How to Not Fall For Patrick Stump For Dummies #Wattys2015

Chapter 6

I reached down, pulling a pair of black sweats on. It's not a very good thing to wear to a concert, but it's not easy to slap skinny jeans over a cast. I could still pull off a yoga pants kind of look. Despite my thoughts on ironically wearing a Fall Out Boy shirt, I went with a grey v-neck.

My hair hasn't wanted to do anything lately, but I borrowed a straightener and it seemed to be working. I wasn't sure if the venue was outside or in, but it would be just my luck that they would fall back into waves. My eyelids were coated in thick, brown dust. It almost felt heavy. The finishing touch made me feel like Pete Wentz. Eyeliner.

Why was I gussying up for Patrick? I hate him...don't I?

I look in the mirror, picturing myself without these stupid casts. It's his fault. I don't need to come with him tonight. There's a thousand good excuses to why I can't go.

There came a knock on my door. I spin to the window and watch Patrick straighten up his bow tie and roll his shoulders.

I press my fingers to my temples and sigh, repeating the excuse I was ready to give him.

When I opened the door, Patrick's face lit up and he smiled. Even his eyes seemed to smile with his naturally pink-looking lips.

"You look stunning!" he said and stepped back to get a full picture of my outfit.

I blushed a little, standing in the doorway and leaning on the frame; it was the only thing keeping me up. My legs wobbled and shook without any support.

"Stunning is what you call a girl in a black dress and high heels. I think you're forgetting the 'miserable' part of that lyric," I replied, shaking my head.

"Em, you don't need a dress to be beautiful..." he said, looking down at the ground. Patrick stuck his hands in his pants pockets and looked up at me for a split-second. Good thing, because the fangirl inside me was winning the battle. It was then that I pulled it together; and so did he, I think.

"You ready?" he bit his lip and lifted his curious eyes to mine.

The excuses I'd planned just wouldn't come out of my mouth. I couldn't stop myself when I pushed out a "Yeah."

I quickly grabbed my crutches, using them to properly walk out the door. He placed his hand under my back, putting my balance back in line.

There was a Honda sitting outside that I only guessed would be Patrick's. He ran out in front of me, opening the door and tossing my sticks into the backseat. His hand was laid out in front of me, ready to take if need be. It took every power inside me to not hold it.

He ran back around to the driver's seat and pushed his car out of the parking lot. His little iPhone sat in a cup holder, barking out directions every once in a while.

I made the mistake to glance over at him. He was looking at me as well. I guess he never really learned after the crash, that or he's always going to be a horrible driver.

He hadn't been looking into my eyes, but my plastered leg and other battle wounds. A wave of guilt fell over his face and his eyes displayed pure, hard sadness. Then, I guess he has learned something. Regret. It's something he's been dealing with for a while now. I saw it in the news, but it was more evident in his face.

Sure, he's lost weight. Yeah, he's bleached his hair blonde and completely changed his clothing style. Has his personality changed? Not a bit. Those extraordinary green eyes gave it away.

Patrick regretted Fall Out Boy's breakup. He regretted whatever happened with Elisa and made them split. He regretted losing touch with Pete, and he regretted hitting me with his car.

When he noticed I was watching him, he turned back to the road. He acted focused, even forcing a nervous smile. His cheeks flushed and his fingers gripped the steering wheel.

It was quite a long drive and we were almost late. Patrick offered help out the same way he had getting in. I waved it off a second time, purposely forgetting my crutches in the back of his car.

He stared down at his watch, knowing it was only a matter of time until the show started and he still hasn't warmed up. Yet, for some reason, he stayed back with me.

The wind was not kind to me. It whipped furiously and pulled goosebumps from under my skin. Patrick noticed and held my arms in attempt to warm them up. I winced as he clutched my bad arm, but it was inaudible due to the wind.

Once inside, I felt his arms retract and he was pulled away by a hair and makeup team. I chuckled, giving him a finger wave as he tried to keep up with them and look back at me.

The venue was actually pretty small, which was weird. This was Patrick Stump, the world's musical angel and genius. There were only ten minutes left until the show started and it was almost empty. I leaned up against a column in the ground and crossed my leg over the other. The lights dimmed and more people started taking their place. It still felt empty.

I saw him from backstage, shaking himself off. It used to be Pete back there, shooting him a funny look or telling him his sideburns were crooked to ease the tension. Now, he's all on his own. It hit me harder than expected.

When Patrick walked onto the stage, he brought only an acoustic guitar with him. While the applause was holding, he sat down on a stool. He made small talk into the microphone stand while tuning his guitar once more.

I could hardly listen to the words coming from his mouth. If I ever felt empty, it was all gone now. I've never felt more full in my life. Full of hate? Full of love? Full of amazement? I don't know. I couldn't tell you.

I could've sworn he was looking directly into my eyes when I flashed back to reality. He smiled into the mic, and hearing the sound that came out proved it.

"A young man is a pulled pin looking for a grenade. A young woman will drive him places he never meant to go, but epiphany is such a cliché.
Well, there's plenty of fish in the wrong sea, like there's a premium on mystery again.
Hold me, distract me, dress me up in bubbles, baby. Save me from the troubles of my own skin."

He sang multiple songs after that. Halfway through the concert, he added a few members and sang with a band to back him up. I half expected him to start singing something off Folie à Deux, but it never happened.

By the end of the concert, I was starstruck and dazed. My eyes followed Patrick as he waved, blowing a quick kiss to the crowd before leaving the stage. He pulled up his shirt sleeve and wiped his sweaty forehead on his arm.

If only I could hate him as much as I admire him.