CHAPTER TWENTY
The applause continues as the police and paramedics roll Mason out of the building, handcuffed to a gurney. Several people take pictures capturing the moment for posterity.
Weismann follows, minus the handcuffs, gurney, and police, though also escorted by paramedics. He smiles and waves and seems encouraged by all the hand clapping. He either has a concussion or doesn’t quite understand the tradition.
A few of the officers stick around to get statements and ask questions. There’s a mini-manhunt for the person who threw Mason’s phone back at him and questions as to whether his bleeding skull was caused by the phone or the fall over his desk. Despite the massive crowd, no one seems to have seen a thing.
Rachel and I make our way back to her office and I plop down in a chair. “I’m officially exhausted,” I say.
Rachel begins unpacking her box as I stare out of her window.
“You’re not quitting anymore?”
“Are you kidding? I could get a new job, but that would mean someone else would be forced to admire this view,” she says.
I’m too tired to laugh.
She pulls out her phone.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Sending Kevin the pictures.”
I get a bolt of energy and search my pockets for my phone. I’m not interested in circulating any pics but can’t wait to tell Patrick what’s happened. I realize I neither have my phone nor know the status of any of the job offers I’ve received.
I’m too exhausted to panic, but rather calmly make my way back to what used to be Mason’s office.
The room looks to have been the scene of a crime. There are chairs strewn about, dents in the walls, and everything that once sat on the desk has found its way to the floor.
I look through the rubble and find my phone on the ground. I see that I have a couple of messages from Patrick and smile, but my heart drops as I read them.
The messages are actually one long message that has been broken up. It’s a Dear John break-up text. I don’t even finish reading the message but just call him. He doesn’t answer so I hang up and try him at the shop.
The phone rings and rings, which is odd. I try again and then a third time. This time there’s an answer.
“Out of business,” Cassie says then hangs up.
Panicked, I try again.
“Out of business,” she says again, but I call out her name before she hangs up. “Danny? Oh. Hey,” she says, her voice lacking any enthusiasm.
“What’s up Cass? Is Patrick there? What’s going on?”
“Yeah, no,” she says, “he’s not here.”
“Where is he?” I ask. “Is everything okay?”
“Not really,” she says. “I don’t know where he is. We’re closing up shop.”
“It’s not even noon,” I say.
“Yeah, I mean for good,” she says. She sniffles. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” I ask.
She sniffles again. “Look, I gotta go,” she says.
“Don’t go anywhere,” I say. “I’m coming there now.”
I run back to Rachel’s office. “I’m going to the shop,” I tell her.
“Now?”
“Yeah, something’s up.”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m going to find out.”
“Patrick didn’t say anything?”
“I can’t get ahold of him. He sent me a long Dear John text.”
“What did it say?”
“I don’t know,” I say, getting annoyed. “I’ll read it on the way. But I gotta go now.”
Her brow sweats from the heat and concern. “Want me to come with you?”
“No,” I say. “I just gotta go.”
“Okay, send me a message or call me when you know,” she says, as I run down the hall.
In the cab, I start to read the message, but I’m too anxious, tired, and in all honesty too headstrong to accept it. It’s a rehash of what we’ve already spoken about, only sloppily thrown together.
We pull up to the shop.
I get out of the cab so fast I almost forget to pay. There’s a scribbled CLOSED sign on the locked door. I see a guy inside with hair the color of fruit punch.
I bang on the door.
He mouths, “closed, ” but I keep pounding.
Blue haired Cassie finally appears and opens the door. Her eyes are puffy, and her nose is the same color as the guy’s hair.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
She keeps her composure just long enough to tell me they’re out of business.
“What? Why?” I ask, but she can’t keep it together to answer.
“Hey,” says the guy with the fruit punch hair, “leave her alone.”
“And who are you?” I ask.
“It’s okay, Mark,” Cassie says to him. She looks at me. “It’s my fault,” she says, “I shouldn’t have done the tattoo.”
Through sobs, she tells me how the shop lost its license because a guy she tattooed threatened to sue and when their insurance company investigated they discovered that she was not yet fully licensed and should not have done an unsupervised tattoo.
Pain and dread overtake me, unlike anything I’ve ever felt, and for a moment I regret ever coming into their lives.
“I’m sorry,” I keep telling her. “So so sorry.”
I leave the shop, Mark tending to Cassie, both of them suggesting that I go and find Patrick.
I try to call him again, but the call goes straight to voicemail. I head to the apartment, but he’s not there. The bed’s still unmade and looking the same as when I tussled out of it at 4 a.m.
I try the Greek diner next. Andreas is happy to see me and refers to me as Patrick’s beau. He hasn’t seen him, though; he tells me to come back for dinner when I find him.
Last on the list is Pizza and Bubbles. I look around but don’t see him, dammit. I look for Amanda but don’t see her either. I ask one of the servers if Amanda is there. She comes from the back and looks relieved to see me. I’m equally relieved when she tells me Patrick is in the back.
“Have you heard?” She asks.
“I just came from the shop,” I say. “I feel terrible. It’s all my fault.”
“Stop,” she says. “I’ve heard enough self-blaming for the day.”
“Yeah but it is my fault,” I say. “It’s because of me that he wasn’t there when Cassie did the tat.”
“Don’t bother telling him that,” she says, “and don’t bother blaming yourself. Pat’s a take responsibility kind of guy. It’s his shop so his responsibility. He’s not the blaming type.”
“But it is my fault,” I say.
“Doesn’t matter,” she says. “He doesn’t think like that.”
“But I do.”
“Good,” she says. “He needs a guy who takes responsibility in his life.”
She opens the door to her office. There’s a desk and a large circular table inside. Patrick is slumped over the table next to a half-eaten pizza and several empty bottles of beer.
“Takes after his dad when he gets stressed,” she says. “The drinking, not the violence.”
I don’t know what my heart feels when I see him. Relief, love, sadness, remorse, lots of other things I can’t articulate. I slide next to him and rub his back.
“He’s been at it all day,” she says. “I kept him here. Rather he stays here and talks it out with me than brood at home alone. How’s Cass doing?”
“Not great,” I say. “But Mark’s there with her.”
“Good,” she says. “They’re good together.”
I rub Patrick’s back and his massive arm, and then intertwine my hand in his.
“You hungry?” She asks. “He’ll be out for awhile.” She takes the half-eaten pizza away and goes to get us one that’s fresh.
I put my head down next to his and run my fingers through his hair while I wait.
She comes back with a pizza and a bottle of champagne. The latter seems inappropriate.
“I don’t feel much like celebrating,” I say.
“I do,” she says, as she pops the cork. It makes a loud pop, which triggers a snore from Patrick.
I smile. I think I even love the way he snores.
“So what are we celebrating?” I ask.
“You…life…the way things turn out,” she says and hands me a glass. We toast, though it still doesn’t feel quite celebratory.
“Did he tell you about us?” She asks. “Have you found the shoebox yet?”
“The size nines?” I ask.
She holds up one of her feet. “Guilty,” she says with a slight smile. “We were almost married, you know.”
“What happened?”
“He liked rugby a little too much; I liked petite feet.”
I laugh.
“It was for the best. We were always more best friends than lovers. Took us awhile to figure that out. Broke his heart though.”
I let out a sympathetic whimper.
“He’s got the soul of a lover,” she says. “Always has, even when it’s not right. Everybody’s got a flaw. I haven’t seen him fall that hard for anyone in…a very long time. Not since us,” she says smiling. She toasts her glass.
“I like him too,” I say. “A lot. I love him. Though I know, it’s quick.”
“You’re talking to a lesbian,” she says. “Believe me, I know about falling in love fast. “He holds on to things for too long though, like that money pit of a shop.”
“What’s he going to do without it?”
“Not lose money,” she says. “The neighborhood is way too expensive nowadays, and I’ve seen him slaving seven days a week to keep it open. This is a blessing in disguise. He’ll see it, Cass will see it, and they’ll all move on. The question is, will you be moving on too?”
“Not without him,” I say.
She toasts her glass again.
“Here’s to hoping that’s true.”
Patrick wakes as we finish the pizza. Amanda leaves the room.
He looks at me, flashes me his drunken scruffy dimples, and gives me a kiss. “I love you,” he somewhat slurs. “I really do.”
Amanda comes back into the office with a bucket and Patrick pukes. “Never could hold his liquor,” she says. “From what I hear, neither can you.”
I smile. “Nobody’s perfect,” I say.
We’re a (drunken) match made in heaven.