My Calamity
Chapter Thirteen
I realized my mistake in kissing Patrick ā even if it was on the cheek ā when it was too late. The first thing I heard from my mother's mouth when I climbed into the car was, "Are you and Patrick dating?"
"No," I said dropping my bag on the floor, and cranking up the heat.
"You don't have to lie to me," my mom finally said. "I don't care if Patrick and you are dating. It's better than that Jackson Ryder." I swore she always found a way to bring up Jackson as if she wanted me to tell her I secretly hung out with him or something.
"Mom, seriously, Patrick and I are not dating."
"Now how I am supposed to believe that when you said you don't hang out with Patrick when you were out with him today?"
"He came over and took me to the beach! It's not like I called and asked him."
"Well does he know that?'
"Know what?" I asked blithely, picking at my cuticle.
"That you two are just friends?"
I stopped picking to look at her, my eyebrows furrowing. "Yeah, why wouldn't he?"
"Because, if I didn't know any better, Iād say you were leading him on."
I couldn't believe my ears. My mom was accusing me of leading Patrick O'Connell on? Are you serious? "Well maybe you don't know any better," I said crisply, turning to face the window. My eyes drifted from the rainy landscape to the mirror where a blurry red-faced Penelope stared back at me.
The rest of the car ride was silent, but I was too high up on my horse to apologize to my mom, so when she pulled up into our driveway, I grabbed my bag and exited so quickly I almost tripped and fell. I rushed up the walkway, pulling my key out in the midst and let myself in, taking the stairs up to my room, two steps at a time.
When I was in my room, I was unsure of what to do next. My stomach was growling, dying for a full meal, but the thought of eating made me want to puke, so instead, I went into my bathroom and washed the day away with a nice warm shower.
Unfortunately, although I no longer smelled of the ocean, my mind was not void of today's activities. For some reason it all seemed to be replaying in my head like a corny love song. As I traipsed through the house to the laundry room to wash Jessica's clothes, my mom's words repeated in my head.
After finishing Jessica's clothes, around one o'clock that morning, I decided it was time to crash even if I wasn't feeling particularly tired. I lied in bed that night, wondering what was wrong with me for hours, but coming up short.
It didn't occur to me to connect the symptoms, that maybe I was unintentionally leading Patrick on because some part of me wanted to be with Patrick. It didn't occur to me then at least.
But who really believes they'd ever have the' can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars over the fence, World Series' kind of love.
ā¼
Sunday mornings were the worst. I had known this for a year now; since I started working the early shift at A La Beanery, but today was even worst. After getting two hours of sleep in total, I had to shower and put on the ridiculous ensemble my job called a uniform and then gather Jessica's things, and a few other additions into a tote bag.
After indulging in some soggy Rice Crispies, and downing two bottles of Starbucks, I was out in the early morning sun, wheeling Patrick's motorcycle back to his house. For some reason, my heart was beating really fast, my palms sweaty. I blamed it on the Starbucks kicking in and the over-eighty degrees weather, although I knew it was neither.
It was a little after eight when I reached Patrick's house, but I bought time, standing on the sidewalk trying to kill the butterflies in my stomach. When I worked up my nerve, about ten minutes later, I walked up the stone walkway, almost tripping in my flip-flops, and then put the kickstand down on his motorcycle. I double-checked the bag with Jessica's clothes in it, and the few others thing I'd decided to hand over, and then I turned, ready to set off to work.
"No," I said dropping my bag on the floor, and cranking up the heat.
"You don't have to lie to me," my mom finally said. "I don't care if Patrick and you are dating. It's better than that Jackson Ryder." I swore she always found a way to bring up Jackson as if she wanted me to tell her I secretly hung out with him or something.
"Mom, seriously, Patrick and I are not dating."
"Now how I am supposed to believe that when you said you don't hang out with Patrick when you were out with him today?"
"He came over and took me to the beach! It's not like I called and asked him."
"Well does he know that?'
"Know what?" I asked blithely, picking at my cuticle.
"That you two are just friends?"
I stopped picking to look at her, my eyebrows furrowing. "Yeah, why wouldn't he?"
"Because, if I didn't know any better, Iād say you were leading him on."
I couldn't believe my ears. My mom was accusing me of leading Patrick O'Connell on? Are you serious? "Well maybe you don't know any better," I said crisply, turning to face the window. My eyes drifted from the rainy landscape to the mirror where a blurry red-faced Penelope stared back at me.
The rest of the car ride was silent, but I was too high up on my horse to apologize to my mom, so when she pulled up into our driveway, I grabbed my bag and exited so quickly I almost tripped and fell. I rushed up the walkway, pulling my key out in the midst and let myself in, taking the stairs up to my room, two steps at a time.
When I was in my room, I was unsure of what to do next. My stomach was growling, dying for a full meal, but the thought of eating made me want to puke, so instead, I went into my bathroom and washed the day away with a nice warm shower.
Unfortunately, although I no longer smelled of the ocean, my mind was not void of today's activities. For some reason it all seemed to be replaying in my head like a corny love song. As I traipsed through the house to the laundry room to wash Jessica's clothes, my mom's words repeated in my head.
After finishing Jessica's clothes, around one o'clock that morning, I decided it was time to crash even if I wasn't feeling particularly tired. I lied in bed that night, wondering what was wrong with me for hours, but coming up short.
It didn't occur to me to connect the symptoms, that maybe I was unintentionally leading Patrick on because some part of me wanted to be with Patrick. It didn't occur to me then at least.
But who really believes they'd ever have the' can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars over the fence, World Series' kind of love.
ā¼
Sunday mornings were the worst. I had known this for a year now; since I started working the early shift at A La Beanery, but today was even worst. After getting two hours of sleep in total, I had to shower and put on the ridiculous ensemble my job called a uniform and then gather Jessica's things, and a few other additions into a tote bag.
After indulging in some soggy Rice Crispies, and downing two bottles of Starbucks, I was out in the early morning sun, wheeling Patrick's motorcycle back to his house. For some reason, my heart was beating really fast, my palms sweaty. I blamed it on the Starbucks kicking in and the over-eighty degrees weather, although I knew it was neither.
It was a little after eight when I reached Patrick's house, but I bought time, standing on the sidewalk trying to kill the butterflies in my stomach. When I worked up my nerve, about ten minutes later, I walked up the stone walkway, almost tripping in my flip-flops, and then put the kickstand down on his motorcycle. I double-checked the bag with Jessica's clothes in it, and the few others thing I'd decided to hand over, and then I turned, ready to set off to work.