Page 90 of Patching Over

A small mew comes from the corner where her food is, and we both start laughing. “She’s got your number, Rory,” he rumbles out. “Why don’t we get to know each other better?”

“Okay, what do you want to know?” I ask. “I’m pretty much an open book, though. No deep, dark secrets, or hidden wealth.”

“Tell me about your ex. When did y’all meet?”

Talk about pulling out the big guns. I close my eyes and think back to when Patrick started coming around. “It was abouteight or so months before Grampy passed away,” I murmur. “He started coming to our church, then he somehow finagled his way into eating with us at the diner afterward.”

When Grams was still alive, the only day she didn’t cook was on Sundays. We’d always go out for lunch after church, often with several of their long-time friends, then afterward, head home and if we got hungry later, we’d make sandwiches from the roast she made the day before. As she would say, it was a day of rest and that meanteveryone. After she passed away, Grampy and I began eating in town more frequently, at least for dinner. Not because I couldn’t cook, but he didn’t want us to become too isolated out on the farm. I made our breakfast and lunch every day, and just like Grams did, I’d put a roast in the crockpot on Sunday with all the fixings so we could make sandwiches on Sunday night if we got hungry.

“Is that when y’all started dating?”

I nod, still lost in thought. “Yeah, we’d go out on Friday nights, then he’d sit with us on Sunday at church, go to lunch with us, then take me for a drive afterward.”

I can feel the derision rolling off him and barely resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Kinda sounds like that moviePleasantville,doesn’t it?” I ask, snickering. “But he was always respectful toward me when Grampy was alive, and I didn’t get a bad vibe from him at all. Then, when Grampy died, he was there helping me through everything that had to be done. I never remember asking him to move in, he was just there one day and never left.”

“When did things start to change?” he quietly inquires.

“Maybe four or five months ago? It was little things at first and I was still navigating through my grief over losing Grampy,” I reply. “Time was kind of confusing then, you know?”

He nods. “Yeah, I was still a kid when my parents died, so it probably didn’t hit me the same way, but I remember how the adults seemed to just be going through the motions sometimes.”

“That’s how I felt too. I got up, did the chores, took care of the house, handled my job on autopilot for about six or so months after he died. Then one morning I woke up and saw the date and realized he’d been gone that long, yet everything was ‘done’ as though I’d been aware every single day and I can tell you now, I wasn’t. It was then I noticed that my ex had started treating me differently. He was condescending toward me, stopped going to church, would leave the house and stay gone for hours. That kind of thing.”

“What about physically?” he asks, causing me to blush.

“That was, um, never really a big thing between us, but he started acting like he was offended whenever I was too tired to do anything, so I just gave in, and then he would get angry and say I was nothing but a cold fish.”

The sting of those words still reverberates in my head; I couldn’t help I was bone-deep exhausted from taking care of literally everything there was to do, plus add on the messes Patrick would create in the house and not clean up. I mean, I wasn’t a raving beauty or cover model by any stretch of the imagination, but I wasn’t some swamp troll, which is how I started feeling.

He snorts out a laugh before he says, “Babe, I don’t think you could be a cold fish if you tried.”

“I was tired all the time, Banshee. I was getting up around four, taking care of the chickens and other farm tasks, then coming in and cooking him breakfast, before I’d clean myself up, do my job which thankfully is done remotely, then take care of lunch, go back to work, try to keep up with the house and all the bills, make dinner. There were days I wanted to go to bed by seven,” I admit.

“What did he do while you were doing everything?”

“I honestly don’t know. He’d leave after breakfast, come back for lunch, then head out again before coming in right before dinner.”

“So, he never bothered to help you?”

It’s my turn to scoff because after the beating he gave me, the rose-colored glasses were most assuredly off. “Yeah, that would be a great big fatno.”

This whole time we’ve been talking, he’s been lightly stroking his large, calloused hand along my side in a soothing motion. But when I tell him Patrick didn’t so much as lift a finger to help me get everything done, his hand grips my hip so tightly I’m sure I’ll have a bruise.

“What a fucking asshole,” he mutters.

“Totally agree with you there. The last straw, though, was the day he hurt Sassy.”

“Tell me what happened, babe.” His voice, while still delicious sounding, is firm and unyielding, and I find myself relaying what happened that fateful day. By the time I’m finished, he has me in his arms, murmuring nonsense in my ears as I cry it all out.

I’m not a dainty, pretty crier. You know the type, tears flow down their faces yet they still look like they could get their photos taken. Nope, my eyes swell almost shut, my skin gets all blotchy, and my sinuses clog up, so I sound like Foghorn Leghorn or something. Yet this man, who’s large and intimidating, is gently wiping away my tears.

“I’m glad I had my RV,” I stammer out. “And I’ll never forgive him for nearly killing Sassy.”

I know she only ended up with a broken leg, but as hard as he had thrown her, I was worried he had hurt her far worse.

“At least you fought back,” he states.

I grin even though the room’s still pretty dark. “Yeah, I ‘used my resources’ as Grampy taught me to do. Clawed every bit of skin I could get to, kicked, and bit him too. If my gun had been handy, I would’ve shot his ass.”

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