He felt it.
Of course he felt it.
Because Patrick functioned well in the shadows, in ambiguity, in small private scenes where the only truth was the one he narrated. But at a brightly lit table, with witnesses and concrete facts, his charm looked like an ill-fitting suit.
“This is a humiliation,” he muttered.
“No,” I said, and this time no one interrupted me. “The humiliation was arriving at my parents’ house in a taxi while you used my car so your mom could make grand entrances at church.”
Patrick opened his mouth.
Closed it.
My father stood up with a chilling slowness.
“You are going to do three things,” he said. “You are going to return the keys. You are going to hand over all the documentation you have for the car. And tomorrow, before noon, you are going to sit down with Jenna and the family lawyer to review what else has been disposed of in her name without authorization.”
“Lawyer?” Patrick repeated, no longer with anger, but with fear.
My father took out his phone again, this time for everyone to see.
“He’s already on his way.”
The silence was total.
Patrick looked at me.
Not as a husband. Not as a partner. He looked at me like someone who finally realizes that the piece of furniture he was used to leaning against was, in fact, a door. And that the door had just closed.
“You can’t agree with this,” he said.
I looked at him for a long time.
How many times had he told me I was overreacting when I confronted him about the first strange charge on my credit card.
