The Magnolia Chronicles: Adventures in Modern Dating(83)
Wondering about Sam Walsh? Check out his story in Necessary Restorations.
They liked to call me names. Manwhore. Slut. Player. But I make wrong look so right...
He's a flawed perfectionist...
I can read women better than any blueprint. I understand their thoughts and feelings, their secret desires and insecurities, and I know how to get rid of them once I get off.
But all bets are off when Tiel Desai slams into my life. She redefines what it means to be friends, and she makes it sound like the filthiest thing I've ever heard.
I can't read the gorgeous conservatory-trained violinist, but she's the only one keeping me from shattering by small degrees, and I can't let her go.
She's wildly independent...
My past—and New Jersey—are far behind me, and now my life is blissfully full of music: playing, teaching, and lecturing, and scouring Boston's underground scene with an annoyingly beautiful, troubled, tattooed architect.
I'm defenseless against his rooftop kisses, our nearly naked dance parties, the snuggletimes that turn into sexytimes, and his deep, demanding voice.
I have Sam Walsh stuck in my head like a song on repeat, and I'm happy pretending history won't catch up with me.
The one thing they have in common is a rock-solid disregard for the rules.
They find more in each other than they ever realized they were missing, but they might have to fall apart before they can come together.
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An Excerpt from The Space Between
Patrick
She was doing it on purpose, and of that, I could be certain.
She was trying to kill me, and damned near succeeding.
Why else would Andy wear jeans resembling a second skin, a long, slim black v-neck sweater, and knee-high boots straight out of Catwoman's closet? And that hair. God help me, that hair. It was always the same style, with an abundance of thick raven curls tumbling over her shoulders and midway down her back, but it hit me like a fist to the gut. Something about that hair begged to be pulled, then written into fables.
"Is there something preventing you from interacting with all humans, or just me in particular?" Sam asked.
I glanced at him before refocusing my attention over his shoulder to where Andy leaned next to Shannon's dining room table. She was talking with Tom, offering bright smiles and nodding eagerly, and he seemed to be describing something she found fascinating. Probably his willingness to grow a wiry beard and go to music festivals.
In the two hours since her arrival at Shannon's apartment, she spent all of her time close enough for me to see her yet far enough away that I couldn't eavesdrop. She also spent her time talking with every unattached guy at the party, starting with Nick, who seemed to have substantially more time outside the operating room these days, a few lawyer friends of Shannon's, a skinny marathon friend of Matt's, and now Tom.
It was fucking excruciating.
"All humans," I said, gulping the Newcastle in my hand.
"Right," Sam murmured. "That is splendid news, Patrick. I'm not sure where you get the idea that it's appropriate to be an asshole to people. Running around the office like an angry bear isn't kosher. If possible, I'd recommend you pry your head from your ass this weekend. This is getting old."
Sam stepped away and joined a conversation about an upcoming trip to Arizona to see some spring training games, and I continued my covert study of Andy.
I was tired from a week of sleepless nights, wrung out from the morning at Wellesley, and teetering on the edge of sanity after watching a handful of guys hit on Andy, but I wasn't leaving until she was. If she decided to leave with one of them, I wanted to see it.
Shannon edged next to me on the window seat and wordlessly watched the party. I knew she was reaching out for a truce, and she was waiting for me to make the first peace offering.
That was how it worked: one of us fucked up, the other spent an irrational amount of time pissed off about it, and then we talked around the original fuck-up. The Walshes weren't especially familiar with the words "I'm sorry."
"Wellesley was in good shape," I started, receiving a quick nod from Shannon. "No dogs, either, but let's get real. Andy probably would have whipped them into shape within five minutes while I hid in the backseat. She's working on the proposal."
"I like her a lot. She's good for you, really good. She's good for us," Shannon said, her eyes still focused on her guests. "Is there anything left?"
Tilting my beer back, I drank it down in slow sips. She already knew the answer; she was hoping to hear something different. "No. Some furniture. His closet. Everything else…"
"Yeah," she sighed, swallowing loudly. "Let's not bring that up to anyone else for the time being. Or maybe we don't say anything at all, and they figure it out."
I knew she wanted a thread of redemption for Angus. As much as I wanted it too, redemption never interested Angus, and it never mattered to him that he destroyed our history when he purged the house. With the exception of a few closely guarded snapshots, there were no pictures of us as kids and no evidence of my mother.