Chapter 94

Here isthe story with Patrice:

When I first met Patrice, I found her attractive. She is attractive, objectively speaking. As you get older, the chances of meeting an attractive, single person who is your age become infinitesimally smaller. And I'm far from picky—believe me.

When Patrice started working at DeWitt—one year after I started—I liked her right away. She was smart and pretty but not so far out of my league that it would have been an impossible dream. So I mustered up all my courage and asked her to go with me for drinks after work. I figured I could always backpedal and say it was platonic if she became flustered.

Patrice said yes to drinks, and I gave myself a little pat on the back. We went to a bar a few blocks from her house, where the conversation flowed easily, and after I had two beers in me, I had nearly worked up the nerve to make a move. Then Patrice glanced at her watch.

"I should probably go," Patrice said. "I promised my boyfriend I'd make him dinner tonight."

When I later found out that she didn't actually have a boyfriend, I was just grateful that she'd spared me the embarrassment.

That was years ago. Now we're platonic friends, and I've been satisfied with that arrangement, even though, yes, I still find her attractive. But whenever it seemed like she was flirting with me, I reminded myself of that humiliating night and backed off.

When Patrice walked in on Rachel and me, I panicked. I knew Patrice would overreact. She knew Rachel and didn't much care for her, probably because she secretly suspected what was going on. As soon as Rachel left, she laid into me.

"I'm really disappointed in you, Matt," she said in her slow therapist's voice.

I hated when she spoke to me that way, like I was one of her patients.

"It's not a big deal," I mumbled.

"Not a big deal?" Patrice echoed my words. "Matt, you could lose your job. You realize that, right?"

"Yes, of course." I leaned my head against the back of the sofa and stared up at the ceiling so I wouldn't have to look at her.

"Tampering with grades is an incredibly serious offense," Patrice said. "You'd never work again in academics."

"I didn't tamper with her grade," I said.

Patrice appeared deeply skeptical.

"I didn't," I insisted.

"Well, what are you giving her then?" Patrice asked. "The answer key?"

"No," I said. "I'm not giving her anything. We're just… We're in a relationship."

I hated the sympathetic look on her face.

"Oh, Matt. Come on."

It hurt that Patrice wouldn't entertain even the slightest possibility that Rachel could genuinely like me. But it was not entirely unfair. In the three years prior to Rachel coming along, I'd been on exactly one date. It was a woman I met on a dating app, and she dashed out halfway through the meal, citing an emergency that was clearly manufactured. I was so depressed about it that I decided to take a break from dating, which ended up being more permanent than I intended.

"You have to trust me," Patrice said. "This isn't going to end well. For either of you."

I knew she was right, but I couldn't admit it. "It might."

"Trust me, it won't."

I closed my eyes, hating that Patrice was right. But then I felt the couch shift under me, and I realized she was sitting beside me. Inappropriately close, given that last time I got this close to her, she felt a need to invent a fake boyfriend.

"Matt," she said gently. "I've been thinking a lot about us lately. You and me."

I opened my eyes and looked at her in surprise. "You and me?"

Patrice nodded. "All my life, I've been involved with the same types of men. Every boyfriend… my ex-husband… every one of them were these handsome, bad-boy types. I just couldn't resist them."

"Yeah," I muttered, rolling my eyes. "Too bad."

"I don't want that kind of man anymore, though." Patrice scooted closer to me on the couch. She was now uncomfortably close. "I want someone kind and intelligent and responsible."

A blind monkey would have seen where this was going.

"At this point in my life, I don't care about looks anymore," Patrice said. Gee, thanks. "It's what's inside that matters."

And now, her hand was on my knee. A year ago, I would have killed to have Patrice's hand on my knee, even if she did it while telling me how unattractive I was. Now all I could think about was Rachel. She was the only thing that's made me happy in the last decade and a half. I loved her, damn it.

I buried my face in my shaking hands. I felt actually ill, not just fake ill like I'd told Patrice I was when she suggested dinner earlier. I didn't want it to be over with Rachel. But what could I do?

"Matt…" She moved her hand to my back, rubbing circles. "Are you okay?"

"Not really."

"Hey, listen." She stopped rubbing my back and reached into her purse. She rifled around for a few seconds, then as I lifted my face from my hands, she pulled out a little baggie. "I know what will make you feel better."

She was on my right side, and I don't see quite as well on my right side, so at first, I thought I was imagining things when I realized the baggie had about a dozen little white pills in it. All I could think was, What the hell is that?

Patrice shook two of the pills into her palm and held them out to me. "Take these. You'll forget all about Rachel."

I gaped at the pills in her hand. I didn't know what they were, and I didn"t bother to ask. There was a lot of whispering among the staff at DeWitt that one of us must be responsible for the drugs making their way to the student body. But I never knew until this minute that it was Patrice.

I always defended Patrice against all the people who didn't like her—and believe me, there were many. A lot of people seemed to take an instant dislike to the woman. And now, I hated her too.

"It's you," I spat at her. "You're the one supplying the drugs."

She blinked a few times, as if surprised by my reaction. As if I would simply be okay with what she was doing. "They're going to get it anyway. They're kids. I might as well be able to afford a decent house, right?"

I didn't even know what to say. I had never been so angry with anyone in my entire life. Even Kurt—he was just imbalanced, not malicious.

"Take the pills," she urged me. "They'll help—I promise."

"You've got to be kidding me."

She arched an eyebrow. "Are you looking for a cut?"

"A cut?" I burst out. "I don't want a cut! Definitely not! And… and tomorrow, I'm going straight to the dean to tell him what's been going on, Patrice."

Her body went rigid, as if it hadn't occurred to her that I might say this. "You're not serious."

"I am dead serious."

"If you tell the dean," Patrice said calmly, "I'll blow the whistle on you and Rachel." I was about to tell her I didn't care, but she saw the look on my face and added, "That would pretty much destroy Rachel's life, wouldn't it? She'd be kicked out of school. No chance of becoming a doctor."

I gave Patrice a seething look, hating her with every fiber of my being. The hate was emanating out of my body with such force that it was hard to believe she couldn't feel it.

"Get out of my house," I said quietly.

"Matt…"

"I won't tell anyone what you've done," I said, "but only for Rachel's sake. And it needs to stop. If it doesn't stop, I'll go to the dean. I mean it."

Patrice shook her head as if she thought I might be joking. Ha ha, really funny. You're a drug dealer—get out of my house.

As soon as Patrice was gone, I called Rachel, and I had every intention, once again, of ending things with her. I'm always full of good intentions, aren't I?

When Rachel returned to my house, I could see the red around the rims of her brown eyes just before she fell into my arms. She'd been crying. It touched me that she'd been crying over the idea that we might be over. That was when I really started loving her.