The Space Between (29 page)

I didn’t want to imagine the deal Patrick was brokering with Riley, or the changes inherent in taking our relationship public, instead focusing on the path to Patrick’s apartment. Left on Cambridge Street. Right on New Sudbury. Pass through Haymarket Square. Cross over I-93. Pass Bread+Butter, Neptune Oyster, and L’Osteria on Salem Street. Left on Prince Street. Fourth building on the right. Enter the code, up the stairs, unlock the door.

The vodka cranberry poured itself, and despite the evening chill, releasing the pressure building in my chest with some fresh air was mandatory. The hard structure of the teak chair was a welcome sensation, and I felt the initial shock of Riley’s appearance gradually subside.

In my ideal world, our relationship was the best-kept secret in town. In the world where I actually lived, I knew it would get out. The fact we made it to May without any real notice from Patrick’s siblings was worth celebrating—and examining closely, as we stopped being covert around the same time the daffodils started blooming, and their involvement in each other’s lives tended toward ridiculous levels.

I sat back, knees tucked to my chin and empty glass dangling from my fingers, expecting the panic to knock me flat on my ass. My bared breasts aside, I was experiencing a complete shortage of screeching angst and anxiety over the presumed shards of my career, and it was confusing as hell.

Halfway through my count of the pergola’s beams, the chair swiveled and Patrick’s hands gripped the arms.

“Everything’s fine, kitten. Riley’s not saying anything to anyone,” Patrick promised. “Come inside, you’re freezing.”

“Would it be so bad?” I asked, my eyes still studying the pergola.

Patrick frowned, and leaned against the edge of the teak dining table, his arms crossing over his chest. Something about those rolled up shirtsleeves knocked my train of thought off course every time. “Would what be so bad?”

Lowering my gaze to Patrick’s eyes, I hugged my arms around my legs. “You said you wanted to wake up next to me every single day.”

Patrick nodded, the muscles in his jaw pulsing. “Yeah.”

“What does that mean?” My hand swept out, gesturing between us. “What happens at the end of my apprenticeship?”

“What do you mean, what happens? You’re staying right here. We’re tearing up half of the office space in a few weeks because I’m building you your own fucking office, Andy, six and a half feet away from mine, because I can’t function without you.”

My own office.

At Walsh Associates.

“When did you plan on mentioning that? I’ve spent the past three months trying to figure out what to do when this ends. You could have spared me two dozen phone interviews and some of the most ludicrous performance tasks ever conceived.”

Patrick stared at me, irritation and sadness and confusion passing over his face. “You’ve been interviewing?”

“Yes,” I cried, my hands slapping the wooden seat. “Life beyond June hasn’t been a popular topic of conversation.”

“But you’re leading Mahoney and Castavechia, and Wellesley is far from finished,” he replied, his hands spread wide in front of him as if that evidence proved his point. “Plus the other nineteen projects you have going through June.”

“Right, and though those are late summer projects, you’ve never said ‘Andy, we’re hiring you at the end of your apprenticeship, so don’t waste your time interviewing with morons.’”

Patrick returned his hands to the armrests and leaned forward. We were a breath apart. “Andy. We’re hiring you at the end of your apprenticeship. Don’t waste your time interviewing with morons.” His lips brushed over my jaw and down my throat, then up, finally stopping at my lips. “I spent all day finalizing plans for your office with Riley—”

“Did he see my boobs?”

“Not that he’s admitting.” Patrick laughed, and dropped his head to my knees. “Andy…We need to talk about…a lot of things. Let me take you inside.”

“You said there were at least five things. You can sit,” I pointed across the table, “over there. Where you can behave.”

“Not happening,” Patrick murmured, and he dragged an ottoman in front of my chair. Sitting, he wrapped his hands around my ankles and rubbed small circles along my calves. “We start construction at the end of the month, and we’re sectioning my office to create space for you. I changed the design to put a glass wall between us, so it feels like one room and I can always see you. Deal with it. That’s one. I need you in that office because you’ve earned it. I also don’t have the patience for Mahoney or Castavechia, and you know my position on Wellesley. Don’t even think about taking another interview because you’re incredible and fucking gifted, and everyone agrees with me. And I’m beyond pissed that you were looking, and didn’t tell me. That’s two.”

My hand reached out, weaving my fingers through his hair, and he leaned into my touch. “What else?”

“How do you feel about covering Matt’s projects while he’s away?”

“That’s mostly structural?” Patrick nodded. “Hm. I may need to dig out a few textbooks, but yeah. Sure.”

“I’m not worried about it. The fact that you know which textbooks to dig out proves you can handle it.”

“That’s three.”

Patrick groaned, and turned his face to press a kiss in the center of my palm. “I’m going up to Ithaca next week. Fundraising photo op, basically. Thursday into Friday.”

“There’s no reason to be grumpy about that, Patrick. There’s nothing better than Cornell in May. I’d love to go back for a few days.”

His eyes brightened. “Come with me.”

My thoughts darted to Charlotte and some of the prevailing campus gossip. “I’m supervising demo on those rickety little windows in the attic at Wellesley next Thursday, and considering how it went with the windows in the sunroom, I’m expecting problems.”

“Then I’m sticking with grumpy.”

My hand moved to his neck, and I waited for the next item on his list. His wry humor was gone, and in its place, cords of tension tightened beneath my fingers.

“Shannon knows. We had this huge argument today. She called me on a lot of superbly accurate shit, and…I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, she had no idea, and she’ll take it to the grave.”

I waited for the wave of panic, but it never crashed. “Lauren knows.”

“Lauren, what—
what
?” Patrick’s eyes burned with uncertainty when he gripped my wrist, stilling my fingers. “Since…how?”

I gulped loudly and concentrated on the thin, jagged scar on my right knee earned from a rusty nail on a jobsite three years ago. Focusing on the fine white line was easier than analyzing the frustration in Patrick’s voice. “Since she figured it out a couple of months ago. She’s very perceptive.”

“So Matt knows?”

Shrugging, I met Patrick’s eyes. “She hasn’t told him, no.”

“So we’re going to all this trouble to keep Matt and Sam in the dark? Two people who adore you and would give approximately zero fucks about what we do?”

“That’s one very linear way of thinking about it.”

Patrick released my wrist and his hands fell to his lap. His narrowed eyes scanned the neighboring rooftops for several minutes before he spoke again.

“I want this. You. Us. I want the language that your eyes speak and all of your quirks, even if they drive me fucking crazy. I want you to live here with me, I want you working next to me, and I want everyone to know. I want us to be like we are now, but…I don’t want any more secrets.”

I stared at him in the bright city darkness, blinking while his words caught fire in my belly. “I want that, too.”

A dazzling, childlike smile filled Patrick’s face, and he laced our fingers together. “Good. Now if you don’t mind, I’m taking your sweet ass to bed because you need to stop thinking and have some rough sex. Let me just get those paper clips out of your hair first.”

*

“Oh, Andy,” Lauren
whispered, tucking the card into the envelope. She stood, stretching out her arms in my direction, and I squeezed her shoulders. “Thank you. This is perfect.”

“Tell me, tell me!” Shannon demanded, her neck craning to see between us.

“It is a book all about the Swiss Lakes District,” she replied, brushing tears from the corners of her eyes. “For the honeymoon. And she included ideas for boat tours and hikes, and restaurants and everything, it’s wonderful. I can’t wait, and Matthew is going to love it.”

Returning to my seat, I adjusted the waist on my navy blue skirt and fiddled with my hot pink bib necklace—I couldn’t get away without some brightness at a bridal shower—while Shannon gazed at me with a fond smile. It was her new thing, and I smiled in response before turning my attention to Lauren’s next gift.

Shannon created reasons to swing by Patrick’s office or casually chat while I refilled my water bottle in the kitchen. Her pretenses were always sensible: she was thinking about placing a furniture order for the new offices, and wanted my thoughts, or she heard about a new farmers’ market by Northeastern University for my Saturday ritual. Implicit in all of it was her closely guarded approval mixed with a fierce warning that she was keeping an eye on me.

I begged Patrick for two more weeks of semi-secrecy but I was more than ready to drop the act with Shannon. I didn’t dare tell him that. I wasn’t about to see him bust a capillary over my shifting feelings. Two more weeks brought us up to the day Riley and I swapped places so I could get up to speed on Matt’s projects and engineering processes. It seemed like a clean transition point, and while I wasn’t looking forward to relocating to the second floor, I was ready to go public.

Lauren plowed through a dense pile of pristine white gift wrapping to uncover more wine glasses, serving trays, and silver picture frames than any couple could ever put to good use, but she graciously complimented each gift and thanked the giver. Once the gifts were opened and cake served, the guests trickled out of Shannon’s apartment. It wasn’t long until we were alone.

Together with Shannon and Lauren, we finished the dregs of eight champagne bottles. Shannon regaled us with another round of tragic dating stories: the guy who made his own deodorant, the guy who didn’t mention he was engaged until they were naked, the guy who kept an awkwardly large collection of stuffed animals, the guy who wanted to be a lactation consultant because he was really into boobs. For a beautiful, successful woman, Shannon tapped into a special crop of Boston’s most eligible bachelors.

Later, I found myself shuttling stray champagne flutes into the kitchen when Lauren wrapped her arm around my waist. “Hear from your boy tonight?” she asked, her finger swiping a dollop of frosting off the cake.

“I assume he’s the one blowing up my phone, considering it hasn’t stopped vibrating, but I haven’t looked. Yours?”

She sucked another dollop of frosting from her finger and nodded. “Yep. It’s amusing that he’s spending his bachelor party texting. I’m thinking about wandering down Berkeley Street soon. I wouldn’t be surprised to find him chatting up an oak tree or passed out in Park Plaza.”

“I thought Nick was supervising,” I whispered as Shannon approached.

Lauren shrugged. “He was on call, and something came up.”

As much as I enjoyed Patrick’s drunken texts, I was more interested in getting him home.

“That’s the last time I order a cake this size for twenty skinny bitches,” Shannon muttered. “We probably could have shared a single cupcake.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lauren said. “This cake and I have plans. There’s nothing better than cold cake for breakfast.”

“It’s all yours.”

“Thanks for such a wonderful night, Shan.” Lauren folded Shannon into a tight hug. “You’re the best non-maid of honor this girl could ask for.”

“You’re the best sister-in-law,” Shannon retorted, her eyes meeting mine over Lauren’s shoulder. “You make my brother happy, and you take care of him, and that’s more than I could ever ask for.”

I held her loaded gaze for a beat before excusing myself to the bathroom—
that
bathroom—to apply a fresh coat of lip balm and check my phone. Three texts from Jess inviting me out for drinks and dancing—declined with the promise of catching up later in the week. One from Charlotte showing off a cute new sundress. Twelve from Patrick.

19:47 Patrick:
what time is your thing finished?

19:59 Patrick:
tell me when you’re done and i’ll leave

20:22 Patrick:
three good reasons why you’d hate this restaurant

20:24 Patrick:
1. waiters in white jackets.

20:25 Patrick:
2. there’s pot roast on the menu. it claims to be epic but…

20:26 Patrick:
3. all kinds of raw bar up in here

20:41 Patrick:
but you’d be all about the beet salad

21:53 Patrick:
I actually think you’d like a few things on this dessert menu

22:09 Patrick:
is there a cake at this party?

22:34 Patrick:
how long has it been since i touched you? it feels like 400 years and i hate that