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

Part 9

Your eyes slowly open to see your daughter sleeping beside you, rather than Patrick who you fell asleep next to. You raise an eyebrow and sit up on your elbow, looking over the three-and-a-half year old to see your boyfriend sleeping on the other side of the bed, his head tilted to the side and a small river of drool trailing down his cheek and onto the pillow underneath his head. A smile crawls onto your face. This is what you want, moments like this. But with Patrick always away, waking up in the morning to something like this is nearly impossible.

To snap you out of the daze you've fallen into, your phone on the nightstand behind you starts to go off. Your head snaps over your shoulder to see that an alarm you've set is going off, an alarm telling you that you need to leave for Gabby's dance class.

"Shit," You mutter under your breath, jumping out of bed and gently shaking your daughter awake. Her eyes flutter open and she frowns, bringing her small hands up to her face and rubbing her eyes. "Come on, Gabby, we're running late."

Patrick wakes up shortly after and notices the two of you leaving the room together, his eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. He slips out of bed and follows after you, seeing you helping your daughter get ready for the day. She's working on brushing her teeth with her bubblegum-flavored princess toothpaste while you're brushing her hair back into a ponytail.

"What's going on?" He blurts out, attracting both of your attentions.

"We're getting ready," You tell him, faded circles around your tired eyes, "I forgot she had a dance class today."

"Mommy, stop talking to Daddy!" Gabby whines after spitting out her toothpaste, "You're going to make us late and Elisa's going to be mad at us again. If she's mad at me, she'll give the solo to Bethany!"

"Gabby, she won't give the solo to Bethany," You assure her, "Especially once you show her your kick-ass dance moves."

"Hey, since you guys are in such a rush, do you think we can talk before you leave? After you get ready?" Patrick inquires somewhat irrelevantly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the bathroom's threshold.

"Patrick, I don't know," You tell him with a slight frown, "We're already running late as it is. Can't you tell me later? Like, after Gabby's dance class?"

"(Y/N), I-I don't think I can wait until after her dance class. It's really important and if you just take one second to hear me out-"

"Now's just not a good time, Patrick," You mutter, finishing your daughter's ponytail and sighing. You meet his gaze regretfully, seeing the hurt on his face. It's not that you don't want to talk to him, but things have just been crazy for you these past few months, and Patrick showing up just added to that.

"Well when will be a good time?" He asks, a mixture of annoyance and defeat lacing his tone, "When we're dead? (Y/N), you're barely ever home. You're either working or taking Gabby to her dance lessons."

You stare at him for a moment before replying softly, "Well now you know how it feels." You push past your boyfriend and call out to your daughter that you'll meet her downstairs after she gets dressed. Gabby zooms past her dad, and it's not long before Patrick leaves the bathroom too, following you into the kitchen where he find you rummaging through the cabinets for a quick breakfast to bring on the road.

"(Y/N), I'm sorry," Patrick apologizes in an attempt to bring your eyes to him, knowing that he's never going to get out what he wants to say by asking you to talk. He has to do this. He can't keep lying to you. He just can't. "Okay? I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I fucked up - like, royally fucked up - and I know nothing I say or do will ever make what I did right, but I was blinded by fame, you have to understand. I forgot what was most important to me and...and I made some really bad decisions and-"

"What the hell are you even talking about?" You cut him short, keeping your back to him as you find an almost empty box of granola bars, "Yes!" You mutter triumphantly to yourself, extracting the box and opening it to find two bars left - perfect for you and Gabby.

"I lost all our money," He confesses.

"What?" You ask cheerfully, finally looking back at him and not having heard what he said, too caught up in your small victory.

"I just...I don't know..." He runs a hand through his hair, hanging his head in embarrassment, "I wanted to go all out on this album and I put everything into it. Literally everything because I thought it would turn out well, but it didn't and..."

"Patrick." You set the box down on the counter and walk over to him, looking into his sad, bluish green eyes. "What's going on?"

His lip begins to quiver, the guilt inside of him eating away at his insides. It's been doing that for a while now, but right in this moment, it's tearing him apart. "I cheated on you in California, (Y/N)," He admits, causing you to take a step away from him, "I just...she had a hold on me," He tried to justify himself, "She was the executive producer and-"

"You slept with an executive producer?" You repeat, blood rushing to your ears and making them burn up, sounds becoming muffled, especially your daughter's footsteps that patter down the stairs.

"I told you, (Y/N), she...she had a hold on me." He rubs the back of his neck nervously, the weight lifted off of his shoulders but the horrible feeling inside of him growing more intense.

"So what? You slept with her because she told you she'd make your album a hit or something?" You question, trying to understand why the man you've been with for years would do something like this to you.

He shakes his head no, biting his lip as tears blur his vision.

You scoff and cross your arms over your chest. "So you just slept with her because you could, because you forgot about me and Gabby, who you abandoned to go to California to work on your music career, which I thought you were doing, but apparently that that was just a cover up for you so you could fuck someone else because you don't love me anymore."

"That's not true, (Y/N)!"

"Stop lying to me, Patrick!" You shout, giving him a forceful shove, causing him to trip over his feet and fall to the ground, staring up at you with frightened eyes that are double their normal size.

"Mommy!?!" You look up from Patrick and see your daughter standing in the front hallway, dressed in her tutu and ballet shoes and ready to go. She's wearing the same expression as her father, feeling as though she's not standing a few feet away from the woman who raised her and was always there for her, but someone else.

"Gabby, I-" You attempt to redeem yourself, but stop yourself short, knowing it was pointless. Your daughter isn't stupid. "I got us some granola bars to eat on the way there," You say instead, grabbing the box and extracting the two packaged treats, tossing the box aside and stepping around Patrick, "Let's go."

"But...But what about Daddy?" She questions as you place your hand on her back and guide her toward the door.

"Daddy's not coming with us," You mumble bitterly, snatching her jacket off of the rack and handing it down to her. Your narrowed eyes travel into the kitchen, meeting Patrick's still wide ones. "He's got something to fix."