Patt, who hadn't even stepped foot on the estate. Who hadn't contacted me. Who hadn't replied when I'd reached out.
I asked ARIA.
"She's busy," ARIA had said, in that tone she used when busy was a polite translation for something more complicated. "And also experiencing a midlife crisis of sorts. The sex was good. Everything was good. But now there are feelings involved, and she feels alien to herself. Her old independent self—no attachments, no feelings, no man with any kind of claim on her—that woman is looking at the new version and doesn't recognize her.
"She needs time to reconcile the two."
So I'd let her take her time. Reach out softly from afar—a message here, a small gesture there.
Not overwhelming. Not pressuring.
But also not disappearing entirely. Walking the razor's edge between space and neglect with the kind of care most men reserve for defusing bombs and I intended to walk it carefully.
Patt was worth the patience.
