Page 15 of Monsters, Vows, and Growls
Apparently, the answer was:immeasurably, ifseeing Patrick McCloudforthree days in a row.
Three days of working beside him. Of breathing the same air, hearing his voice. Watching those big, calloused hands of his move through blueprints and beams like they were sacred texts. Three days of trying not to drown in the scent of pine and earth and memories.
And God, he looked good. Better than good. He looked like a man grown from everything I used to dream about. Broad-shouldered, flannel-wrapped, jeans worn in all the right places. His jaw carried the soft scruff of someone too busy to shave. His eyes—those whiskey eyes I’d once adored—had new shadowsbeneath them, giving the impression he’d seen hard things and survived them.
Just my type.
Still my type.
Which was a problem.
Because every time I looked at him, I remembered. Not just the pain, but the love. The kind that gutted you when it ended because it had been real. True. Untouched by cynicism or adulthood. The kind that made you believe you were the luckiest girl in the world and, when lost, left you wondering if you’d ever feel whole again.
Two nights ago, I dreamed we were married.
We had a house with cedar siding and a wraparound porch. Two kids. A dog that liked to sleep on Patrick’s feet while he read bedtime stories in that warm, low voice of his. It was so vivid, I could still hear the sound of our daughter laughing as she ran through the kitchen barefoot.
I woke up to a soaking wet pillow and a pain in my chest that felt like something sharp had been left behind and twisted. I hated that I dreamed about a life with him. Hated that I wanted it. Hated that part of me still believed it was possible.
I heard him return and glanced up. After three days of being in his company, I let my guard down around him somewhat. We'd managed to be civil around each other, which was why I was utterly unprepared for what happened next.
I watched him rub the back of my neck, so like Pats when we were younger. “Do you want to go to dinner with me?”
My brush froze mid-stroke. At first, I thought I had misheard him, but then I realized I hadn't. This was just so like him. No buildup. No apology. No explanation. Just a straight-up question that pulled the rug out from underneath my feet.
As if we were normal people working together on a project with no history. Or as if he hadn’t ghosted me for a decade. Hadn’t ripped my heart out and buried it somewhere under a hospital parking lot. Said heart seized, and for a second, I couldn’t breathe.
Say yes, my heart whispered.
Run, my mind screamed.
I looked at him and wanted to cry. Not because I didn’t want it, but because I wanted it so much that it was choking me. Why would he do this? Now?
He was looking at me, waiting for an answer, “I—” I managed to get out, my mind was feverishly working, fighting with my heart, but then, thankfully, common sense prevailed, and I demanded, “Why would you ask me that?”
He looked confused, so much like my Pats when he was lost for words. So much it hurt.
“Because I want to take you out.”
“You want to take me out?” I echoed, my pain erupting from inside. “After all this time? Aftereverything?”
He looked uncomfortable, “Ella, I know it’s been a long time, and I know?—”
Oh no, I wasn't going to let him get away that easily. “Ten years, Patrick. Ten years of nothing. And now you want totake me outlike we’re picking up where we left off?”
“I’m not trying to pick up where we left off,” he said quickly. “I just… I want a chance to get to know you again.”
Oof, that felt like a punch to the gut. I wanted to believe him. Badly. But I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to keep my sanity intact. I had barely survived teenage Patrick McCloud leaving me; I knew I wouldn't be able to do that again with the grown version. He already shattered my heart once. What pieces I managed to glue back together were too fragile to withstand another emotional tornado.
“I need to get back to work,” I said, unable to look at him any longer. He stood there like a beaten puppy dog, pulling at all my heartstrings to comfort him. Comfort him! For crying out loud, I was the injured party here. Not him.
I listened to his retreating footsteps. Each step felt like someone carving into me. The door opening made the biggest slash, or so I thought, until I heard it click back in place. That was the final blow, like a hot iron being poked into my soul. My knees buckled, but I held on to a column. Instead of slumping down to the ground, Ionlyfolded over myself. My eyes burned from pain and anger. Anger at him for being able to still hurt me, and anger at myself for allowing it. Why couldn't I just cut him out of me?
A sob shook my body. I tried to hold it in, but it only made it worse. So much worse. I tried to take a breath, but I couldn't force the air past my choked throat. I was so absorbed in my misery and panic, I didn't hear the door opening again. Suddenly, a pair of strong arms were around me, holding me.
"Ells, what's wrong?" his voice sounded so concerned and so far away. My knees buckled for real this time, but I didn't fall; he held me and lowered us both to the ground, pulling me against his hard, massive chest. My fingers latched onto his shirt, balled it. I wanted to pummel him, but instead, a second sob escaped me, then another.
"I'm sorry, Ells. So, so sorry," he said, his mouth close to my ear while he pressed me against his chest, and I let him. All the pain and heartache came flooding back, and I sobbed like I had ten years ago. But this time, he was holding me, like I’d needed him to ten years ago. He didn't say another word. He just held me, let me cry myself out.
