Before I can answer, a familiar voice comes from the front of the restaurant. It’s eerily recognizable, but I can't quite place it until I look past Patrick and see theunimaginable.
My eyes get wide, and I try to plan my escape. A diversion might also work, but when we lock eyes, I know there is no getting out of it.
“Oh my god, no,” I whisper under my breath.
Patrick gives me a concerned stare, and I put my head down on the table, awaiting the inevitable, because he has already seen me.
“Eleanor? Eleanor, is that you?” Patrick turns to look at the middle-aged man approaching us, and I can see him putting the pieces together. We don’t look exactly alike, but we have the same eyes and face shape. When I was a baby, everyone joked that we were twins, but I grew out of that when I was about ten.
Picking my head off the table, I take a deep breath.
“Hi, Dad! What are you doing here?” I try to be cheerful, but it’s difficult. Patrick stiffens in his seat—his relaxed demeanor changing instantly when he hears the word dad.
“Well, your mom was craving tacos, so I told her I would go pick some up. I’ve lived with her long enough to know that there is not much I can do when she has a craving.” He lets out a loud cackle. By the time he manages to calm himself down, he just stands in front of us, waiting for an introduction.
My nerves get the better of me as I look back and forth between my dad and Patrick, trying to find a way to put together a coherent sentence.
“Dad, this is Patrick.” I think back to our conversation at Patricks’s house where we agreed to keep our fake dating a secret between us—and Nick. Even though I should probably just say he is my friend, I decide to go with it. He would assume anyways, so why not just say it. “My boyfriend.”
The look on my father and Patrick’s faces are almost identical: shock.
“Oh wow, she must really like you.” He winks, and Patrick responds with a nervous grin.“I can’t even remember the last time she called someone her boyfriend.”
My body cringes at the shared information. I don’t need my dad to expose the fact that it’s been a while since I’ve been in a relationship. It’s not like it wasn't for a good reason, and he should know that. I’ve worked very hard over the last few years to get comfortable in my own skin, but I haven’t been able to commit myself to someone like that again. It always feels like there’s too much to lose.
Patrick clears his throat, making me realize that I had gone quiet. I don’t know if it’s been a couple seconds or a couple minutes, but they are both watching me.
My dad hesitates for a moment, but when I refuse to break the awkward silence, he gets the hint. “Well, I’ll make myself scarce. You two have a fun time. I’ll tell Mom I ran into you. Love you.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
With his take-out bag in hand, he walks out the door, and I feel more relieved than I probably should. My dad has always had a good read on people, which is probably why he makes my mom so happy. He can anticipate and prepare for anything, a skill that I desperately wish I inherited from him.
He has such an easy time making my mom happy, and it’s upsetting how I seem to do the opposite. My mom has had a lot of expectations for me, some I have reached and others I have not even come close to. She hated that I took creative writing inhigh school instead of the computer science elective. She hated the idea of me becoming an English major since it’s not a very lucrative degree. She hated that I wanted to move out when I started pursuing my master’s degree, but I couldn’t be under their roof any longer. I needed my own freedom even if it meant I had to be more frugal with everything.
Her expectations are heavy, and I’ve cracked under the pressure before. I found that I need to leave to put myself back together; unfortunately, every time I see her, it happens all over again.
Thankfully, it was only my dad picking up food, or I’m sure Patrick would’ve gotten a show. I can’t even imagine how she’s going to react when my dad tells her about this though. Her insistence that I need to find someone to help me get over my ex is overwhelming, but it’s not that easy. She doesn’t understand the severity of what happened because the one time I tried to open up she gave him the benefit of the doubt. That’s how it always goes.
‘Eleanor is just overreacting, and she needs to give him another chance.’ ‘He’s a good boy with a good job. Maybe you’re misunderstanding the situation.’ ‘Everybody makes mistakes. You should find it in your heart to forgive him and ask him to take you back.’
By the time I finally look up, Patrick looks confused. His tone is soft when he asks me if I’m okay.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did that. Maybe, I’m actually losing it.” I stare into my lap looking for an answer that’s not there. “I probably shouldn’t have called you my boyfriend. I guess I just didn’t want him to question anything, and we saidthat we were keeping it a secret from everyone. I’m honestly feeling kind of embarrassed. I haven’t dated someone in over four years, and my parents think I’m lonely. But, I’m not. I’m perfectly content on my own—”
My words get stuck in my throat.
There’s no reason why I should be freaking out, but I can’t help myself. It’s like a defense mechanism that I can’t turn off. My body moves before I can think about it, trying to get out of the booth, but Patrick reaches out to hold my hands. I’m stunned into stillness by the warmth radiating from his touch. “Ellie, take a breath. It’s fine. You don’t need to explain yourself to me.”
With his thumbs, he rubs little circles across my knuckles, and focusing on the movements helps me calm down. He is surprisingly good at comforting me, and I just let him. If it was anyone else, I would feel like a burden, but for some reason, not with him.
It’s best if I keep the information about my mother to myself for now. We’re trying to get to know each other, but I don’t want to drop all of my trauma on him. At least, not all at once.
When he notices that my breathing is back to normal, he smiles at me, and I can tell something is up. I brace myself for whatever he is about to say.
“So, Eleanor, huh? That’s cute.”
“Don’t. Please,” I say softly. Disappearing completely would be preferable to having Patrick call me by my full name. I have not been Eleanor to anyone except for my parents since I was seven, and the baggage that is connected to it makes me feeluneasy. It is the name of someone who is not good enough. It is the name of someone who constantly lets down their parents. It is the name of someone who just needs to try a little harder.
