40. Patrick

"You what?" Kaitlin nearly dropped her fork as a cherry tomato escaped and bounced across the hard restaurant floor, rolling to a stop four tables away before getting squashed beneath the boot of a guy who looked like a farm worker. "Seriously, Patrick, you went to his softball game? Are you a stalker now? Did you lurk outside his house? Sift through his garbage to see who writes to him?"

"Nobody writes letters anymore. I would have to sift through his emails."

"Patrick!" Her fork clanked against her plate as her hands gesticulated wildly. "Where is my bestie, the overly rational overthinker who would never do something so blindingly stupid—you know, the guy who is so shy he wouldn't even think to search an ex's email account."

"I'm a reporter. I always knew about that."

I thought she might launch herself across the table. Her cheeks were red and puffy, and her eyes blazed with fury and concern. "Sweet P, you know I love you," she said through clenched teeth in a tone similar to a kidnap victim forced to recite a prepared statement. "I would give anything to see you happy like you were when Dane was in the picture. But the reality is that he's not. He's not in the picture or the frame. Hell, he's nowhere near the wall. He's in another room, probably a house three blocks over. No, he's in another city across the country where you could never see or hear him again. That's where he is, and you need to accept it."

"I saw him today."

"Ahh!" She tugged at her hair. "I'm going to the bathroom. You sit there and … well … don't do anything stupid." She made it two steps away before turning back and adding, "Anything else stupid."

By the time she returned, I'd finished my salad and was glancing around, hoping our server would materialize with my steak. I wanted my mouth good and full so I couldn't say anything to piss her off more than she already was. I'd never seen her so riled.

Katie pulled her chair back and sat, snapped her napkin and laid it across her lap, then leaned forward with her elbows on the table and fingers folded with her chin resting in her cradling digits. "Did you talk to him?"

I stared a moment, stunned by her change in tone. "Well, no."

One brow rose. "No?"

"No."

She sat up. "Let me get this straight: months after breaking up, a whole season after you last spoke to the guy—which, I remind you, did not go terribly well—you decide to just show up, unannounced, at his softball game?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"And you just sat there? In the stands? And he saw you? You're sure?"

I nodded again.

"But you didn't speak to him?"

"I waved."

"You … waved?"

I lifted my hand and wiggled my fingertips.

Her other brow rose. "Dear god, it wasn't even a pageant wave."

My head bowed. A moment passed.

Her voice lowered. "Did he respond?"

I thought back, picturing his face in the sunlight, how his uniform pulled tight across his chest, his arms flexing every time he raised the bat. He looked better than I remembered, even better than the Dane who haunted my dreams.

I nodded. "He gave me a 'sup."

Her brows scrunched. The sudden shift from amusement to confusion was almost comical.

I demonstrated. "You know. A reverse head bob where guys say 'sup? It means—"

"I know what it means. Don't start mansplaining."

"Sorry."

She tapped a finger against her cheek and glared at me.

Thankfully, the waiter arrived, setting a massive platter with steak, a loaded baked potato, brussels sprouts and a giant round of cornbread before me. Katie's dainty salad appeared next.

"Hungry?"

I shrugged. "Anxiety makes me eat."

She snorted and shoved salad around her plate. "It's the opposite for me. Can I have some of your anxiety? I'm sick of salads."

She started a workout and diet routine when fall arrived, eating larger meals early in the day and small salads at night. Her trainer, some German chick who liked to beat small children for fun, had worked nearly fifteen pounds off my gal in a month and a half. She looked amazing, and I could tell she felt better, but the way she stared longingly at my plate made me wonder if it was all worth it.

"Here's to rabbit food." She hoisted a forkful of lettuce. "Enjoy your dead cow."

I shoved a far-too-big piece of beef into my mouth and smiled so she could see the meat through my teeth.

"You're such a boy. Utterly disgusting." Her giggle belied her revulsion. Then she smiled, letting lite ranch dressing coat her teeth, removing all doubt about how gross she could be.

"There's my gal," I said, sipping wine to help my steak go down.

She waved her fork in my direction. "You're not off the hook here. What else happened?"

"Nothing. His at-bat won the game. The whole team piled on him in celebration. I was gone before they climbed off him."

Her fork dropped to the table with a thud. "Rewind, please. You went to his game, made eye contact, did your dainty little wave, got a head bob, then ran away like a scared little rabbit?"

I nodded. "Good summary. The AJC could use you."

She didn't smile. If anything, her face grew colder. "Have you texted him or reached out in any way?"

I shook my head. "I … I didn't think … I didn't know if … if he would want to hear from me."

My voice was so small by the time I got that out, she was leaning across the table just to hear me.

Her face softened, and my loving, compassionate bestie reappeared. She reached across and gripped my hand. "I'm sorry, P. I know how much you liked Dane."

"Like."

Her brow shot up again. "Liked. Past tense. There is no more liking, you got me? I will come around this table, grab your spine by the handle, and yank the ‘like' right out of you, like gutting a fish."

"I'm pretty sure that's not how you gut a fish."

She made a zzzt sound, as she ran her fingers across her lips as though closing a zipper. "Like. A. Fish. You got me? No more liking. Dane Walker is in the past. Period."

And that's when it happened.My phone chimed.

I looked down, my head frozen, but my eyes darting so fast they ached. Kaitlin's brows furrowed, and I could feel her body tensing from across the table.

"It's not him," she said. "Stop wishing and come back to the present, Patrick. I'm not trying to be cruel, but—"

"It's from Dane," I said, still unable to move my head or tear my eyes away from the screen. I could see who the text was from but not the actual message. My body would have to respond to commands—my hand moving and fingers flicking the screen—to see more than the preview. I wasn't sure I had that much control.

Time seemed to wobble … or was that the restaurant … or my head?

I dared a glance at Katie. She looked as frozen as I was. "Well, get it over with. My fucking salad and I are dying over here, practically wilting away."

She never cursed. Well, not before the diet. Now most food items were preceded by some vulgarity. I would've laughed and teased her if my heart was still beating.

My phone buzzed and lit up again. A second text. From Walkman.

I could hear the Bionic Man special sound effect as my hand slowly reached for my phone. I wasn't sure my heart could beat any faster. Was this another "fuck off, Patrick" text or had Dane realized I was the love of his life? Had he finally discovered that nothing would be as good without me? Were his appliances lonely?

Walkman:Hey, you.

Walkman:Thanks for coming to the game.

I stared, unable to think. He hadn't exactly proposed marriage, but he clearly wasn't suggesting I find a tall bridge and jump either.

I could take a middle-ground text. Middle ground was good, right?

My chest heaved for air.

"Well? Am I going to have to stab you with my fork to find out what he said?"

She was so hangry now that she was losing weight. It made me grin. "Here. See for yourself." I handed my phone across the table.

While she read, it buzzed again.

"What did he say?" I asked before the buzzing had time to stop. It took every ounce of control I possessed to stay in my seat while her eyes widened.

Katie's expression was unreadable, somewhere between shock, horror, and … about to fall over laughing while she piddled all over the floor?

She held my phone up so I could read the latest message.

Walkman:Your butt print is still on my fridge.