For a few minutes, I don't do anything at all. How can I? What could I possibly do, now that Patrick's gone and done this? I just sit there, staring at the number, hoping this will turn out to be a dream or something. Whether it's a daydream or a nightmare is another matter, but it's not one I'm prepared to face. Of course, it's not either; this is real.

Was I giving him the impression that I liked him or something? That's my first thought. But then, I feel bad. He's got anxiety, for god's sake, and it's obviously pretty fucking serious. He wouldn't have done it unless he was sure about what exactly he was getting himself into. It must've taken him forever to pluck up the courage to do that. I saw for myself how stressed he was.

I think back to when his hand touched mine, and how I felt weird when it did. I can't like him. I've only just been dumped by Brett, and I was with him for like two months. Yeah, maybe it's not long in the grand scheme of things, but it was long enough for me. And for him, apparently. Patrick knows that, doesn't he? I barely know the guy, and I can't forget two months of my life in the blink of an eye.

And then there's the flowers on my doorstep. Sure, nothing like that has happened again, but it's still as creepy as hell. I don't even know who did it. Right?

Suddenly, I'm seized by a weird surge of energy. I grab the poster with Patrick's number on the back in my fist and head into the front room, where I pick up the card that was left with the roses in the other hand.

Carefully, I open it and compare the two messages. Both are romantic, I guess, but in different ways. One's brief but poetic, while the other's shorter and more to the point. But the handwriting is exactly the same: a jagged, messy scrawl.

I'm stunned. Why would Patrick do all this? He's barely got enough money to pay his bills, let alone go around buying strangers expensive flowers. Plus, I still think that the whole "message on the doorstep and no name on the card" thing is creepy.

Despite this, I can't help feeling flattered. Brett likes... liked me and all, but he never, ever did anything like this. He just wasn't the type.

Just like last time, I have no idea what I'm doing or where I'm going, but my body seems to. Ever so quietly, I creep downstairs and knock on his door. I try to make my knock sound kind of jaunty and cheerful, but it just comes out as a sad whisper. There's no reply. I try again, marginally harder this time, but there's still nothing. I try the doorknob.

The door's unlocked. Carefully, I turn the handle and peek around the door. There's no one to be seen. The room is still messy, but I can smell him, honey and aftershave, and I know he's in here somewhere. The room's as silent as a graveyard, and it's freaking me out. So I step over the mess of bottles, paper and pens on the floor and into the next room.

This room, like the last one, is practically empty. There's just an unmade bed, a dresser covered with guy stuff (you know, combs, underwear, keys) and a dirty mirror. It's full size, hanging on the wall. I can see myself in it: a big-eyed, red haired girl in black. And then that very same girl lets out a cry and whips around.

Huddled in the corner, shaking like a leaf and with his knees to his chin, is Patrick. He's barefoot, which makes him look even more vulnerable, and his hair is sticking up. His lovely eyes are bloodshot. I crouch by him. He doesn't even look at me, and instead just stares blankly at the wall. I put my hand on his shoulder and he flinches, finally blinking and gazing at me. I'm suddenly reminded of a kitten with a bleeding paw that I once saw in my garden as a kid. It had that same wild, terrified look.

"Lydia?" he whispers. I nod and try to smile, but even to him, it must look strained.

"What are you doing?" I ask, gently stroking his soft hair. He wipes his eyes and shakes himself.

"I... I don't know."

"Patrick, I..." I break off, unsure of what I'm actually trying to say.

"Huh?"

"You gave me your number." He looks away. "And those flowers."

He bites his lip, and then, ever so slowly, nods. "Yes."

"How long?" He knows what I mean.

"Ever since I first laid eyes on you. I only had the courage to do it now. Really, it's bad timing. You've just broken up with your boyfriend, after all."

"No," I say, and in that moment, here and now, I make my decision. "It's the best timing in the world." I go through my pockets and find a scrap of paper that I think used to be a receipt and a stub of pencil. I scribble my number on it and hand it to him. He grasps it like it's his only lifeline

I check my watch. It's half six, and coincidentally, I'm starving. I bet he is, too. "Do you want to get some dinner?" I ask, hoping to god that he'll say yes, and at the same time, terrified that he won't.

He looks up at me slowly, with a spreading smile on his face. He mulls over what I've said for a minute, wipes his eyes, and then says, "I'll put my shoes on." I breathe a sigh of relief.

While he gets ready, putting on his black leather jacket and his black boots, I wait for him by the door, hands shaking and heart thumping. I'm not quite sure why, but who am I to complain? I'm going to dinner with him! Before we go out, however, he pauses next to the door.

"Are you all right?" I asks.

"Yeah, just... Just nervous, I guess. I don't go out very often."

I smile at him for probably the billionth time that day, and before I can stop myself, I reach out and squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

There's a Nandos a few blocks away. We walk there, Patrick pressing close to me every time someone passes us, which is amazingly often (this is downtown Chicago, after all). I find myself anticipating this, almost wanting him to. I don't know why. When we get to the restaurant, I say, "We could just get a takeaway, if this is too much."

"No," he says, his voice firm.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I should do this."

I nod and we go inside. The smell of cooking chicken reaches me and I breathe it in, reminded for a minute of when my dad used to do really good barbecues, and I'd always request the same thing: Thai chicken. That is, before that fateful summer that was spent in hospital wards and, later on, morgues.

Predictably, the place is packed, so I choose a table in the quietest corner and pray to god that no one else sits near us. The last thing that we need right now is Patrick having a panic attack in Nandos, which, for the record, I can imagine happening.

"You know, I barely know anything about you," I say. "You could be a mass murderer for all I know."

"Well, I'm not. A hobby like that would have to involve human interaction, and I'm not sure I'm up for that yet. As for not knowing me.... Well, I know I'd like to know you."

I stare at him. Is he flirting with me? So I just say, "Har har."

"You're English, right?" he asks.

"Yeah. From London, to be exact."

"How come you came to Chicago, then?"

I sigh. "The official reason is that I came here to study, but not really. I just had to get away from the UK."

"Why?"

I consider lying to him. But then I look into his deep, deep eyes and decide to be honest with him. "My stepdad used to beat my mum. I don't know if he still does, but I couldn't face visiting them and seeing her like that. I told the police before I left for Chicago, but I don't think they really did anything. My stepdad's got friends in high places."

"That's terrible. I'm sorry," he whispers.

"It's ok."

"My dad used to hit my mom," he says. "He started when I was about ten, and he hit me too, and my little sister."

"Why would he do that?"

"I don't know. But when was about fourteen, I developed anxiety, because of... everything, I guess. It wasn't too bad at first, and it probably would've got sorted out if mom and dad had actually noticed, but they were too wrapped up in their own shit to notice me. I moved out when I was sixteen, for obvious reasons."

"Where did you go?"

He shrugs. "I slept on people's sofas. Some nights, I was out on the streets. I kept my stuff in storage. Eventually, I found my feet and I met Pete and Joe, and then we found Andy.

"Crap life, huh?" I say, and we do a kind of crap-life-goals fist bump.

The waitress comes over. "What drinks would you like?" She asks, taking out a small notebook. Patrick clutches my arm under the table in complete panic. Poor guy. You'd think that she had him at gunpoint or something.

I quickly jump in. "A diet coke and a pint of lager, please." i have no idea whether he even wants alcohol, but he clearly isn't going to say anything.

"Um, ok," says the waitress, looking from me to Patrick. "Here's some menus." She leaves.

"Thanks," he says.

"No problem," I say.

"I just get really stressed out when people I don't know talk to me. it's like a reflex thing, I think. Because of of my anxiety."

"It's fine, seriously. Don't worry about it."

Patrick nods. "Is this ok? Like, us going out to a restaurant?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because you know, your ex and everything."

"Even if he comes in here, and by the way I seriously doubt he will, I don't care."

"All right." He looks down at his menu and I find myself staring at him. His face looks like it's been crafted with a sculptor's knife, with his perfect cheekbones and his delicate, but precise, features. He has a heavy brow line framed with pale-ish eyebrows and brown-blond hair. His eyes are of a indeterminate colour; sometimes they're dark and watchful, and other times they're paler and wider. Lips that are full and only slightly darker than the rest of his face rest above a straight nose. He's not very tall, maybe my height or a little smaller, and he's not muscular in any way, but I kind of like that.

To be honest, he's not at all my usual type of guy, and he's nothing like Brett, he was tall and dark and strong, but he's got a strange mix of moodiness and vulnerability that makes him so interesting, and, if you'll forgive me, irresistible. And he's cute, too.

"What do you want?" he asks, and then, properly, the meal begins, and it's just like any other date I've had, except that it's with him.