He takes a sip and then adds one more pump.
I’m about to say something snarky—because that is a disgusting amount of sugar for a twelve-ounce cup—when he tips his head back to take a long drink, revealing more of the scar I noticed earlier. A lot more. Long and thin, it stretches along his jawline, blending in with the contours of his face. His scruffmostly hides it, but it’s patchy in places, and I can see for the first time that his jaw is asymmetrical.
And when he brings his face back down, I notice his jaw is wider even than Sean’s. It’s got that Zac Efron post-accident feel, which makes me wonder what Patrick O’Shannan looked like before.
And how bad that must have hurt …
“What?” he asks, holding his coffee between us like a shield. He must know exactly why I’m looking, so I don’t deny it.
“Your scar. What happened?”
“I have no idea.”
I put my hand on my hip, pushing the rising curiosity—and sympathy—away. “Come on.”
He sets down the mug and folds his arms. “I ain’t lying. One minute, I was in a hotel room with some buddies. Next thing I knew, I was in a hospital room, hooked up to a dozen tubes, recovering from surgery after a head-on collision with a concrete lane divider.”
I try to keep the skepticism from my voice. “And you don’t rememberanything? Do you have some kind of amnesia?”
“Nope. Too much drugs and rock and roll.”
Disgust ripples beneath my skin like a chill. “You drove high?”
“Not knowingly, I didn’t.” His words have a hard edge to them, but it’s nothing compared to my outrage.
“You expect me to believe someone roofied you?”
“I don’t care what you believe, Queenie. I care about making amends for the way I hurt my family. My dad’s accident happened only a couple of months before mine. My momma left. And then I found out my brother gave up his dreams so I could do a terrible job living mine. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and getting wasted seemed as good an answer to my problems as any other.” He grabs his mug and takes another slow drink. “I chosethe wrong people over the right ones. I deserved what happened to me.”
Deserved?
The word hangs heavy between us, dampening the whirr of the engine and the sound of Manny chattering in the nearby lounge. The wheels beneath us rumble, the rhythmic hum of the road adding weight to the silence. I cross my arms, trying to figure out whether I’m more annoyed or intrigued.
“I genuinely can’t tell if you think that accident was some kind of … karmic absolution—the universe taking its pound of flesh—or if you’re taking responsibility for a bad choice.”
His laugh is as sharp as a knife. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, Queenie.”
“Patrick O’Shannan. You think you deserved to nearly die because you didn’t return home to take care of your dad?”
“Yes.”
His blunt words hit like a blow, except the blow isn’t aimed at me but at himself.
“That’s not how it works.”
“Who’s to say it ain’t?”
With his arms folded across his wide chest and his once-broken jaw clenched tight, Patrick looks as immovable as a mountain. But why isn’t he stopping me? Why isn’t he marching away, joining Manny on the couch or rolling into his open bunk and shutting me out?
He wants to talk about this.
No, heneedsto talk about this.
And I think he needs to talk with someone who can get people to open up.
I have a lot of sides to me, like anyone does. But part of living a secret life means compartmentalizing. I put away Lucy Jane, the musician, and push past the Lou Williams Patty knowsthrough our friends. Instead, I pull out Lucy Williams, attorney at law.
I take him in, studying him like I would a witness on a stand. His folded arms make him look guarded, like he’s hiding more than he’s hinting at. His expressionless face speaks volumes, too. It doesn’t indicate a lack of emotion to me anymore, but rather more emotion than he can contain.
