Shine - Lauren Myracle [47]
“Okay.”
“One, Patrick already has a boyfriend. And two, I’m not gay.”
“You aren’t?” I said. And then, “He does?”
“Uh, yeah, and I’d think if you were his friend, you’d know that.” His eyes narrowed. “So are you?”
“Am I what?”
“His friend.”
“Yes,” I said. “Are you? Because in all your counting, you never said.”
He fell silent, and I felt like a fool. Given his low opinion of people who lived in backwoods towns like Black Creek, of course he wasn’t Patrick’s friend.
In that case, what did his visit mean? Did he come to the hospital to mess with Patrick some more? To admire his handiwork? To finish what he’d started?
“Tell me how you know him,” I demanded.
“Tell me how you know him,” he said.
“I go to school with him. We live in the same town.” Feeling a need to defend myself, I added, “And obviously, I know he’s got a boyfriend. I just haven’t met him yet.”
He slumped back on the hospital sofa.
“He wouldn’t tell you, either, huh?” Under his breath, he muttered, “God, I’m such a dumb shit.”
I was confused.
“I want to talk to the guy, that’s all,” he said.
“To who? Patrick? You can’t, because he’s in a coma.”
“No, I want to talk to his boyfriend. His undercover lover.” He didn’t use air quotes, but his intonation achieved the same effect. “If I could find him, I could see if he knew anything.”
Undercover lover, I repeated silently. I could imagine Patrick referring to a mysterious boyfriend like that. He would have liked the cheesiness of it, the delicious rhyme of the words.
“Maybe he knows something, but he’s scared to come forward,” the guy from the library went on. He pressed the back of his head into the cushion behind him. “Fuck.”
A lump formed in my throat. He was a jerk, but he did care about Patrick. Any idiot could see that.
I thought about what was best for Patrick, what was best for getting to the bottom of things. I swallowed my pride and said, “Then we need to find him.”
“‘We’?” he said.
“Fine, I need to find him,” I said, my face heating up. I stood, went to the elevator, and jabbed the button.
“Wait,” he said.
The elevator doors opened. I stepped inside, and he leaped forward to join me.
“What I said at the library . . .” he said. “The name I called you . . .”
I stared at the indicator lights for the different floors. There were only three of them. Come on, come on, I silently chanted. “I owe you an apology,” he said stiffly. “Great,” I said. It didn’t escape me that an actual apology failed to come.
“Look, here’s my number and my email addy,” he said, fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out a pen and a crumpled receipt and started scribbling. “I’ll tell you if I find out anything, and you can do the same.” He gave me the scrap of paper.
I stared at it. His name was Jason. Jason Connor.
“Now you,” he said, and I glanced up to see him holding his phone, ready to punch in my info.
I folded the scrap of paper and shoved it into my pocket. “Don’t have a cell. Sorry.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. No cell.”
“How can you not have a cell phone? Everyone has a—“He broke off, and I saw that he’d figured it out. White trash kids don’t get the same toys as rich kids.
“Yup,” I said, adopting Daddy’s countriest twang. “It’s a dang shame, but all my money goes to moonshine and dirt.”
The elevator doors slid open, and I quick-walked out, my heart beating fast.
“Wait,” he called. “I don’t even know your name!”
“Bye, Jason,” I said, tossing the words over my shoulder. “Have a nice life.”
AUNTY TILDY HAD MY FAVORITE MEAL WAITING for me when I got home: chicken and dumplings. She knew I’d gone to the hospital, and I guess she was worried I’d be upset when I got back home. I would have found more comfort in a hug, or a few simple questions about how the visit had gone, but no. That was what the chicken and dumplings were for.
Though I didn’t have much of an appetite, I cleaned my plate to please her. I sensed Christian watching me as I ate. I kept my eyes cast down.
I was frustrated, because I seemed to be gaining more questions than answers.