There's No Coldness In California (Patrick Stump/FOB Imagine Short Story)

Part 3

With a blanket he found wrapped around his shoulders, Patrick trudges through the house, looking at all of the pictures you have displayed in every room. He's barely in any of them, most of them just Gabby, just you, the two of you, or you with one or all of the guys. The only picture he's still in is the one hanging above the fireplace - the one the three of you took after Gabby was born.

He heaves a sigh and makes his way into the foyer, where he picks his bags up and takes them upstairs. He goes into the room he knows to be yours and his bedroom and sets his suitcase down on the bed, popping it open to reveal his collection of suits, dress shirts, dress pants, and dress shoes. The singer then travels over to the dresser and pulls one of the drawers open. The drawer is filled with his old clothes, ones he wore before going to California - t-shirts, sweatshirts, jeans, all things he abandoned when he left to work on his solo career.

Patrick scoops them out with his arms to get rid of them, only to expose a small box he had tucked in there, long before he left for California. He drops the clothes and plucks the velvet covered box out from the drawer, bringing it closer to him and opening it up. Sitting inside of it is a good-sized diamond engagement ring, one he intended to give you at some point but never did.

Just then, he hears the doorknob jiggle downstairs. He takes in a sharp breath and throws the ring box back in the drawer, covering it with his old clothes again and shoving it closed.

"I told you my tutu would kick Bethany's in the ass!" Gabby's voice echoes through the house, causing Patrick to smirk.

Your voice sounds after. "Shh! Your dad's home. He can't know I let you swear!"

"Does Daddy not swear?"

"He does, but not very much."

"Why?"

"I don't know, Gabby. But just be careful what you say around him, okay? I don't want him getting mad at me."

Patrick steps out of the bedroom and walks down the hallway, seeing you and your daughter in the foyer. You're helping her take her winter coat off. The three year old looks up and sees him, smiling. "Daddy! You didn't tell me you're a superhero!"

You glance back and notice the blanket he still has draped over his shoulders. "Yeah, Patrick, when were you going to tell me you're a superhero?" You ask playfully.

"Who said I was a superhero?" He replies before racing down the stairs while laughing deviously and sweeping Gabby up in his arms. "I could be a villain."

"Impossible. Of all people, you'd be the last to be a villain," You argue, standing up from your squatting position and cross your arms over your chest. "You're too nice."

"That's what I have you thinking," Patrick retorts, the corner of his lip perking upward into a smirk as he winks at you. A blush creeps up in your cheeks and you tilt your head down, averting your gaze to your feet.

Little did you know that your tongue-in-cheek banter was foreboding of the truth that was bound to come out sooner or later, the truth that was going to tear you and him apart.

*****

The three of you are sitting at the dinner table, Gabby rambling on about  how - at her dance class - they're doing auditions (though, when she described it, claimed they were doing "addisons") for a solo for the upcoming recital.

"I just really want it!"  She exclaims, all while shoving tomato-sauce covered spaghetti noodles into her mouth with her hands, having discarded the fork because the noodles wouldn't stay on it. "And I don't want Bethany to get it because Bethany always gets the solos. She's not even good!"

"Hey, don't say that," You tell her kindly, "That's not nice."

"But it's true!" She argues, "Mommy, she doesn't even know what garage tay  is." She says, putting emphasis on the last syllable of "garage". 

You chuckle. "I don't think you do either."

"But I do, Mommy, I do! And that's why I should get the solo and not Bethany!"

Patrick nudges you, attracting your attention. He leans in and whispers, "What the hell is she talking about?"

"Her dance class," You answer quietly, your daughter continuing her rant  about why Bethany shouldn't get the solo and she should. "She and this  other girl Bethany have this little rivalry going on. It's kind of cute, but I'm a little worried because-"

"No, I mean, when did she start taking dance classes? I didn't know about this."

"Oh, she started a few months ago. Andy was watching her one day and I guess they passed by the dance studio when they were shopping or something, and she told him she wanted to dance. Long story short, Andy told me, I signed her up for one of the classes, and she's been doing them ever since."

"Huh," is all Patrick says, poking his dinner that's started to get cold.

"When is the recital anyways?" You inquire, talking to yourself as you pull out your phone and bring up the dance studio's website. You click a few links before getting to your daughter's class page, seeing the date of the recital and groaning. "Shit...shit shit shit."

"What?" He asks, looking over your shoulder.

"I can't make it the day of her recital," You mutter dismally, frowning. Your daughter luckily doesn't hear you, still going on about how much she doesn't like Bethany.

"Why?" Patrick replies.

You look over at him and heave a sigh. "It's a week day in the afternoon, and - with the new job I've picked up - they've got me scheduled eight to six. There's no way I'm going to be able to make it, and I'm not sure one of the guys can take her either." You lock your phone and set it down on the table, running a hand through your hair.

The singer sits there for a little before clearing his throat and rubbing his hands on his thighs. "I could take her for you, if you want."

"You'd do that?" You ask, surprised by his offer.

"Well, yeah, I mean...I've never seen her dance before. I think it'll be fun."

You giggle. "If you consider sitting with a bunch of bitchy, uptight moms watching little girls trying not to lose their balance while spinning in circles with their hands above their heads fun, then yeah, it'll be fun." Patrick gives you a strange look.

"Mommy!" Gabby snaps, immediately obtaining your attention, "You weren't listening to me!"

"Gabby, I was listening to you. You were telling me all about how Bethany doesn't deserve the solo and you do."

She pouts. "No, Mommy, you weren't listening to me!"

"I'm sorry, Gabby, I was talking to your dad."

"Whatever..." She mumbles before hopping down from the chair she was sitting in and walking out of the room, stomping up the stairs and slamming her bedroom door behind her. You sigh and put your head in your hands.

"What was that all about?" Patrick questions, appalled by his daughter's sudden outburst.

"She gets upset when I talk to other people," You explain, "She thinks I'm ignoring her, as if I don't pay attention to her enough. We practically spend all day together, even when I'm at work. Sometimes my boss lets me bring her in, but if she's not with me or one of the guys, she throws these tantrums and it's just like, I don't know what she wants. She gets all the attention in the world and she acts as if it's not enough," You vent, "I mean, don't get me wrong, I love her to death and she loves me, but sometimes I just don't know what to do, you know?"

He chuckles nervously. "I can't really relate."

You scoff. "Of course you can't." You sit back and stand up, picking up your plate and taking it into the kitchen, where you scrape your plate of nearly your entire meal before throwing it into the sink.

"...he didn't want to be with you anymore...he didn't want to be a father to Gabby...he'd rather party like someone's he not than be home with you and your daughter..."