Patrick’s jaw tightened.
“Not immediately.”
Aaron leaned forward.
“What does that mean?”
I felt my stomach drop.
“How long did she think you were following her?”
Patrick looked at the table.
“A few months.”
“What were you telling her?”
He didn’t answer.
“Patrick.”
“That I needed more time.”
“To do what?”
“To get things sorted here.”
“But you weren’t sorting things out, were you?”
Silence.
“You’d already decided to stay.”
“It didn’t feel like I’d decided.”
“But you had.”
Patrick stood and walked into the kitchen.
I followed.
So did Aaron.
Patrick gripped the counter.
“How long did she wait?” I asked.
“Three months.”
He paused.
“Maybe four.”
Aaron stared at him.
“My mother waited four months for you?”
Patrick looked ashamed.
“She deserved better.”
“What did you tell her every time she asked when you were coming?”
“That I’d come soon.”
Aaron lowered his eyes.
I asked the question that suddenly mattered most.
“How did it end?”
Patrick stared through the kitchen window.
“She called me one night.”
“And?”
“She said she couldn’t keep waiting for somebody who wouldn’t choose.”
“What did you say?”
Patrick swallowed.
“I told her maybe she’d already made the choice for both of us when she left.”
Aaron looked at him.
Even Patrick seemed uncomfortable hearing the words again.
“I was wrong.”
Then I remembered something.
A photograph.
Years earlier, I’d found an old picture tucked inside one of Patrick’s books.
Patrick was standing with several young people.
Beside him was a dark-haired woman.
When I’d asked who they were, he’d barely looked at it.
Just old friends.
My stomach tightened.
“The photograph.”
Patrick froze.
“The one I found in your book.”
