February 14, 2014

Dear Patrick,

Today, you and I fought again. You're being an ass again. You're being sensitive and jealous and a baby, Pat. And you walked out again. On February fucking fourteen you dick. You can't keep slamming the fucking door in my face, Patrick.

I get why you're mad but it's not my fault you left. It's not my fault you came a month after. It isn't my fault that what I told you wasn't what you wanted to hear. But you already knew. I don't get why you're mad.

Whether you like it or not, and I could give two shits if you don't, Derek's eating over. It's none of your business. I didn't say anything when you invited Laura over. So you can shove it.

I hear your car pulling up.

It's like four in the morning.

What the hell else am I supposed to think you've been doing? But I'm supposed to trust you, I guess. So I'm going to.

You're probably drunk, by the sound of the way you're trying to unlock the doors.

I'm gonna help you, Pat.

I'm not going to do this anymore. I'm not going to let us fight. I don't want to. Me and Derek just talked through everything. When he got pissed, he'd shut up and he'd control it. But you can't- you go out and you get drunk. But it's okay because Derek's Derek and you're you. I'm going to fix us. I didn't leave the hospital in your car because I wanted to be with Derek. If I wanted to be with him, I would've been sitting in the passenger seat of his Coupe when he sped off, choking out tears that he thought I wouldn't notice through the tint of his windows.


Lana

P.S. We're going to be okay.