Chapter 7Beverly Hills is full of palm trees and white buildings. And the ocean is really blue. And the sky is clear. And this time of year, it’s strangely hot. Over sixty-eight degrees. I don’t know, it’s Christmas, and I’m seeing people walking around in T-shirts, and it just feels odd.
I’m looking out the window of this luxurious hotel waiting to meet the doctor who will hopefully end the nightmare I have on my face, but I’m not happy. I didn’t say more than ten words to Patrick during the flight and, as always, he didn’t complain. We had already said the important things when we met after his return to New York: How are you? It’s over, right? Are you dating someone else? No dramatic scenes, no arguments, only an exchange of information with me using as few words as possible. Thinking
