Page 97 of Those Two Words

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else than right here. I couldn’t have done it without Johanna and Booth by my side,” Patrick says, eyes flitting between his brother and me.

“G-man, I’m sorry, but please put us out of our misery,” Booth pleads, scrubbing his hands down his face and voicing what we’re all thinking.

My dad lets out a big exhale and turns to Claire, both sharing an indiscernible look. When he faces forward again, my stomach drops, because his expression is riddled with regret.Despite the warmth of Patrick’s hand, I feel cold and hollow before my dad’s next words even leave his mouth.

“It wasn’t enough, guys, I’m so sorry.” The disappointment in my dad’s tone is palpable.

Patrick’s hand slackens in mine, and I tighten my grip, not wanting to lose the contact, but it slips away. A fissure opens between us at the loss of his touch, and all I can do is stare at my empty hand.

“Do we have more time? Surely there’s more we can do. The summer is almost here, tourists are coming back.” Patrick is trying his best to sound calm and collected, but the pitch in his tone betrays him.

“We simply don’t have the time or money,” Claire says. “We’ve put this off long enough. We’ve been funneling in our own savings to keep this place afloat and ensure everyone gets paid. The revenue’s been slowly increasing, but it isn’t enough for restaurant to be viable in the long run.”

“So that’s it?” Patrick bites out. The hurt in his voice twists at my heart, but I don’t know what to say. He runs his hands through his hair in frustration and lets out a sigh of disbelief. I debate reaching out to comfort him but think better of it, having already been rejected.

He’s just hurting, I try to assure myself.

“We don’t want you to think we haven’t seen how hard you’ve worked, and how much this place means to you all,” my dad says. “But we must be realistic here. If we don’t do something soon, I worry it’ll be too late. I don’t want to let people go before they have time to find another job. At least now we can?—”

“I’m sorry, I can’t listen to this,” Patrick says, and he stands abruptly from the sofa. Booth—who, like me, has remained silent since the news broke out—shares a concerned look with me. I reach toward Patrick, no longer able to sit back and watch his struggle, but retreat when I see the tremble in my hand. I squeeze my palms together, hoping to hold off the incessant need to tap my fingers against my thigh.

“It’s as if no one cares about this place. How are you all so calm?” He looks at us, though I’m not sure he’s even taking us in from the look of betrayal on his face. “How do you know that whoever you sell this place to won’t rip it apart and destroy everything you’ve built? Everything my dad built.”

Claire gets up and walks to where Patrick stands, arms raised at his sides in question.

She takes a breath before she speaks. “We’re hoping to avoid that, Patrick. The potential buyer we’ve?—”

“Wait. There’s already a buyer? Since when?” His hands are shaking now, but not from anger. Pain radiates off him in waves, and in this small office, there’s nowhere for it to escape. From the uneasy feeling snaking its way through me, it’s as if I’m acting as a conduit for all his emotions.

“We were approached by an anonymous buyer a few weeks ago; we didn’t openly seek them out,” Claire says, her voice firm. “It’s not common knowledge, let alone listed anywhere, so we don’t know how they knew to reach out.”

“So why not tell us then? Why make us waste our time and force us to work with each other? What was the point in the last few weeks if you already knew?”

I glance down to check my heart hasn’t fallen out of my chest. When I see I’m still intact, the gravity of what he’s saying settles. Waste of our time. Force us to work. What was the point?

He doesn’t know the impact of his words. I remind myself of that, but they cut me deeply anyway. There’s no way he thinks the last few weeks are a waste, right? Because outside of the restaurant, we’ve seen each other almost every day. And those days don’t feel wasted.

The tingling in my fingers works its way up my arms, and a familiar tightness pulls at my chest. I straighten my spine, hoping it eases the discomfort, but it draws four sets of eyes in my direction instead.

It’s Patrick’s gaze that rocks me the most. His eyes widen as he takes in my shaking hands and quick breaths. All the fight leaves him as his shoulders sag, realization dawning on him.

He moves toward me, apology written all over his face, but my skin feels too tight. I don’t know if it’s the news about the restaurant or seeing how torn up Patrick is, but the bubbling panic propels me from the sofa.

It’s nothing too severe, but I know I need my medication.

Which is in my car.

Internally cursing at almost making the same mistake twice, I scurry toward the door. “I’m sorry, I really am, but I need a moment,” I mutter, not daring to look at anyone. Not even Patrick.

Inches from the door, a gentle touch on my hip halts my movements. I almost don’t make out his murmured words they’re so quiet. “Love. Don’t run, not now. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

“I’m not running, Patrick. I really do need a minute. I promise, I’ll be back.”

Without a backward glance, too scared to see the hurt on his face, I leave.

thirty-nine

PATRICK

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