Patrick is here.

As soon as I know he can’t see me, I dash across the living room, bare feet slapping against shiny, hardwood floors that stretch in front of me in every direction. Careening around the corner, I slide down the hall and into one of the brand-new guest suites.

Guest suites. There are four of them.

The apartment is gorgeous. If not for the fact that I can look out the window and recognize the view, I wouldn’t believe it’s the same place I left. It’s easier four times bigger than it was before. The living room no longer a small, functional space, it seems to sprawl for days. It’s huge but feels cozy, leather couches and chairs scattered throughout the room in conversational groupings that flow seamlessly into a gourmet kitchen. High-end cabinets. Granite countertops. Gleaming appliances. All surrounded by a curved kitchen island, dotted with leather-backed barstools. I can see my Tiki bottle opener stuck to the front of the brand-new fridge.

Mouth gaping, I wondered around in a daze. Opening doors on spacious bedrooms with walk-in closets and stunning views. Luxury bathrooms with steam showers and heated floors.

But the walls are bare, and it smells flat. New. Empty.

It doesn’t smell like him. Us.

Venturing back the way I came, I see a door I missed, tucked into the far corner of the apartment. It seems out of place, disruptive to the open flow of the space.

It’s locked, and it bothers me that I can’t get inside.

Now, rifling through my suitcase, I find a bra. Ditching my shirt, I put it on, topping it with a random T-shirt and flannel. Grabbing a pair of winter socks, I pull them on before stuffing my feet into a pair of boots. Stopping in the bathroom long enough to run a brush through my hair and swipe on some mascara, I snag my bag and keys.

And then I stop. Take a deep breath. Force myself to close my eyes. Count to ten.

Patrick is here.

Shaking out my hands because they’re tingling, I take another deep breath, briefly wondering if I’m too young to have a heart attack.

You’re not having a heart attack. Just breathe.

Patrick is here.

Don’t fuck this up.

I want to run. Launch myself down the stairs and into his arms. I want his hands on me. His mouth. I want him.

I love him.

I want to tell him that. I wanted it to be the first thing I said to him when I saw him again.

I love you.

This is real.

We’re enough.

I’m enough.

But I don’t because even though he said he's waiting for me to figure it out, it’s been eleven months and we haven’t so much as talked and even though I finally know I’m enough, I’m no longer sure I’m what he wants.

We were friends before, and he told me that wouldn’t change, no matter what. Maybe that’s what this is. Friendship.

When I stop at the head of the stairs, I find Patrick where I left him, slouching against the door, hands dug into the pockets of worn jeans, button-down open at the collar, jacket unzipped in defiance of the bitter cold outside.

He senses me standing over him and looks up at me and smiles, watches as I pull my coat off the set of hooks in the entryway.

He opens the door for me and places his hand on the small of my back as he guides me through the office and down the hall, lifting it long enough to help me into my coat and wave goodbye to his uncle.

On the sidewalk, Patrick tips his head down the block. “Walk?”

“That would be nice,” I say, butterflies back in full force.

We walk side-by-side, hands jammed into the pockets of our coats, noses red from the cold.

“When are your folks flying in?’ he says, his tone friendly and conversational.

“The day before the show,” I tell him. “It’s not for another month, and my Dad would jump out a window if he had to stay in a hotel that long.”

“They’re more than welcome to stay at the apartment,” he tells me, flashing me a quick, dimpled smile. There’s nothing cocky or snide about it. “There’s plenty of room.”

“No kidding,” I tell him, happy to have something to talk about. “It’s like Hermione’s bag.”

“What?” he says around a laugh that’s open and genuine. Hearing it, I realize how badly I’ve missed it.

“You know,” I say, blushing like an idiot. “Hermione’s bag—it looks tiny on the outside, but it’s super huge and—” I stop explaining because he’s still laughing. “you really don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head. The perfect gentleman, he stops in front of Benny’s long enough to open the door for me before placing his hand on the small of my back to usher me inside the crowded restaurant. “I know what you’re talking about, I just never took you for a Harry Potter fan.”

Remembering what he said to me that rainy Monday morning, I looked up at him and smile, heart, fluttering in my chest when he reaches out to unbutton my jacket. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Mr. Gilroy—you’d be surprised.”

He gives me a lopsided grin, one that makes me want to lick his dimples. One that tells me he’s remembering the same thing I am. “Is that a fact, Ms. Faraday?” he says softly, slipping the last button free, his hands linger on the lapels of my coat like he’s having a hard time letting go.

“It is,” I say, jostled closer to him by the crush of people that crowd the waiting area. Suddenly we’re standing chest to chest, and I can’t breathe.

“Well,” he says softly, gaze dipping low, brushing over my mouth. “I do love a surprise.”

Holy shit. He’s going to kiss me. I feel myself sway into him, my chin tipping to meet his mouth, my heart hammers in my chest...

“Veronica!” Nora’s voice cuts through my blissed-out brain buzz. “Where the hell have you been?”

I can feel my eyes widen slightly. I must look terrified because Patrick looks like he’s trying to smother a laugh. “I told her you were sleeping,” Patrick says, the corner of his mouth quirking again, his hands sliding down the front of my coat before letting me go.

“Sleeping?” I say, tossing a look over my shoulder. Nora is standing next to her throne, tapping the toe of her orthopedic shoe. I look back at Patrick. “You told her I was sleeping? For eleven months?”

His mouth softens into something too sad to be considered a smile. “My best friend left me,” he says to me. “It was hard to talk about.”

I open my mouth, not sure what’s going to come out.

“Veronica, get your ass over here,” Nora cuts me off. Saves me from saying or doing something stupid.

“You better go talk to her, or she’s going to have them put mushrooms in your omelet.” Patrick smiles, and he’s my friend again like the last thirty-seconds never happened.