Dear Patrick

I got up the stairs. I opened the door carefully. There was nothing. The upstairs was beautiful. It was. Everything was so clean, neat and organized. I saw a table on the edge of the kitchen with a box marked Patrick and I opened it. It was all of my letters, all of the letters from before I got kidnapped and while I was in the basement. For some reason, I couldn't leave. So I pulled out a paper and the pen from the drawer and I started writing to you. But from the corner of my eye, I saw a shine. The light from the ceiling fan was reflecting off of something shiny in the drawer that I'd missed when I grabbed the pen.

It was a gun.

I know we took those gun-shooting classes for but never did I think I'd actually have to use it. So I held the gun in my hand. It was a lot heavier than I thought. I removed the safety lock. I knew how to cock it. I knew how to pull the trigger. I just didn't know if I'd be able to pull it.

Shooting just isn't my style so instead, I kept writing to you. Then I heard Adam from the heat vent. I wanted to help him so bad but I knew I couldn't. I knew I wouldn't be able to make it up another flight of stairs. So I kept writing. And then I heard a noise. I heard my car. The knob started moving. I grabbed the gun, my heart was pounding. I whispered to Adam through the heat vent that me and him were going to be okay. "So okay," I told him. When the door opened, guy and Pig both stood there, bloody and seemingly unconscious. Four seconds later, they collapsed in a heap in front of the door, dead.

Right in front of the front door. My keys were in guy's pocket and Pig had fallen on guy. Poor guy. If he wasn't dead, he was now. I didn't know what to do. So I turned back to the paper and I wrote to you more. Then I turned back to them. And I got the keys and I grabbed a beer from their fridge and I climbed those stairs and I got Adam and I left. And I took the letters with me and the box. And I took Adam to the hospital and I drove, so anxiously and excitedly, to my house after calling the cops because I knew you'd be there. Or if you weren't there, I knew I'd need help holding all the letters you'd sent me.

But I didn't need help. I opened the doors to my house with the police less than a step behind me.

"I can't wait to see the looks on their faces when Pat's inside, on the couch, just waiting." I kept telling myself. But you weren't on the couch waiting. You weren't in my room or on the patio. My converse were still by the door and my jersey was still on the chair. You weren't anywhere. I opened the fridge. All my Vitamin Waters were still there and the drawer filled with bologna remained untouched. There was a coffee cup on my counter, I don't even drink coffee. So it had to have been yours.
"You've been here recently." I told myself, touching the cup. It wasn't cold enough to be too old.

Whoever made the coffee was in a rush to get out. There wasn't anything in it. It was black. Nobody with keys to my house drank their coffee black. Even my mom and she was against sweeteners and whatever they're called.

My dad used to drink his coffee black. I hated black coffee because of him. I was about to take it and spill it. Anything that reminded me of him was to be thrown, my mom used to tell me. God I missed her. The police grabbed my hand; he told me not to touch anything. "We need everything in this house just as it was when we got here."

I told him to fuck off and that I was going to put the box in my room, which was locked and always is locked. Only you knew where the key was. He followed me to make sure it was. It took him a good five minutes before I convinced him to leave me alone. I opened the door to my room. I put the box on my bed. I washed my face, Pat, and I left. I took my car and I left. Didn't know where the hell I was going. But I ended up at a Bears game with a bunch of people I didn't know. Really hot guys and me. Executive suite? I checked the ticket in my pocket.

I didn't remember anything. I don't even remember meeting these people but they were nice as hell. The Bears won. Again. They were undefeated. Off to the playoffs they were going. After the game, I was in a car with their MVP, runningback Derek Jacobs.

Me and Jacobs? Not bad, I mentally patted myself on the back. He looked at me and smiled, "Where we off to now Lana?"

I told him to go celebrate with his guys and that Netflix was waiting for me. He told me that Netflix was waiting for us and that he felt like hanging with his girl. So we went to his house. Not house, but loft. Loft in the Trump Tower. We watched movies until the sun came up and then we fell asleep until it turned dark again. And we had fun and we smiled and we laughed and we were happy.

But then I wasn't happy and I wanted my own place again. I wanted to be independent again. But I didn't want to not be with Derek, I told him. And he understood and me and him went looking for places I could live. And we found one. We found this really nice apartment complex. It was gorgeous, I loved it. Perfect size and there was a gym and a basketball court and it was perfect. So he invited the guys and I didn't really have girls but I had the lifeguard from the Trump Towers- his name was Patrick, too so I invited him.

And it was all good and dandy until one day, me and Derek were going to Secretary of State to get my plate changed. I pulled back from kissing him just so I could get a head start and beat him outside so I could drive his car.

His Lambo wasn't the car I ran to.

Notes