Page 88 of Since We're Here
23
MADDIE
Monday, March 17
Iwake up in Patrick’s bed, in his cottage. Is this a dream? I stretch out my arms and wince at the sting on my right arm. Nope, that soreness is definitely real. And the pounding in my head reminds me how my skull met a giant boulder yesterday. I have a vision of a flock of sheep and moan into the pillow.
Sheep caused my bike accident.
Patrick stayed with me until the doctors said we could go, only ducking out of the room to make a few phone calls on brewery business. He wouldn’t give me details, but it seemed urgent.
Then he took me to his cottage. Hishome.
We walked to the front door, his arm wrapped firmly around my waist, as if I might fall over at any moment. It was dark and I didn’t even get a tour of the cottage before I collapsed on the couch, where we ate takeout and turned on a movie. I didn’t watch it at all, as my head was so sore. Instead, I fell asleep wedged in the crook of his shoulder. He put me to bed inhis room and woke me every three hours to ask questions likewhat’s your nameandwhere are you fromandwhat’s the best amber ale you’ve ever tasted and why is it Slea Head Golden Amber. Doctor’s orders, he said.
We’d slept in the same bed together many times in my flat. But this was different. He’d never brought up bringing me here. It didn’t seem to be something he would do. That was fine with me—it was his sacred space, his real home, where his nieces would come sleep, where he has pet sheep in the backyard.
His side of the bed is cold, but his voice carries from the other room as he talks to someone on the phone. I sit up slowly and wait for the pulsing in my head to subside, and when it does, I pull on my hoodie and shuffle out of the room.
“I’ll call you later,” he says as soon as I appear at the end of the hallway. He quickly pockets his phone.
I lean against the wall.
“Brewery stuff?”
He nods and presses his palms on the granite counter, his eyes locked on me, scanning for weaknesses.
“How are you feeling?” he finally says.
“Wonderful.” I wince as my head pounds in response. “Mostly wonderful. But you can go to work, you know? I can go back to the flat. I hate to mess up your week. I know things are stressful right now.”
Me making bad decisions—biking in the rain—is going to interfere with his life even more. But deep inside, I hope he says no. I hope he wants me to stay.
Patrick shakes his head and strides over to me, reaching for my hands. Warm and sweet, his thumbs slide over the back of my palms. Then he drops my hands and cups my face. My body heats at his touch.
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
“It’s a minor concussion and some scrapes.” My heart squeezes.
He shakes his head. “You were in hospital.”
“But it’s St Patrick’s Day. The pub is going to be so busy tonight.”
“It’s covered.”
“Seriously? By who?”
Patrick ignores the question and drags his thumb along my jawline, swiping at my bottom lip.
“Did I say I’m so sorry about last week?”
I nod. “You did. I’m sorry, too.”
He leans in to kiss my lips softly. “Hungry? How about leftover cinnamon rolls?”
“Sounds delicious.”
“Let me show you around first.”
