“There was a shooting nearby and we had to shelter in place.”
“Oh.”
Morgan grew up in the city. Violence, particularly gun violence, wasn’t unusual. But for a boy from Pine Ridge visiting for a day? That had to have left a mark.
“My place is in Fairmount,” she said. “We’re almost there.”
He nodded and kept looking.
Her apartment was small,which was fine. She was one person who worked long hours. She didn’t need much. Nor could she afford it. She made a decent salary, but even a studio in a decent part of the city was expensive.
She stood in the doorway and watched Patrick take it all in. The galley kitchen with the builder-grade everything. The single window over the sink with its view of the building opposite. The living area that was also the dining area that was also, essentially, her office. The folding table by the window that was usually stacked with case files and her laptop.
He paused in the center of the room and did a 360. She knew what he saw, because she was seeing it too. The tiny space had none of the character of his hundred-and-fifty-year-old fixer upper. None of the warmth of his family’s pub. Even Frank’s utilitarian farmhouse seemed like a riot of personality compared to this place. There was absolutely nothing about it that was her. It was just a space, and a temporary one at that.
Before, that had been enough. Now, she wanted more.
“Hungry?” she asked, opening the freezer to reveal the frozen meals for one, stacked with the precision of someone who’d made a system of solitude.
He looked at them for a moment. To his credit, his expression remained fixed and impassive. Then he closed the freezer gently and said, “I’m not that hungry. Where do you want to eat tonight?”
She almost laughed. “Let me show you the city first.”
She tookhim to the art museum steps first because they were the thing everyone did when they came to Philly. She, like most of the people who called the city home, felt the same absurd civic pride that had turned a fictional training montage into a genuine landmark. Even the most reserved tourists ran up steps and threw their arms in the air in triumph at the top.
Patrick was no exception. She could see it in his eyes.
“Go ahead,” she told him. “You know you want to.”
He leaned down, kissed her cheek, and just… went, taking the steps two at a time with the easy athleticism of a man who was in peak physical form, and when he reached the top, he jumped and pumped his arms toward the sky and grinned down at her.
Her heart swelled and she laughed, climbing the steps at a more dignified pace to meet him at the Rocky statue. She went willingly when he slid his arm around her waist and gently tugged her to his side.
The view wasn’t new to her, but standing there with Patrick, she felt like she was seeing it for the first time through his eyes. The city spread out below them. The fountains at the base of the steps and beyond that, the plaza and Logan Square.
“It’s a nice view,” Patrick said.
“It is,” she agreed. “But there’s something to be said for mountains too. Come on. There are some other things I want to show you.”Before I leave here for good, she added silently.
The Reading Terminal Market in the middle of the day was organized chaos—vendors and produce and Pennsylvania Dutch baked goods and the scents of everything competing for the same air space at once. Patrick moved through it with his hand at her back, which she’d become quite fond of.
She steered him to the cheesesteak counter. “It’s not the Celtic Goddess, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t give you this experience.”
“I’ve had cheesesteaks before.”
“Unless you’ve had one made here, you haven’t. Wit or witout?”
He looked at her and blinked. “I don’t know what that means.”
“With or without onions.”
“With,” he said, without hesitation.
They ate standing at the counter the way you were supposed to, and Patrick ate his with the focused appreciation of someone who took his food tasting seriously. He probably did, given who his mother was.
“Well?” she said.
“You’re right. It’s not the same at all.”