We pry his friends from their make out session and I ask for all the dirt they have on Patrick.
They share stories. Silly ones. Dirty ones. Ones about him obsessing over his work.
Nothing about a sister.
Or bad decisions after he lost her.
Or any other places he hurts.
They keep it light and easy and I hate it.
I want more. I want to know. I don't care that it's messy and complicated. I want that part of him.
ChapterTwenty-Five
PATRICK
By the time we leave, Imogen is exhausted. She falls asleep on the five-minute ride to my place, stirs for long enough to brush her teeth and change into her pajamas.
When I help her into bed, she looks up at me with hazy eyes. "Hey Tricky."
"Hey." Something swells in my chest. Pride. Affection. Need.
She's so beautiful. And I want this side of her. The open, vulnerable side.
"Your friend… he mentioned something," she says.
"They're idiots. Don't listen to them."
"Maybe." She laughs, but there's something off about it. "About your sister—"
Shit.
"She died?"
"Yeah."
"This was her place?"
"Why do you say that?" I ask.
"It's expensive."
That's true.
"Did she own it?"
"Most of it."
"But that wasn't the main thing. I mean, as far as I know, your parents pay your rent."
"They don't."
"I'm sorry. It wasn't an accusation. I just meant… there's a lot about your life I don't know. That I didn't want to know. But this…" She rolls onto her side. "I wanted to know. And he mentioned it and I thought about the dog-eared copy ofThe Bell Jar…"
Does she know everything? How the hell does she know everything? My parents buried the details and I sure as fuck didn't tell anyone.
"What happened?" She lets out a yawn. "No. It's okay. You don't have to tell me. I just… I guess I was surprised by how much I wanted to know. I think… I think I like you."