He paused. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to laugh.”
“I solemnly swear.”
“I wanted to be a dog trainer.”
My brows rose. “That’s so cool.”
“We had this little mixed breed called Murphy when I was a kid,” he said. “I’d spend hours teaching him to play dead and roll over and all sorts of stuff. We were the neighborhood stars.”
“How old were you?”
“About eight.”
“When did you start acting?”
“When I was a junior. I broke my arm playing football and had to wear a cast for six weeks. Really messed it up,” he said. “Instead of just sitting on the sidelines during PE, I let the drama teacher drag me into her class. Think she felt bad for me sitting there all sad and bored.”
“And a star was born.”
“Something like that.” He gives me that small smile. I had to hand it to him, the man had coaxed me out of my bad mood. It was hard to hate on everything when he was sitting right there. “What about you? What did you want to be when you were a kid?”
“I was going to be a fashion designer. Right up until I realized I hated sewing. Just didn’t have the patience for it,” I said. “It’s not like my style is exactly cutting-edge either. My idea of high fashion is jeans and a tee. There are many reasons why it wouldn’t have worked. Then I fell in love with reading and that became my main thing. Waitressing, hospitality, whatever you want to call it . . . it’s just a job. It helps to pay the bills.”
“You didn’t want a job that involved reading?”
I sighed. “Reading or clothing would have been great. But they’re not necessarily easy to get into. I’ve kind of just been getting by. Maybe now I can catch my breath and find something that’s a better fit.”
“And what do you normally do on your nights off?”
“Most recently, I would take myself on a date.”
“How does that work exactly, dating yourself?”
“Well, I’d often start the night by getting tacos from this great little place close to my apartment. Next, I’d make up a pitcher of margaritas and take the whole meal with me into the bath along with a good book or two.”
“I see.”
“Light some candles. Put on a little music. Set the mood.”
“Very romantic.”
“The bath was the main reason I chose that apartment. It was small, but sublime,” I said. “So my version of dating yourself is all about doing fun and or indulgent activities while getting to know yourself and working on your shit.”
He blinked. “Okay. I’m going to need a bit more information.”
“Of course you do, you’re a man.” I set down my silverware. “You see, this activity and others similar taught me to be comfortable on my own. It reinforced the idea that I can have a great time with just me.”
“You were uncomfortable being alone?”
“Not exactly.” I sighed. “It was more that I had bought into the idea that I needed to be with someone to be whole. Then there’s the thousands of years of programming urging us to find a mate and reproduce. Media, hormones, social expectations . . . they can all be a mighty pain in the ass that warp our view of ourselves and our accomplishments.”
“Right.”
“And that led to me tolerating behavior that I shouldn’t have,” I explained. “Lowering my expectations and boundaries to fit in with some jackass who added nothing of joy to my life.”
He just watched me all thoughtful like. “Maybe you should write a self-help book.”
I laughed. “Nah. I think there’s enough unqualified woke white women out there giving advice. If I was ever going to write a book, that’s not what it would be about.”
“No? What, then?”
I just shook my head.
He opened his mouth as if to say something, but his cell vibrated and the frown returned. “Sorry about this.”
“It’s okay.”
“Hi . . . You are? Okay.” Then he stood and walked over to the security panel on the wall. A little screen lit up and he pushed a button. Curiouser and curiouser.
“Everything alright?” I asked.
“No.”
“No?”
He sighed. “My parents are here.”
“Your parents?”
“It’s a surprise visit. They, ah . . . they didn’t tell me they were coming.”
“Huh. I thought you said you had it covered?”
“I was going to call them. I just wasn’t sure what to say. Then they heard the news, got all excited, and wanted to meet you.”
My eyes were wide as twin moons. “They did? Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“And I take it they’re not aware that all of this is fake?”
“No,” he said. And that’s all he said.
“Holy shit, Patrick. What are we going to do?”
Renee Walsh was a vibrant, beautiful statuesque woman. While her husband, Tom, was a handsome older gentleman with a beard. You could see where Patrick got his good looks from. They were both rocking jeans, sneakers, and sweaters. Nothing ostentatious. And they both hugged me.