Chapter 38 Patrick
Patrick
I stayed with Cade and Jordan longer than I originally planned. What was supposed to be a quick holiday visit stretched into extra days I hadn’t intended to take. I kept telling myself I’d leave in the morning. Then the afternoon. Then the next day.
I just… didn’t want to go home yet.
I enjoyed the time with them more than I expected to. There’s something comforting about mundane routines — coffee in the mornings, Cade complaining about work, Jordan sprawled across the floor with a game controller in his hand, movie nights where no one can agree on what to watch. Takeout containers piling up on the counter.
It was ordinary. I lost myself in it — in the simple, steady rhythm of spending time with people I love.
They helped keep thoughts of Lottie at bay. Not gone — never gone — but quieter. I thought about her in passing. When I smelled a scent that reminded me of her. When I caught myself staring at nothing, and Cade snapped his fingers in front of my face.
But it wasn’t the near-constant, bone-deep obsession it had been before I came here.
For a little while, I could breathe without her name sitting heavy in my chest.
Now it’s the end of Christmas break. We’re in a new year.
Cade, Jordan, and I rang it in together — cheap party hats, plastic horns that were way too loud, Jordan insisting on a countdown even though the TV stream lagged by a few seconds. At midnight, we blew horns and threw confetti in the air like we were in some low-budget celebration commercial.
That confetti was a bitch to clean up.
It got everywhere — in the couch cushions, stuck to the bottom of Jordan’s socks, and somehow inside my jacket pocket. Cade kept muttering about “never again” as we vacuumed glitter out of the carpet at one in the morning.
But we were together, laughing. And for those few minutes — with the noise and the countdown and the ridiculousness of it all — that was all that mattered.
Until this morning. A few days into this new year.
I’m standing in the driveway, packing my car to leave. Duffel bag in the trunk—suitcase wedged in beside it. Cold air is biting at my face.
And then it hits me.
Anticipation.
Sudden. Violent. So strong it nearly knocks the breath out of my lungs.
I have to grip the edge of the trunk for a second because the rush is dizzying.
I can’t wait to see her again.
That realization slams into me with humiliating force.
No matter how many times I told myself over break that this distance was good. Necessary. Healthy. No matter how many times I reminded myself that I shouldn’t be this excited — shouldn’t feel like I’m about to see something I’ve been starving for — it doesn’t lessen.
It doesn’t abate. If anything, it intensifies.
I want to see her as much as I need to take my next breath to stay alive. It’s not poetic exaggeration. It feels physical. Essential.
She’s under my skin. In my blood. In the marrow of my bones.
Every memory of her — the way she looks at me, the defiance in her voice, the heat that coils low in her gaze — it all comes rushing back now that I know I’m going back.
Back to her.
And that’s a problem.
Because of the rules.
They settle over me like a wet blanket the second the thrill spikes too high. Heavy, suffocating, and cold. They cover us both, pressing down, making it hard to breathe.
I’m her professor. She’s my student.
Lines exist for a reason.
No matter how much my instincts argue otherwise.
I close the trunk and stand there for a moment in the winter air, chest tight, pulse racing.
It's a new year.
And I already know exactly what I want.
The one thing I can’t have.
The ride back home is over before I really register most of it. Highway. Exit. Familiar streets on autopilot.
Pretty soon, I’m turning onto my block, tires crunching over old, frozen snow, and pulling up in front of my house. The porch light flicks on automatically, bathing the front steps in a dull yellow glow.
I kill the engine.
Silence drops heavy and immediate.
For a moment, I just sit there with my hands resting on the steering wheel. The heater ticking softly as it cools is the only sound in the car.
I stare at the front door and let my mind run through the week ahead.
I make a checklist:
Assign end-of-semester project partners.
Finalize lecture slides.
Don’t think about Lottie.
Put together interim progress reports.
Meet with the department chair.
See Lottie and pretend I’m not affected.
Don’t think about Lottie.
That one’s on the list twice intentionally.
Because I know how hard that’s going to be.
I think about her even when she’s not around. I can’t help it. It slips in between tasks, between breaths. It’s there when I’m making coffee, when I’m grading papers, and when I’m trying to fall asleep.
So it’s inevitable she’ll be on my mind when she is around.
Her scent. Her voice. The way her eyes hold mine a second too long.
I exhale slowly and scrub a hand down my face.
All of that should be irrelevant because it’s dangerous.
I shake my head as if that might physically dislodge her from my thoughts and pop the trunk.
Cold air rushes in, sharp enough to sting my lungs as I step out of the car and circle to the back, lifting my suitcase out first. The handle bites into my palm as I set it down. Then I grab the duffel.
It’s heavier than it should be.
Not because of clothes — there aren’t any in there.
Cade packed it full of leftovers before I left. Containers stacked neatly, even labeled. He thinks I don’t eat unless he’s the one cooking. He’s not entirely wrong.
I close the trunk with a solid thud and drag my suitcase up the short walkway, the wheels rattling over uneven concrete. The house looks exactly the same as when I left.
The windows are dark as it sits still, as if it's waiting for me.
I unlock the front door and step inside. The quiet is immediate and complete. No television in the background. No Jordan arguing with a video game. No Cade clanking dishes in the kitchen.
Just the faint, hollow sounds of the house acknowledging my presence — wood settling, pipes shifting, the soft echo of the door closing behind me.
It’s colder inside than I expected. Not freezing, but close enough that my breath almost feels visible. The air has that stale, unused quality to it.
Of course it does.
The heat’s been off for a couple of weeks.
I set my bags down just inside the entryway and walk straight to the thermostat, fingers brushing the wall as I go. The display lights up when I tap it. It’s ten degrees outside, no wonder.
I turn the heat on and listen as the system kicks to life — a low hum, followed by the distant rush of air moving through vents that haven’t carried warmth in days.
It’ll take a while for the house to feel warm again.
I stand there for a moment longer, arms folded, staring at nothing.
I’m back home. It’s time to get back to routine and discipline.
But tomorrow—tomorrow I’ll see her.