“You took it!”
“No, youtook it!”
“I didn’t take shit!”
And so on.
Finally, Clay went to the cleaners and picked up the clothes without the ticket. When he came home, he threw them at me.
“Here’s the fucking dry cleaning!” he yelled before storming out of the house again.
About a week or two after that, I found the dry cleaning ticket stuffed into the back pocket of a pair of jeans I was about to wash. Apparently, I’d taken the ticket with the intention of going to the cleaners and forgotten about it. Once I found the ticket, I should have told Clay what happened and apologized, but I didn’t because I was embarrassed but also because I knew it would set him off again.
“Patrick,” he said with a sigh, bringing me back to the present, “I’m sorry I cheated on you. I’m sorry things didn’t work out between us. I loved you very much. Hell, I stilllove you, but our relationship was a mess. I had to get out of it.”