Page 71 of Savage Lover

“Yeah,” Patricia says gently. “I saw his file. I’m really sorry about that. You want me to bring over some dinner or something? I make this amazing soup with rotisserie chicken and carrots . . .”

“I think he went to bed already. Thank you, though. That’s really kind.”

“Oh. Well . . . come over here and we can get ready for the bonfire together,” Patricia says. “Have a glass of wine before we go and relax a little.”

“Sure,” I say. “That sounds really nice.”

“Okay. Ten o’clock, then.”

“Alright. Thanks, Patricia,” I say.

“Of course. See you soon.”

I drive over to Patricia’s apartment on the corner of Willow Street at 9:45 p.m. I’m early, because I wasn’t exactly sure how long it would take me to get here.

She lives on the twelfth floor of a pretty white brick building. I take the elevator up, then tap on her door. She opens it immediately, wearing a pink robe and fluffy slippers.

“Hey!” she says. “I’m not dressed yet.”

“That’s okay! I’m early.”

I follow her inside. I haven’t seen her place before—it’s clean and bright, and decorated in that way that some people seem to instinctively understand, where everything doesn’t match exactly, but it all coordinates to make the place look classy and comfortable, and like an actual home. She has a large bookshelf in the living room, with all the books arranged by the color of their covers, so they run down the shelves like a rainbow, from red to violet.

“Have a seat!” Patricia says cheerfully.

She gestures toward a spotless white couch with blue Aztec pillows. I don’t know if I’m supposed to move the pillows or sit on them. Also, I’m scared of smudging the couch or spilling the glass of wine Patricia hands me.

“Your apartment’s so nice,” I tell her. “How long have you been here?”

“About a year.”

“Jesus. I’ve lived in my place almost my whole life and I think we have like, maybe one picture up.”

Patricia laughs. “I always told myself I’d have my own place, no roommates. With a fireplace, a nice shoe collection, and a view.”

She pulls back the gauzy curtains so I can see out the window.

“Check that out,” she says proudly.

Sure enough, between the various buildings, she has a corridor view down to Lincoln Park.

“Absolutely perfect,” I say.

Patricia takes a sip of her wine, looking out at the green treetops with satisfaction.

“That’s why I always liked you,” she says to me. “You were a hard worker. So was I. We knew what we had to do. I don’t think Mason’s ever gonna grow up and be somebody I can count on.”

“He cares about you, though,” I say.

“I know,” Patricia says. “But I keep trying to change him. And you know that never works in the end.”

“You’d know better than me,” I say, taking a gulp of my wine. “I think my longest relationship lasted a month.”

“Why is that?” Patricia asks, setting down her wine on the coffee table. “You know you’re beautiful, Camille. Much as you try to hide it.”

“I dunno.” I shake my head, too embarrassed to meet her eyes. “Just busy with work and family stuff.”

“It’s okay to be selfish, sometimes,” Patricia says. “My whole family’s a fucking mess. That didn’t stop me going after what I want. I’m going to keep working. Keep saving money. Make something of myself. If they want to stay in the same cycle forever, that’s their problem.”

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