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And the best way to do this is quickly.
Like a Band-Aid. I don't want to wait and let it attach.
I owe him an in person breakup.
I slip into my car and I text Patrick.
Imogen: Hey? Can I stop by on my way home? We need to talk.
ChapterThirty
PATRICK
My phone sits on my desk, mocking me, baiting me, daring me.
I stare at Imogen's text for the better part of an hour. I consider claiming exhaustion or plans or a desire to discuss things tomorrow.
But I don't.
I reply.
Patrick: I'll be here all night. You okay?
As if I don't know why she's rushing here after her family dinner.
As if I don't know every single one of her secrets.
This is a start. A step in the right direction.
I'm capable of doing the right thing. I am.
This is fucked.
This is totally and completely fucked.
A sketch doesn't clear my thoughts. I need more. A drink. But I cleaned the place out a few months ago, when Dare made an offhand comment about how I was putting him to shame. I was. I was drinking too much, hiding from too much. And she inspired me—
Imogen, as Hearts and Thorns.
She faced her pain head-on. She worked through it. She dealt with it.
I wanted to be able to do that too. I wanted to be a better version of myself. The kind of guy who does the right thing in this situation. Who doesn't stop and question himself. Or try to ease the knots in his neck with booze.
But I'm not.
There's a bottle of vodka in the back of the freezer. Here for dates. Not that I hosted many. Too much bullshit. After Deidre died, I couldn't take any more bullshit.
I fill a glass with ice, a leftover bottle of Imogen's tonic water, enough vodka to relax my thoughts.
But the drink tastes like her. The unique bitter flavor of quinine on her lips. The two of us, in that bar, drinking gin and tonics, Imogen offering me all the trust in the world.
I didn't know.
She trusted me, and I trusted her, and neither of us had any idea.
We can hold on to that.
Somehow.
