Page 61 of When We Meet Again

I look to the couch to find Patrick zoned out on the TV. “I cut myself. It’s deep,” I shout to him, weakened by the sight of my own blood.

“You okay?” He stands, doesn’t move toward me, but squints to see my finger from fifteen feet away. “Just apply some pressure. If I remember correctly, I stocked the first-aid kit with some bandages.”

Yeah. A fucking year and a half ago.I swallow back a sob. Or maybe it’s a primal scream that’s trying to escape.

He sits back down. HE FUCKING SITS BACK DOWN. Tears sting my eyes before they fall.

Violence threatens to surface before my mind drifts back to cutting my finger on the plane. Roman jumped at the chance to help me.

“There is no reason you need to take care of yourself when I’m here to take care of you.”

“I’m fine. You don’t need to help me.” Sarcasm drips like venom from my lips. More blood drips onto the floor. A nice chunk has been taken out from my finger, and I’m feeling queasy.

Patrick’s laugh comes from across the room. Something must have been funny on TV because he better not be laughing at me, or the Cruella de Vil in me might slip out. As I’m hunched over on the floor, trying to prevent myself from passing out from the sight of my own blood, anger surfaces.

“I hate it here,” I say through gritted teeth, tears threatening to fall. I hate how I cry when I get mad. I swear us women cry so we don’t murder people. I’ll die on this hill.

The room goes silent. “What’d you say?”

I’m sure to enunciate a little better this time. “I said, I hate it here!” I shout a little louder out of pure frustration. He’s still sitting on the damn couch, but now his shoe-clad feet are propped up on my cute new coffee table. The one I bought right before Roman broke into my house…with a key. I guess it wasn’t really breaking in.

“You picked the apartment. I didn’t. Remember?” And then his voice switches, trying to sound like me, except it comes out in a mocking tone. “We should live between your parents and close to Roman. Family…yada yada yada.” A chuckle falls out of him, and the only noise I can make is a loudgrr-ing sound. “This couch is pretty decent, by the way.”

“I wanted to be near your family because mine are on the East Coast!” I growl; my eyes so wide, it’s starting to give me a headache. “And it’s not a couch! It’s a fucking Lovesac!”

Choking back more malicious words is my only option as I tend to my wound and try to lower my blood pressure.

Words I’m not sure I mean or not swirl in my head. I want to scream at him. I want him to know he’s hurt me. He has a second chance on life and nothing’s changed!

I wish you were still dead! I wish you never would have come back! I wish I never gave you the time of day! I wish I didn’t waste six years on you! I was stupid to love you!

Even though those words never come out, never making it past the filter, the taste of them on my tongue is bitter and cynical.

Every bone in my body, my brain, my heart is screaming to leave Patrick on my Lovesac and drive to Roman’s house. A loud crack of thunder sounds when I stand from the kitchen floor. That has to be a sign to not go, to stay put and have a conversation.

But I’m fucking going anyway.

CHAPTER 32

ROMAN

Mother Nature has decided to bless us with another downpour. This doesn’t help me out at all. For me, it’s not a blessing, but a curse. The need for my feet to pound the pavement hard goes unmatched. A man needs to run to release his frustrations, for fuck’s sake. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Patrick’s alive. That’s amazing. My brother is back—in the flesh. I’m happy. My brother is back, which means Waverly is back to being his fiancée. Or is she?

My emotions are everywhere. I’m not sure if I should laugh, cry, sleep, or stab someone. If this is the way women feel on their periods, they have my condolences.

Not sure why my parents haven’t called. I feel like this would be the phone call that would supersede any and all post-retirement events.

A flash of lightning.Great.As low as I feel in this moment, I don’t have a death wish. I throw my sweat towel on the bench close to my front door and I open the carved wood, welcoming the blast of cool, damp air in my face, but as much as I welcomed an airy smack in the face, thereshestands. Soaked. Sobbing. Broken.

“Waverly…” Instinctively, I grab her by the waist and pull her over the threshold, “What are you doing here?” Her skin is cold to the touch. She’s wearing a soaked Kelly green cropped tank and her arms curl around herself as she shakes. The fabric clings to her body and I’m jealous.

I can’t help but glance past her to her car, checking for Patrick. I feel like a complete asshole when I feel a sense of relief that he’s not there.

“I-I c-cut m-m-my f-finger,” she barely gets the words out, her shivering is so violent. I sit her down on the sofa, throw my plush Notre Dame blanket over her shoulders, and push her wet hair out of her face.

“I’m going to get something to clean up your cut, okay? Don’t move, baby.” Waverly came here because she cut her finger? I’msoconfused. Did Patrick say something to her to upset her this badly that she drove over thirty minutes in a storm to get away from him?

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