see you in a few.”
“Princess gummy vitamins?” she said, pulling a box from the top of one of the bags. Grinning at me, she turned to another bag. “A Clinique three step skin care kit?” she said, shuffling deeper. “Perfume with a name I can’t pronounce, but in the prettiest bottle I’ve ever seen?” Now she really started tearing through the bag, like it was Christmas morning. “A Chi flatiron? A cashmere bathrobe? Ugg slippers?” Now the dubious questions were turning into something that more resembled shrieks. Pulling a white box out, she hung it in front of my face. “This was your idea of a toothbrush?”
“You’re Stanford’s star volleyball player,” I said, making an innocent face. “I couldn’t risk you having an elbow injury from manual toothbrush overuse. It’s a long road to recovery from there that’s left more than one Ivy League athlete camped on a corner begging for change.”
She shoved at me playfully, putting the Sonicare toothbrush aside, before going to the next bag.
“Oh my gosh, Patrick,” she said, pulling out the oversized rectangular box. “This is a laptop. An expensive one.” She stared at it like it wasn’t real or as if it was about to vanish.
“Correct you are,” I said, hoping I sounded as chill as I didn’t feel. “Now before you tear into me, I want to build the case in my defense first.” Looking at her, where her eyes were still glued to the box, I added, “Think you can manage that?”
Her head bobbed once.
“So I noticed you’re a fan of the spiral ring notebook, and I respect your deference for note taking methods that date back to the crustaceous period.” Her face didn’t change, my attempts at humor wasted. “If you’re a hardcore paper and pen note taking junkie, then just sell the thing and blow the money on a lifetime supply of notebooks. But if you’re not a member of the anti-technology movement and have been laptop-less due to . . .”—how did I say this without sounding like an ass?—“being economically impaired at this time in your life”—mission failed, I sounded like a total ass—“then maybe you can give it a whirl. Plus, my selfishness of wanting my partner to have the best so we could get the best grade factored into the purchase.”
She still didn’t look up, but she hadn’t bought my explanation of epic failure. Placing the box down on the mattress, she crawled off the bed and paused in front of me. I was just bracing myself for a slap when she wrapped her arms around me, folding me into a hug I wouldn’t forget anytime soon.
“Thank you,” she breathed into my chest. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for everything,”—her head shook against me—“but I will. Promise.”
I worked my arms free, folding them around her. “I didn’t pick this stuff up with the expectation of anything in return.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “Someday, some way, I’ll pay back your kindness and generosity with the same.”
“Sounds like something to look forward to,” I said as she gave me a final squeeze before grabbing her toothbrush and heading for the bathroom. “Happy motorized brushing.”
Grinning at me, she disappeared behind the bathroom door.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“How’s this?” I asked, holding my cooler, blanket, beach bag, and umbrella laden arms as wide as they’d go in front of an unoccupied piece of beach.
outh lifted and she reached for her fork. “I’m not used to being the one waited on. I haven’t had someone make a meal for me, not including the cafeteria or a personal chef, in . . .” her fork stilled above her plate, her forehead lining, “thirteen years,” she said, and I half expected her to add the number of months, days, and hours from the certainty she’d said it with. “Can you believe that?”
No, I couldn’t. Especially since that meant she’d been making breakfast, lunch, and dinner for herself and, knowing her, her brothers too, since she was a first-grader.
Cutting a chunk with the side of her fork, she spun it around in the syrup and lifted it to her mouth. “I’m going to enjoy this.” She winked at me as she took her bite.
I lifted my hands and took a step back. “Don’t let me interfere,” I said, tidying the kitchen to distract myself.
“This is amazing, Patrick,” she said around another bite. “Are you sure you don’t have a chef locked in one of those cupboards?”
I tossed some utensils in the dishwasher. “I’m positive there are no chefs, butlers, or anything of the sort around.”
“What about of the female sort?” Emma asked, her fork pausing above her plate.
“Um, no,” I replied, confused. “Why?”
She waved her fork around the room. “All this,” she said, pointing her fork at me. “All you,”—her eyes looked away from me—“this kind of package deal doesn’t stay on the market. Unless it’s by choice,” she added, looking back at me.
“It isn’t by choice,” I said, closing the dishwasher. With this turn in conversation, I didn’t need a distraction. “At least it isn’t anymore.”
“But it used to be,” she guessed.
I nodded. “It did.”
“All those girls, how many have you loved?”
Honesty, I reminded myself, before answering, “Just one.” The words tasted tart in my mouth, but less bitter and more sweet. Like a memory that was as fond as it was painful because it’s brought me to that point. To that point in life that matters.
“And what happened?” she asked, looking just over my shoulder. “Did you break her heart?”
That was the first time I’d really allowed myself to think about it, the first time I’d openly talked about it, but time had done me justice. The scar was healing, but still tender enough to remind me what I’d endured, what I’d lost, so hopefully, I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
“Other way around,” I said, tapping my fist against the counter.
“There’s a story there,” she said, watching my pulsing fist.
I nodded.
“Care to share it?”
Maybe one day, but not today. “Not right now, at least not all the gory details, but I will say that now I’ve tasted love. The real kind,” I said, making no mistake about looking intentional as I looked at her. “I’m ruined for it.”
She smiled a ghost of a smile. “So what happens the next time you fall in love?”
I stared at her until she acknowledged me. When she did, I held her eyes to mine and answered, “I’m marrying her.”
She was the first to look away, distracting herself with her French toast. “Well I’m sure she’s sorry she let you get away, Patrick. I’m sure she regrets it.” She lifted her fork and dug into another bite.
“Nah,” I said. “She ended up with a better man than me. She might regret hurting me, but she doesn’t regret losing me.” That verbalized truth stabbed me in the side— honesty was a painful thing.
“Well I would,” Emma said, staring at her glass of milk. “I’d regret it if I let a guy like you get away.”
Was this one of those signs, the good ones, that I needed to pick up on and run with?
“You would?” was my profound response.
“I’m stuffed,” she said, bulldozing over my question and hope as she shoved off the counter to a stand. “Thank you for the best meal I’ve had made for me in over a decade.”
“You mean the only meal you’ve had made for you in over a decade?”
She responded to my question with a smile. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“The world is your playground,” I said, reaching my arms wide. “Consider me your genie in a bottle. I won’t even hold you to the three wish rule.”
She looked out the windows, where the waves were astormin’ and it was still early enough the mass of high school boys I competed for waves with would be asleep for another couple hours. Opportunities didn’t get any better for a guy who bled salt water and board wax, I knew this, but it held no sway over me. My sway had shifted to a woman with a look of concentration on her face, her index finger tapping her chin.
“So,” I said, clapping my hands together. “What will it be?”
Planting her finger over her chin, she spun my direction. “I want to lounge on the beach this morning, and by lounge I mean my only physical undertaking will be flipping from front to back, no games of Frisbee, no building a sandcastle, no beach volleyball,” she said, knowing me too well. “Lounge,” she reiterated. “And I’ll go from there. Who knows, maybe this afternoon I’ll feel ambitious enough to take a leisurely walk down the beach.”
“Done,” I said, grabbing her empty plate and sliding it into the dishwasher. “Should we go get changed and meet back here in T minus ten?”
“Government super assassin, for sure,” she said. “Who talks like that other than someone with a license to kill?”
“Uh, awesome people,” I said, lifting my hands at my sides.
“Sure.” She winked, making an okay sign with her hand.
I rolled my eyes, slamming the dishwasher door closed as she turned to head back to her bedroom.
“Em, hold up!” I shouted down at her.
She spun around, raising her hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot.”
I gave her a really look. “For someone who possesses such wit, you have a terrible sense of humor.”
Running to the front door, I grabbed the myriad of bags overtaking the walkway. “I picked you up a few things to make your stay at Casa de Patrick more comfortable,” I said, balancing the dozen bags between both arms as I turned the corner of the hallway. “I knew you didn’t have any of your own stuff and you girls don’t exactly pack light, so . . .” She was shock silent, staring at me like I was the bearded lady. “What?” I asked, checking to make sure everything that should be covered was still that way.
“You picked up a few things?” she said, her eyes wide.
“Okay, so maybe it’s more than just a few, but that’s how it started out. I thought I’d get you a toothbrush, toothpaste, some deodorant, that kind of thing,” I said, fumbling for words.
I’d gone to six different stores at the crack of dawn to find just the right lip balm because I was falling in love with her. I was smart enough, or coward enough, not to admit this in my justification. “But then a few things turned in to a few hundred. I know how you girls are when you pack. It’s like your motto is expect the worse and pack accordingly.”
She wasn’t saying anything and I was getting all self-conscious standing in the hallway with an armload of girlie things, so I passed by her to drop the bags on her bed.
She followed behind me, still eyeing me like I was unstable.
“All right,”—I clapped my hands, rocking on my heels—“I’ll see you in a few.”
“Princess gummy vitamins?” she said, pulling a box from the top of one of the bags. Grinning at me, she turned to another bag. “A Clinique three step skin care kit?” she said, shuffling deeper. “Perfume with a name I can’t pronounce, but in the prettiest bottle I’ve ever seen?” Now she really started tearing through the bag, like it was Christmas morning. “A Chi flatiron? A cashmere bathrobe? Ugg slippers?” Now the dubious questions were turning into something that more resembled shrieks. Pulling a white box out, she hung it in front of my face. “This was your idea of a toothbrush?”
“You’re Stanford’s star volleyball player,” I said, making an innocent face. “I couldn’t risk you having an elbow injury from manual toothbrush overuse. It’s a long road to recovery from there that’s left more than one Ivy League athlete camped on a corner begging for change.”
She shoved at me playfully, putting the Sonicare toothbrush aside, before going to the next bag.
“Oh my gosh, Patrick,” she said, pulling out the oversized rectangular box. “This is a laptop. An expensive one.” She stared at it like it wasn’t real or as if it was about to vanish.
“Correct you are,” I said, hoping I sounded as chill as I didn’t feel. “Now before you tear into me, I want to build the case in my defense first.” Looking at her, where her eyes were still glued to the box, I added, “Think you can manage that?”
Her head bobbed once.
“So I noticed you’re a fan of the spiral ring notebook, and I respect your deference for note taking methods that date back to the crustaceous period.” Her face didn’t change, my attempts at humor wasted. “If you’re a hardcore paper and pen note taking junkie, then just sell the thing and blow the money on a lifetime supply of notebooks. But if you’re not a member of the anti-technology movement and have been laptop-less due to . . .”—how did I say this without sounding like an ass?—“being economically impaired at this time in your life”—mission failed, I sounded like a total ass—“then maybe you can give it a whirl. Plus, my selfishness of wanting my partner to have the best so we could get the best grade factored into the purchase.”
She still didn’t look up, but she hadn’t bought my explanation of epic failure. Placing the box down on the mattress, she crawled off the bed and paused in front of me. I was just bracing myself for a slap when she wrapped her arms around me, folding me into a hug I wouldn’t forget anytime soon.
“Thank you,” she breathed into my chest. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for everything,”—her head shook against me—“but I will. Promise.”
I worked my arms free, folding them around her. “I didn’t pick this stuff up with the expectation of anything in return.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “Someday, some way, I’ll pay back your kindness and generosity with the same.”
“Sounds like something to look forward to,” I said as she gave me a final squeeze before grabbing her toothbrush and heading for the bathroom. “Happy motorized brushing.”
Grinning at me, she disappeared behind the bathroom door.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“How’s this?” I asked, holding my cooler, blanket, beach bag, and umbrella laden arms as wide as they’d go in front of an unoccupied piece of beach.