At six twenty, Derek left a tip for the waitress and vacated the table.
. . .
6:25.
Why did he keep checking the time?
Patrick stared at his phone; Derek was surely long gone by now. He tried to feel relieved but couldn’t.
It’s over now, okay? Move on.
The bedroom suddenly felt too confining, the walls closing in on him. He left the bed and grabbed his jacket and phone and went upstairs, slipping into his jacket as he entered the kitchen.
“Patrick.” His mom was at the counter, chopping vegetables. “I was just about to come check on you. How are you feeling? Brian said you were sick.”
“I’m okay,” he whispered. “I’m gonna get some fresh air, maybe go for a drive.”
“I’m fixing dinner.”
Patrick shook his head. “I’m not hungry. My stomach still feels kind of funky.” He headed for the kitchen doorway. “I’ll be back later.”
“Are you going over to Brian’s?”
“I don’t know… maybe.” He exited the kitchen and passed by the living room without looking in and left the house.
When he slid behind the wheel of the 1970 Pontiac Trans Am, Patrick didn’t know where he was going, had no destination in mind—until, fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the restaurant parking lot and realizedthishad been his destination the second he decided to go for a drive.
