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5. A Beautiful Beginning

5

A BEAUTIFUL BEGINNING

QUINN

A MEMORY

Alongside a semi-blurry photo of a billboard advertisement for a company unfortunately named E.R.E.C.T. Architecture, I type out a text to one of the last numbers in my outgoing calls list: I guess architect isn't just a job in the movies after all.

I'm in the passenger seat of Mom's clunky car on our way to the Christmas tree farm. I told her dozens of times over the phone that she should go without me or buy a fake one from the store that we could put up together when I got home on the twenty-second of December for winter break, but she refused, which is why it's Christmas Eve and we're about to pay premium prices we can't swing for waiting so long.

A response to the photo doesn't come until we've already got the exorbitantly expensive spruce into our house and the rickety tree stand we dug out of a beat-up box.

Patrick: LMAO

I'm disappointed at first by the lackluster message until a second text rolls in.

Patrick: They couldn't have arranged their initials in any other order? That's a terrible name for a business!!!

I type back, Or a genius one. Nobody is ever going to forget it!

Patrick: THEY'RE MAKING A MOCKERY OF MY CHOSEN PROFESSION!!!!!!

I didn't expect him to be such an effusive exclamation point user. It's dorky, but adorable. I've been obsessing over whether to text the handsome, shaggy-haired guy in the Santa suit ever since we met outside Olive & Ivy. Now I'm unabashedly grinning at my phone, happy I did.

"Who are you texting?" Mom asks, setting out some ornaments.

"Nobody," I say, quickly locking my phone and leaving the text thread for later when I'm in my room, alone, and my blushing can't be dissected or judged or frowned upon.

Patrick and I end up texting all throughout winter break. When the spring semester starts and Street Week rolls around, I know Patrick's favorite color (jade green), his favorite TV show ( The Office ), and that his first crush was the high school–aged lifeguard at the pool club he frequented with his family.

In March, I bicker for Olive & Ivy and get in. I thank Patrick profusely, even though he insists he had nothing to do with it.

"Everybody loves you. Stop thanking me!" he says when I have my first meal (an exquisite chicken piccata) at the clubhouse as an official member.

Loves . That word in his slightly raspy voice plays on repeat in my brain for countless sleepless nights.

From then on, I spend more time at the Olive & Ivy clubhouse than I do in my own dorm room. I most look forward to Thursday nights when we have members-only meals around a theme like Asian fusion or An Evening in Paris because Patrick never misses one, and we always sit together.

Aside from the Queer & Ivy affinity group, I join Bach & Ivy, a group dedicated to watching The Bachelor and all its subsequent spinoffs live each week from our TV room. I even go so far as to create blank brackets for us to fill out, so we can all place weekly bets on who is going to make it to the final rose ceremony.

Through some goading, I convince Patrick to join us. During the first episode, he's grumpy, looking at his phone for half of it. By the third, he's the most riveted, vocal viewer of the bunch.

It probably helps a little that some of the dates take place at various historic castles and estates, places of architectural interest, or as Patrick calls them, "Building porn." Every time he says it, I blush.

Despite our closeness and the sheer amount of time we spend together, nothing more than a friendship materializes between me and Patrick, even when I have dreams of him as the Bachelor and me as one of the gay contestants vying for his affections.

I'm too scared to make a move for the metaphorical final rose. What if I ruin everything?

But then, on a sunny Saturday in April, something shifts.

TruckFest is happening on Prospect Ave. Lining the road are food trucks and tents from local vendors. All the money raised is going toward local nonprofits like Meals on Wheels. I was a lead organizer for this event. There's a good turnout, yet it feels like Patrick and I are alone amidst the crowd.

We're sharing yucca fries and sipping Japanese sodas when Patrick looks at me differently. Not bad differently. Almost like I'm an abstract painting and he's finally made out the shapes amongst the colorful chaos.

"Do I have something on my face?" I ask, grabbing for a napkin.

"No," he says, glancing away shyly. I've seen him sullen, but I've never seen him shy . "I've just been working up the courage all afternoon to ask you to be my date to the spring formal."

My heart beats so frantically I'm afraid it's going to dig a hole right through my sternum. "Really?"

"Really," he says. "I like you, Quinn. A lot. Almost as much as the Bachelor likes any blond-haired personal trainer named Christine."

An unflattering laugh rips out of me, but I don't care.

"Thank God you laughed," he says bashfully. That's another emotion I haven't seen on him before. I think I like it. "I've been practicing that line all week."

I say, "I like you, too. Of course I'll be your date."

A lopsided smile takes over Patrick's face. "Cool."

"Cool," I echo, feeling like I might float away.

I pick up a yucca fry from our shared paper basket. The tension between us, however, hasn't diffused. "Is there something else?" I ask with my mouth full.

He nods. "I've also been working up the courage to, uh, kiss you?"

My breath catches, and I nearly choke, but I save it at the last second. I wipe my lips on the back of my hand and act courageous enough for the both of us. Because his kiss is all I've dreamed about since we met on this very sidewalk four months ago. He tastes like melon and salt and everything I've ever wanted.

More, actually. More than anything I ever imagined for myself.

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