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Patrick was rapidly realizing one very important thing: he had no idea how serious of a task grocery shopping was. He shook his head once, twice -- and a third time just for good measure while listening to Marlowe, trying to keep up with the twisted tale she was weaving. He could understand her position of impulsive decisions and even relate, considering that he never backed down from a fairly made dare. But then everything was confusingly tipped upside down again with the mention of a faceless husband, a teenager, and some kind of long con in the making. Was he suddenly at the center of a Gillian Flynn novel?
“Breaking into your own apartment because you forgot your keys is justifiable,” Patrick finally agreed, his head bobbing in a steady nod. “But,” he quickly continued, not wanting Marlowe to interject, “how do you know that she wasn’t just giving you a chance with the grocery shopping thing? ‘Cause, I mean, even if you only came home with three gallons of milk and white bread, I don’t think fucking up the pantry is enough of a reason to really evict a roommate.” He gave into a shrug, his palms dragging down the table’s surface as he leaned back in his seat once again. Despite how much he sounded like he was trying to talk her out of making a dumb decision, Patrick still made a move to stand. “I’ll help you bust into your place, but if Irene the batshit cunt appears at any moment, I’m out.”
