Dear Patrick

Some other guy ushered me over to the patio steps. I looked over at who was being pushed into the police car. Jonathan? He had nothing to do with it. The guy who separated me from barely alive Patrick was named Brent. He said he'd take me to the hospital as soon as everything settled down. Some other guy named Patrick too, Patrick Sharp I think, said there was no point making me wait for everything to settle down because it wouldn't. Brent nodded his head and they both loaded me into a red Ferrari. It was more gorgeous on the inside than it was on the outside, if that's even possible.

I watched everything. Everything happens so fast every time. Do you ever just want to press pause for just a second?

Brent and Patrick Sharp kept looking at each other. Then Sharp would check his phone and they'd continue to stare blankly. Then Brent's phone rang. He received a call from a number not saved in his contacts. Brent made eye contact with Sharp for a quick second then looked at me through the rear-view mirror.

"Do you know who you are?" Brent asked.

Was I stupid?

"Yeah, I'm Lana. I love Patrick. He's probably dead. And you and buddy here keep making eye contact. I was abused, not blinded when I was kidnapped.

Brent laughed. "You really are Lana."

What the hell does that mean?

We got to the hospital five minutes after the ambulance had rushed Pat in. We rushed behind them only to be warded off by securities who couldn't have been less than 8 feet tall.

The next couple of hours of my life were the longest.

I asked Patrick Sharp and Brent if it'd be okay with them if I went out to get some fresh air. I had to think about it and organize all my thoughts. They were hesitant at first. At first it was a flat-out no. Then Brent agreed to go with me and Sharp and wait for Pat to get better. I rolled my eyes. No point fighting a man's ego.

I told Brent to just keep driving. I scrambled around looking for paper in the messy sports car. I found a long receipt and turned it over.

"Do you have a pen?" I asked Brent.

He nodded, reaching into his chest pocket and pulled out a mini sharpie. I uncapped it, whiffing the smell of permanent marker. Brent made a face at the spreading odor in the car but I ignored it. I doodled as I thought and reminisced everything.

I remember Patrick.

Of course I remember him.

He was the one who helped me out when I fought with Derek. He was the one who sat all night with me at the hospital while Derek was in urgent care because of that car accident in the taxi cab. He was the one who said I was just a publicity stunt: from one famous Chic athlete to the other. Obviously he came to pick me up from the hospital because he missed me. But I wouldn't forgive him for using me. I would want him to get better though.

"Were you in on it the whole time?" I asked Brent.

He looked at me, confused. "In on what?"

"On the whole publicity stunt?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" He said, annoyed.

"The fuck I'm talking about is your friend Patrick using me when I left Derek. After I was taken the first time?" I snapped back.

"I think you're mixed up, Lana. It's the other way around. Derek used you as a publicity stunt. You've known Kaner your whole life."

What a pathological liar.

Notes