Page 135 of Shades of Grey & Gold

“Oh—God. Sorry. I thought, God,” he says on a laugh, and smooths out his shirt. “From behind you look just like someone else we know. Sorry that was—”

“Ah.” Nico stands, buttons his suit jacket and extends his hand to Patrick in one fluid motion. “You’re Patty, then.”

Patrick shakes Nico’s hand with a grimace of pain, and instead of letting go after a few seconds, it looks like Nico grips harder. Patrick glances towards me, then back at Nico, forcing a smile on his face like a gracious host.

“You look so much like Callan Reed.” He laughs again. “It’s uncanny.”

“Nah.” Nico finally lets go of Patrick’s hand, resting it on the back of my chair. “He died.”

Just like that. Two words.

Clean and flat. Like he’s said them so many times that any possible feeling that might accompany them has burned out. Like he’s read them off a cue card. And I watch his eyes and I swear—I would almost swear—that he just barely rolls them. Then his face is neutral.

And I force myself to remember that different people cope in different ways. Nico’s way is humor.

The eye contact he continues to hold with Patrick is unnerving, like he’s waiting for a reaction that doesn’t come. Because Patrick’s face has gone white.

“He—w-what?” Patrick stutters and keeps looking from me to Nico then back to me.

When I don’t respond or laugh at what must be such a silly joke, Patrick looks at me—really looks at me—and I can see him understanding what he’s looking at.

He probably sees the dark circles under my eyes, because sleeping isn’t something that comes easy when you see an explosion behind your eyes every time you close them.

He probably sees the way my nails aren’t painted when I used to always paint them for events like this. But going out in public is harder when the last time you were in a café someone kidnapped you at gunpoint.

He probably sees the way my mask falls, the way my lips that have tilted up all night suddenly curve down.

And then he steps forward and does the unthinkable.

Patrick Ellison wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me up out of my chair.

His arms are holding me up to his height, my toes in these heels barely grazing the floor, and I rest my arms awkwardly on his shoulders. And then something inside of me…

Click.

It’s like the first turn of a jack-in-the-box.

I’m not sure how many clicks I have until I shatter.

But my body relaxes and Patrick is in my ear. “Max, God, I’m so, so sorry.”

His hand rubs circles into my shoulder and he’s the Patrick from before. From before he started at Ellison. The one I fell in love with at twenty in a backyard with tequila and stars. The one who showed up at the library with two coffees, just wanting to be in my company. And I realize that person still exists inside of him. He never went away; he just got buried under everything that came after.

And he’s probably that person for Brenda. And that’s so good for them.

I feel Nico shift behind me. It’s not dramatic or sudden. He doesn’t make a scene. Just takes a half-step forward and I feel taps. I look over my shoulder and see his middle finger tapping on Patrick’s arm wrapped around me the way someone taps on a watch and saystime’s up.

Patrick pulls his arms away and my feet find the floor. Nico gently takes hold of my elbow and pulls me back a step with the efficiency of a man who has a very clear and personal reason for ending this embrace. Patrick steps back and accepts it because Patrick, whatever else he is, can read a room.

Nico laces his arm possessively around my waist.

Click.

“Thank you for coming,” Nico says to Patrick.

Which is technically backwards. But Patrick nods like it makes sense and Nico steers me away from the table.

We end up at the bar and Nico looks stressed.