Page 63 of Monsters, Vows, and Growls
We stared at each other. For the first time in months, I didn’t see the man I trusted with everything. I saw the boy who’d walked away ten years ago because pretending to be fine was easier than bleeding out in front of someone.
“You still do this,” I whispered. “You still act like keeping your cool makes youbetterat handling things.”
He flinched. “Ella?—”
“Well, newsflash, Patrick: I don’twantcalm. I don’t wantcool and steady.I want someone who will yell with me. Cry with me.Feelwith me.”
“I do feel,” he said, voice tight. “I’m just not great at performing it for everyone’s benefit.”
“It’s not a performance! It’s arelationship!You don’t get to opt out of the ugly parts just because they make you uncomfortable.”
He looked down then, jaw working, eyes dark. “This isn’t about them,” he finally said. “This is about you needing everything around you to bepredictable, and the second it’s not, you throw it back at me like it’s my fault.”
His words hit me. Hard. But he wasn't done. "I get it, with a mother like Lisa, I might have been the same way, needing to control everything in my life. But life isn't predictable, Ella."
We were spiraling. Fast. My throat hurt. My chest ached. His hits just kept coming, so I said the one thing I knew would hit him too, “Maybe we rushed this.”
Patrick’s head snapped up. The words hung there. Too sharp, too reckless, and I regretted them the second they hit the air.
“I didn’t mean?—”
“Yes,” he said stiffly. “You did.”
Then he stepped back. One step. Two. And turned away. I watched him walk out of the barn without looking back. My heart cracked like ice in boiling water. Because this time he wasn't just walking away from me, he was walking out on our wedding.
Carol appeared at my side seconds later, eyes wide, obviously having caught enough of it to get the gist. “Let’s get you out of here.”
She hooked her arm through mine and steered me through the last of the lingering guests, through the barn doors, down the moonlit path toward the little stone cottage that was supposed to beour wedding night suite.I let her guide me, too stunned and too hurt to do anything but move. When we reached the porch, I finally spoke. “I’m such an idiot.”
“No,” Carol said.
“I am.” My voice cracked. “I let myself believe that everything would be perfect. That I could trusthisfamily. That I could just… slot into their golden, shiny, unbreakable legacy, and it would all work out.”
Carol didn’t reply; she just let me vent. And vent I did. I kept going, words spilling out like a slow bleed. “But of course not. Because I’m the girl with the broken family. With the cold mother and the complicated past. He’s the saint. They’re all saints. Saint Henry. Saint Gabe. Even Thorne, the fluffy martyr.”
Carol snorted. “Don’t give Thorne sainthood. That bear would set a church on fire for a cinnamon roll.”
I barked a laugh, then immediately pressed my fist to my mouth to keep from sobbing.
“And Patrick,” I said bitterly, “he’ll never admit they’re flawed. He’ll never say one bad thing about his perfect dad or his misunderstood brother. I washumiliated,Carol. My mother and his father.And I was the one who ended up looking crazy for reacting.”
Carol’s jaw tightened. “You’re not crazy.”
“He walked away from me.”
“Hestormedaway from you,” she corrected. “Big difference. Walking implies dignity. That man stomped like Thorne was driving.”
Another laugh slipped out. A weak one. But it helped.
She squeezed my hand. “You’re allowed to be mad. You’re allowed to want more than endless patience and silence from someone who promised to stand beside you. Even saints screw up.”
“I just thought he’d fightforme. Notwithme.”
Carol didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was low.
“I love Patrick. You know I do. He’s one of my oldest friends. But he’s stubborn. And he’s spent his whole life being the glue for that family. He doesn’t know how to be the guy who questions them.”
I nodded, my throat raw. “And I’m not glue. I’m glass.”
