Page 43 of Those Two Words

It’s not the same message, but the words are just as powerful.

It’s okay to not be okay.

I doubt he knows the power of those words, but it’s a mantra I think most people should carry with them. One I wish I’d followed sooner.

Tucking the note into the pocket of the sweats for safekeeping, knowing exactly where I’ll be putting it. I head downstairs and take in his house for the first time. It doesn’t scream single bachelor, but a family man. The walls are covered in family photos from over the years. Ones of Lottie as a newborn to more recently. His siblings. His parents. A blushing Patrick, next to…squinting, I rear back. Jesus, my mom actually let me go out with that much makeup on? Despite the orange glow from the foundation three shades too dark, there’s no hiding the smile splitting across my face. And it’s directed right at the boy standing next to me, his arm slung gingerly over my shoulder, like he wasn’t sure of the safest place to touch.

A kernel of hope drops in my stomach, because if he’d wanted to forget about our history, why would he hang this photo up in his home?

Following the noise of a radio, I wander to the kitchen and come up short when I spot Patrick in a pair of dark navy pajama pants hanging low on his hips, washing the dishes. Gray sweatpants, who? There’s something delicious about a man who can pull off a pair of loose, plaid pajama pants. The cherry on top? He’s topless, water splashing on his muscular stomach as he scrubs at something in the sink.

Oh, to be a plate.

I’m treated with the view of his strong back, the muscles shifting with his movements. And he’s barefoot. This might not be the best way for me to recover from last night, because I’m now light-headed.

The whole visual is quite the morning treat and when he spots me over his shoulder, the sheepish grin he gives me as he dries his hands does all sorts of things to my insides.

“I spilled some coffee on it,” he says and nods to the stained white T-shirt on the counter. “I was trying to mix your coffee in the blender how you like it.” He walks to the fridge and pulls out a glass, holding it out to me. “It only took me two tries. Coconut milk and one sugar, right?”

“Yes. You remembered?”

“I’ll never forget your weird obsession with iced drinks.” I then notice the two plates of eggs on the counter. He grabs them and walks toward the dining table in the open plan space, where the light from the early afternoon sun streams through the large glass doors leading out into the yard.

I follow Patrick and sit opposite him. He pushes a plate toward me and digs into his breakfast as I take my first sip of coffee, the zing of caffeine alleviating the dull headache. He grabs a sweatshirt from the back of the chair beside him and pulls it over his head—much to my disappointment.

We settle into a comfortable silence, drinking our coffee, eating our food, and sharing small smiles across the table. The domestication of it feels bizarrely familiar. We shared a lot of meals just like this over the years and would stay over at each other’s places on occasions.

When we’re finished, I sense his hesitancy to start the conversation.

So, for once, I’m the one to do it.

“It’s not the first time it’s happened.” He seems surprised at first but then settles in his chair, so I continue. “The panic attack, that is. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve had one. I have medication for when I feel one coming on, but I didn’t have it with me last night.”

Debating my next words, my fingers tap against my thigh under the table. Patrick’s eyes catch the movement, but he doesn’t comment on it. He sits there patiently, with an encouraging look on his face.

“I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I got diagnosed in Tennessee, but, umm…I think I’d been dealing with it long before then. I had some pretty intense ups and downs with the diagnosis, but with the right support and meds, I’ve been good the last two years.” Holding his gaze, even though every cell in my body wants me to look away, I wait for the disapproving look or eye roll.

You just need to stop thinking so much.

Life can’t be that hard?

But Patrick’s gaze doesn’t waver. It doesn’t shift from the kind and thoughtful look he’s pinned me with since we sat at the table.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that, I can’t imagine. But I really appreciate you trusting me enough to share.” His hand finds mine across the table. “Do you know what triggered it?”

Now that’s a question I’m not prepared to answer today. Not because I don’t trust him, but because I’m so mentally exhausted from last night, I worry how I’ll hold myself together when telling that side of my story.So I keep my answer simple. “Being tired, frustrated at myself, and the photograph.”

“The photog—Oh.” From the knowing look in his eyes, he’s slowly piecing together what happened, and I’m grateful he doesn’t press me on it. “I’d like to know how I can help, if you ever need it. And if you ever find yourself in a position like that again, you call me, okay?”

“I’m sorry.” He shoots me a glare, reminding me I shouldn’t apologize for last night, but I also can’t imagine how finding me like that would be for him. “I’m not your concern, Pat. You have enough on your plate already.”

“You absolutely are my concern. You’re my friend, and we look out for one another.” Knife, meet heart. But it’s one step better than when I first arrived back in town.

“Wow, you really have that daddy glare nailed down.”

“Johanna,” he warns me.

I resist the urge to tell him that his tone makes him sound even more daddy.

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