Chapter 15: Chapter Fourteen

Patrick knocked softly at the door at the end of the hallway, with a small, vibrant-striped acrylic tray in one hand. Like mother, like daughter.

“Come in,” he heard Anita grumble. He smiled despite the situation. The daughter of a doctor made a terrible patient.

She was slumped in bed, a washcloth pressed against her forehead. She looked pale and faded, like a plastic toy that had been left out in the sun too long.

His treacherous heart leapt anyway.

Her room had not changed much since high school. She still had the same fluffy white-and-blue printed comforter, the same cheerful display of stuffed animals in a little rope hammock in one corner, a white bookshelf overflowing with awards statuettes and crammed sideways with books.

“Hey you,” Patrick said softly. Anita grumbled and threw her arm over her face. He should make her chicken soup. Or buy chicken soup. He wouldn’t want to poison her further.

Next she put the pillow over her face. “Oh my God, Patrick, I am so sorry. I don’t know what happened. Why didn’t I check the weather before we left?”

“Were you distracted by something? Keystone in a week? Dead birds?” He placed the little tray on the white bedside table. “I brought you some crackers and ginger ale.”

She removed the pillow, looked over at the tray, and immediately replaced her shield. “You should not be so sweet to me.”

“Why would you say that?” He hesitated for only a moment, but it was just too tempting. He perched on the edge of her bed, far enough away to maintain the illusion of friendship. Almost.

She sniffled and moved the pillow halfway down her face so only her red-rimmed eyes were exposed. “I’m gross. I’m a huge mess. A—a disappointment.”

“You never disappoint me,” he said quietly. She was wearing a soft gray T-shirt that sloped across her shoulder and exposed her collarbone. If only he could press his lips there, run his fingers along the smooth surface from the arch of her shoulder to the base of her throat.

He should see about turning on the air conditioning in her room. He absolutely, positively could not feel up the woman of his dreams while she was sick.

She bit her lip. “Did my mom get you everything you need?”

“Yup.” Great. A distraction. He could do distractions. “A pair of your dad’s old sweatpants, very fashionable and figure flattering.” He gestured to the time-worn black sweats. “I find the moth holes in precarious locations particularly daring.”

There it was, that smile that increased her angelic features. I could light my whole apartment with that one smile.

She sipped at the ginger ale, her lips wrapping around the straw.

Patrick licked his lips and exhaled. Distractions were good. “I see Marina has maintained the shrine.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “I really should find something to do with those trophies. It’s a bit ridiculous.”

“You don’t want to display them at the studio?”

“And have everyone remark on my success at the Emerald Ball when I was seventeen?” She rolled her eyes. “I hope I didn’t peak then.”

“Hardly.”

She arched an eyebrow at him.

Heat crept up the back of his neck. High school Anita had been magnetic. Grown-up Anita was—mind-blowing.

“I don’t think I’ve been in your bedroom since we were in high school.” Not since—

“The night after Keystone senior year.” Her voice was hoarse, breathy.

His own caught in his chest. She couldn’t remember, could she?

“You wore that red dress with the feathers, and that little circlet of rhinestones in your hair.” He could picture her so vividly. They had danced Standard together that year, and even now, he could remember his seventeen-year-old self, one side of his body pressed against the girl he loved unabashedly, twirling her like Fred and Ginger. He had never wanted it to end.

“You remember what I wore?” She had now completely set the pillow aside, and her spine was straighter.

He licked his lips. Was he reading this wrong? Maybe it was just the desperate knowledge that he was going to be gone in a few weeks. He could not continue to hide everything from her.

“I remember a lot.”

That night, still in their makeup and spray tans, they had sat side by side on the floor, watching an episode of “Grey’s Anatomy.” He was not one to relive glory days, but there were some moments that lived in a halo.

The thrill of victory still coursed through them. They had been eating pretzels and small bowls of cherry water ice. The feel of her soft hair against his cheek, his teenaged hormones raging but knowing, knowing that this was one moment he could not screw up. There had been a look, a moment. One crystalline perfect moment.

Which of course had been interrupted by Marina. Never to be repeated.

He really needed to stop living in the past.

Anita regarded him with an odd expression. Did she remember that near kiss, too? Did she also regret that he had never made his feelings clearer earlier? So much wasted time.

Without fully thinking, he brought a finger toward her face and moved a strand of hair behind her ear. He heard her breath catch, saw her bite her lip the tiniest bit. He could not look away from that spot on her lip, the slight swelling of it, and inched slightly closer to her. One more inch, just one more inch—

“Patrick,” she said huskily. “I think I’m going to be sick again.”

She pushed past him and ran toward the bathroom. Patrick followed her and held her hair away from her face while she threw up. He found her toothbrush, gave her a glass of water to drink. He walked her back to bed, tucked the comforter around her soft but clammy body, refreshed the cool washcloth for her forehead.

Without a word, he waited until she was asleep, then silently left the room and went back to the guest room to be tortured by his dreams all night long.