Chapter 25

chapter 25

Patrick’s standing at the windowwhen I get up. It’s pouring outside.

“Morning,” I croak, opening his bedroom door and yawning, pretending like I’ve been asleep this whole time. Pretending like I didn’t set my alarm for 7:00 a.m. to remove my crusty makeup and reapply it by early windowlight and phone. I even thought about trying to poop without detection while Patrick snored softly, hugging the couch, dead asleep, but I’d rather hold it, poison my microbiome, and die slow.

He shuffles into the kitchen and returns with a cup of coffee. “Sleep well?”

I nod, taking the hot drink.

We stand side by side at the large window. It’s miserable. The kind of umbrella-flipping torrent where everyone’s huddled under awnings, waiting it out.

In his glasses, hair sticking up in the back, with his coffee mug, grinning down at the sad sacks on the street, he looks totally different from the version of him on social media, even the kid from church. This is nice, I tell myself. Other than Jeremy, I’ve never spent a morning with a guy in this way.

“What about you?”

“Great,” he replies, toasting me with his mug.

I search for any hint of resentment at my staying over.

“I guess I should be heading out,” I tell him, before he can beat me to the punch.

He frowns and nods toward the street. “In this? What time do you have to be at class?”

“Eleven.”

“Breakfast?” he asks hopefully. It’s just after eight.

I look to the sky for any indication it’ll let up. It’s a woolen moody mess up there. Patrick smiles. Honestly, I don’t need any further encouragement to ditch.

“I just have to text someone.”

Gina Lombardi’s office texts me back that I’m canceling within the twenty-four-hour cancellation period and that it’ll count as a session.

Whatever. Besides, I’m a little mad at her. Frankly, it’s irresponsible to rile me up with all those questions about June without teaching me how to deal.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask Patrick. I find myself wondering how this memory will feel in the future. If wherever he picks will become our special place and we’ll return for special anniversaries.

“Well,” he says. “Scale of one to ten, how gremlin monster are you feeling?”

“Is ten the gremliniest or…”

He nods. “Ten is comatose, don’t even shower, and roll over to the diner and eat eggs in our matching sweats.”

The idea of staying in his sweats is the closest I’ve come to true joy in a minute.

“That one.”

I borrow two pairs of socks and a pair of Timbs to add to my tab.

“Man,” he says, eyeing me. “Fucking adorable.”

I look down at my feet, cheeks heating, and throw on my coat.

He wasn’t kidding about how close the diner was. It’s a half block, and we bolt, leapfrogging under awnings and storefronts. When we get there, he holds my hand briefly. His palm is warm where mine is wet, and he leads me into the open door and to the counter. I keep reminding myself that it’s not a date. That you don’t go on morning-after, rainy-day dates with someone you almost barf on. The worst part is, I don’t even care that we’re dressed like dorks; I’m so happy. I feel like half of that couple who dresses in onesies and takes selfies and I like it.

The short, beefy Latino guy behind the counter turns Patrick’s cup upright on his saucer and pours steaming coffee as soon as we sit down. He looks to me, and when I nod, he wordlessly pours me a cup as well. “I’m here a lot,” explains Patrick, just as the dude asks him if he’s having the usual.

I’ve always wanted to have a usual.

“I’m going to need a minute,” he says, picking up his menu. “I could hit you with a total curveball today, Angel.”

Angel gives an unimpressed shrug and returns the coffeepot.

“What’s your usual?”

“Two eggs, over medium, sausage, home fries, rye toast, dry, side of hot sauce. But everything here’s good.”

I scan the menu. “Have you had the Streamline Special?” It’s described as a mound of cottage cheese with canned tuna and a side of peaches.

“Yep, and it slaps,” he says. “I don’t know why; it just does. It’s like peanut butter and bacon.”

I realize that I’m starving. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

He nods approvingly. “Donut for the table?”

“Sure.”

“Power.” He shuts his menu. “I’ll have the usual,” he says to Angel.

“I’ll have his usual.” I nod to Patrick.

“And a glazed donut.”

I’m proud of the order somehow.

“You think we would have been friends if our parents hung out?” I ask him. “When we were younger?”

“Totally,” he says, and then cocks his head. “I guess, all four of us would have. You would’ve been obsessed with Kiki, I wouldn’t have gotten off my phone, and June would’ve probably kicked all our asses. We look a little different now, but we’re still basically the same.” He reads something in my face and qualifies. “But I don’t know. You seem the same.”

I narrow my eyes. He said a similar thing last night. I try to decide if I feel insulted by this.

“But maybe not as intimidating. Actually, fuck it. I don’t know. You’re still intimidating.”

I laugh at this. A sharp bark. I glance around, stunned by the assessment. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You were so intense. Big goth energy. Always reading some humongous book with a level of focus I’d never seen in a kid. You were way too busy to talk to me.”

“Oh, because you ever tried talking to me.” I remember the books. Mostly horror and romance paperbacks. I also remember Patrick with his comics, his video games, his earring, and once his dyed-purple hair, which had scandalized the church ladies. He also brought a few non-Korean friends to mass who ate the fishy-smelling soups and everything after church. It was fascinating that he’d reveal this part of his life to his friends, who seemed cool judging by their sneakers. Everyone was always talking to Patrick. I wish he’d stuck around to see me a few years later. When I pulled myself together.

“I tried talking to you,” he says, sipping his coffee.

“You talked to June, not me.” This I remember too, with a flutter of jealousy. June could talk to anyone.

“I talked to June because she yelled at me all the time. Acting like we already knew each other from the second we met. She high-key bullied me into lending her all my Civil War comics right as I was starting them. She said I had to make the concession because I was older and that was my duty.”

I laugh. It sounds exactly like June.

“But I talked to you,” he says, tapping his chin. “Or at least I tried. It was right around Easter because that mass was fucking brutal. You were wearing a Forest of Endor Summer Camp sweatshirt.”

I remember the sweatshirt. It was purple and it was June’s. My heart sinks. “Nope,” I tell him. “Wasn’t me. That was June’s.”

To be mistaken for June by strangers is one thing, but I’m upset. I feel duped by the premise of this nostalgic conversation. I flip through the plastic specials menu on the counter. “I’ve never seen a single Star Wars movie ever in my life,” I say coldly.

I’m relieved that this diner serves alcohol. I could order an Irish coffee without it seeming too big a deal. I can feel my face tightening, but Patrick’s oblivious. He nudges my knee with his.

“That’s exactly what you told me,” he says, barely keeping a straight face. “I swear to God. You said it just like that too. So snotty.” He leans in. “I spoke in Ewokese. I thought it was so cool.” He laughs, searching my face.

I grin. He’s right. I don’t remember.

“Wait, what did you say?”

“No fucking way.”

“Tell me,” I plead. “I might remember it.”

He shakes his head. “Nope. You gave me the most withering look and said, ‘Excuse me?’ So, I explained, which won me zero points, and then you said, I have never seen a Star Wars movie ever in my life. End quote.”

It certainly sounds like me. “God.” I shake my head. “What a dick.”

“And!” he says, remembering another detail. “June wasn’t even there. She was at some genius NASA thing that weekend. Me and Kiki wouldn’t hear the end of it from Pops. To this day he’s gutted that none of his kids inherited his math brain.”

That’s when it comes to me. He’s right. June was in Houston. LBJ Space Center. She’d won some big-deal data contest, and she and Dad had gone. I’d thrown a fit because Mom hadn’t washed any of my clothes, so I’d had to wear June’s top. I don’t remember Patrick talking to me, but I do vividly recall how the entry fee and hotel for that event was three hundred bucks. Meanwhile, they’d refused to pay for my gym membership, saying that I could just do jumping jacks in the driveway.

Our food arrives, so I proceed to cut it all into pieces and move it around. Breakfasts are easy because there are so many stations—your egg area, the potato pile no one finishes. Bacon’s easier to fake than sausages, but that’s fine. Fried eggs are a cinch because once you pop the yolks, no one checks how much you’ve eaten.

He cuts the donut with a knife. I take a huge, enthusiastic bite of my half and widen my eyes. I can practically hear my pupils contract into pinpricks. Sugar always does this to me. “Mmm,” I moan, and deposit the rest of it back onto the plate. I’m glad we’re sitting next to each other and not across. It makes the optics easier. Patrick tucks in with zeal, going nuts with the hot sauce and the ketchup and talking about his father.

I only vaguely remember his dad, but another memory of Patrick coils up to the surface. It was later that same year. He’d been gone all summer, and when he returned, he’d changed. Enough so that June noticed it first. “Did Patrick get hot?” she asked, jabbing me in the ribs when he and his family walked in.

All of a sudden, he was a head taller than his sister, who’d always been modelly. That wasn’t it though. There was an ease to the way he moved. I’d wondered all summer where he’d been. But I couldn’t admit that to June.

Right after mass, before the communal meal, Mom asked me to put the hymnals back in the car, and when I did, I saw him. He was at the other end of the lot and suddenly an adult. I kept my eyes on the ground, wishing I’d had earphones, debating whether or not to say hi. But just as I glanced up, he’d gotten a call, and the way his face broke into a smile, I could tell he was talking to a girlfriend or a crush or something. I kept my eyes straight ahead, ignoring him, even as I purposefully marched at an angle where he’d see me.

“How was it?” he asks, nibbling on his last triangle of toast. I swallow at the memory. God, I was such a dork.

“Great.” He glances down at my plate, so I drape my napkin over the leftovers and order another coffee. I hit the bathroom, and then we head back to his apartment and watch TV. He checks his phone for some work things, and while I try not to look down at his screen, I wonder what his real life is like. How I’d fit into it. If there’s any room. I wonder if he’s dating anyone. Who the Tinder match was. Whether or not he’s dated any of the models he’s previously photographed.

He smiles, apologizes, and puts his phone down on the coffee table, and while I’m overjoyed that this man’s idea of a good time is to watch Bake Off on Netflix sprawled on the couch, and even though I’m nestled beside him, I can’t help but wonder if I’m getting too comfortable.

I let my eyes wander over to him. It’s Patrick from church, but it’s also profoundly not. Me and Patrick need a reset, I decide. I have to keep this from going off the rails.

“Do you mind if I shower?” I ask him suddenly, springing to my feet. He tilts his head up sleepily and smiles. “Go for it.”

I don’t wash my hair, but I scrub my face, removing all my makeup, and wipe the foggy mirror down to start over. I fluff out my hair. It’s wavy and full, and I give myself a little pep talk. Part of me is intrigued. Flattered even. No dude has ever set out to be my friend, but what does this mean philosophically? The thought of him not being attracted to me is unbearable. I can so easily imagine him keeping me apart from his work life, his personal life, the way Jeremy did. I need to convince him of my value.

“What do you have to drink?” I ask him when I emerge, still in his sweats but so much cleaner. So much more focused.

He looks up. The laptop on his coffee table drones on about the temperament of hot-water crust pastries in a hand-raised pie.

“Bourbon and…”

“I’ll have that.” I nod. “Don’t make me drink alone,” I admonish. He pads to the kitchen, then hands me a drink in a squat glass and clinks his to mine. He toasts me, watchful.

“Maybe I should shower too,” he says. “I need to wake up.”

“Do it,” I tell him. He drains his drink, Adam’s apple bobbing, ice cubes clinking as his head tilts back. He disappears into the bathroom. Sometime in the last half hour, I’ve made the decision that we should sleep together. I want the data. I need to know how I’ll feel after. If Patrick will be different.

I’m reminded of Malcolm Ito. Malcolm Ito was a forty-year-old Japanese furniture designer with a big beard and tinted glasses who had recently divorced a French socialite filmmaker fifteen years his senior. We’d met at a party at the New Museum. It was a springtime launch event for an art magazine that Ivy’s ex-girlfriend was involved in, and I was wasted on champagne. We kissed on the roof deck. It was terribly poetic. His beard rubbed up against my chin. I touched his face, and when we broke away, I heard him gasp. He was the first Asian man I’d ever kissed. I decided to fall instantly in love with him.

It was as though I could feel my heart fasten to his like the interlocking of precision machinery. It was everything I’d imagined it would be if I’d kissed someone tailor-made for me. Someone worthy and good who would accept me for me. Who I’d see with such a deep and profound recognition that they’d never be able to leave me. He excused himself for a phone call and never returned. I’d waited, shivering in my drunk haze, handkerchief-thin dress fluttering against me. I stared at a far-off water tower, convinced he’d come back. When I googled him a few months ago, he was engaged to a Norwegian model with a dynamic ceramics practice. That’s how they described it. Dynamic. Ceramics. Practice.

Suddenly Patrick feels like the answer to a question. He belongs with me. I belong with him. I’ll finally know how things went wrong all those times before.

I’m not great at drinking and I’m not great at sex. So far, I don’t particularly excel at adult things. I’ve tried it. Sex. And it’s never how I’d want it to be. For all the talk of first base, second base, third, it’s more like a light switch. You go from not having it—barely kissing really—to all of a sudden having it. Full-on sex. When it’s over, I feel like I’ve failed to make it better for myself. That it’s somehow my fault that I’m startled each time.

It’s the way they aggressively and incessantly initiate sex. The way I always feel cornered, by the text, in the bar, in the car, in their apartments. Sometimes I wonder if I’m confused by how purposeful they are. They’re so sure they want sex that I try to convince myself I must be wrong about my ambivalence.

I go to pour myself another drink. It’s noon, but it may as well be the weekend. The booze bottles are on a silver tray on top of his fridge. They shiver, clinking slightly when the refrigerator runs, but the bourbon’s been left out on the counter. I quietly ease out another inch, so he doesn’t think I’m a lush.

I look at myself in the circular wall mirror hanging just outside the kitchen. I watch myself take another sip. I marvel at how convincing I am as an adult. I rub my lips between my fingers, hard. Pulling them so they color and hopefully swell a little. They’ll stay bruised and puffy for at least thirty seconds after he comes out of the shower.

Men don’t enjoy the taste of lipstick though they like the look of it.

It’s as if the transmission was fed into an earpiece, it’s so fully formed and not mine.

I smile silkily. I look crazy. I suck in my cheeks and make fish lips. Clear my throat. Suck in my gut, let it out. Take another sip. Put the glass down on the counter and slap the apples of my cheeks with the pads of my flattened fingers. I drink even more, warming my insides. I want a third glass and listen for the running water, but I shouldn’t risk it.

I settle on the couch, wishing there was music on. Arrange my arms and legs so they don’t flatten against the leather and appear wide. Even with the boozy buzz, another layered distraction would be good. I can’t deal with bodies. The smells, the tastes, all that rubbing, the occasional mortifying flatulence if my chest suction cups his in a way that I wish we could laugh about but never do. It’s the worst. Usually he’ll grunt in a porny way, masking it, so I’ll do the same in a whinier, pleading tone, and we’ll both keep ignoring it because breaking character would reveal how fucking embarrassing it all is.

Consent?

Yes.

Yes?

It’s like a spell we’re taught the words to, but how do you cast it? Where am I supposed to stand? What do I do with my arms? There should be a laminated poster in all bedrooms. The way restaurants have Heimlich maneuver guides. Why is the invocation so awkward? All the sex I’ve ever had seemed inevitable. It wasn’t wrought but ordained. It was like watching someone fall from a height. We all know where it’s going.

I hold an ice cube in my mouth to quiet my brain. I know this will be different. It has to be. When Patrick returns to the couch, back in sweats, I climb onto his lap, on my knees, facing him, and touch my lips to his. He tastes like toothpaste. His mouth is cold, then warm. The alcohol begins to blur the lines, soothe the spikiness of my thoughts, the impatience. I feel and hear the tremble, a low rumble in his throat. His hands find their way to my waistband and pull me into him. I pull away a fraction. His face is blurry up close, and for a brief moment, as if a single foreign frame has been spliced into the reel, reality warps and my mouth is full of some random I hooked up with the first time Jeremy left. I never learned his name.

I pull away completely.

Wordlessly, I get up, take his hand, and lead him toward his bedroom. He follows.

Everything is as I’ve left it. Queen bed. Striped linens. But in the blued afternoon light, each article throbs with a new significance. The bedside table with a stack of books. His half-drunk water. Reading glasses.

I insert myself into his future. Slot my copy of The Secret History onto his table. A scrunchie by his water glass. If I leave something—an earring, my compact, an eyelash—it would secure my safe passage back.

I wonder if we’ll know each other after this.

I sit on the edge of his bed while he stands. Watching. The rest is muscle memory. Old choreography. I touch the soft hem of my sweatshirt, holding his gaze while I pull it off, judging from his expression how much he’s into this. Into me. How much of him I’ll get to keep afterward.

He drinks me in. I’m not wearing a bra. I tug on his pant leg, and he joins me on the bed. We’re kissing, scooching higher up on the mattress as he lies on top of me. From this angle he could be anyone. I close my eyes, waiting. But then the warmth of him leaves. He pulls away, propping himself up. I peek just as he hooks his finger against my cheek—pulling—and a hair slides out from the back of my throat, tickling the wet of my mouth, and is freed. It’s such a small movement. Tender. Patient. There’s a pleasant buzzing in my ears as my senses go all syrupy, and then the room snaps into focus. That Patrick would consider my comfort above his even for a moment grounds me back into my body. I freeze.

“Let’s pump the brakes a little,” he says, studying me. I nod. He pushes away and lies on his back, holding my hand as we stare up at the ceiling.

I raise his hand to my mouth and kiss it. “Do guys hate the taste of lipstick?”

I feel the tremor of him laughing beside me. “What?”

“I don’t know… Is it a thing where you like the way it looks but hate the way it tastes?” I shift to my side and kiss his cheek.

“I have never noticed that it has a taste, and I have no real opinion on its appearance. I guess it’s nice.”

He goes quiet. “Is this a quiz?” he asks after a while. “I’m trying to remember if you were wearing lipstick last night.”

This time I laugh. “No. I just had this dumb thought that men have these strong feelings, but I don’t know where it came from.”

“I like mouths,” he says, facing me and kissing mine. “Humans like mouths. I’m indifferent to the ornamentation, I think.”

We lie there for a while. Listening to the street. Not talking. I want to ask him about everyone he’s ever slept with.

I creep closer to him, pressing my entire body to his side as he rearranges us so that I’m nestled in his arm. You’re mine, I think, wondering if he can read my mind. How else would he have known that for all my bluster, I needed a moment to breathe? That I was scared of all we stood to lose? That I wanted to know him first?

“I think I’m going to get going now,” I whisper after a while. It’s better to go before they want you to.

He turns to me, expression unreadable. “Let me get you a car.”

My heart sings. It’s such a small gesture, but I’m grateful for the offer. I shake my head. Hopefully he’ll see my refusal as I intend it. That I don’t take up too much space. That I’m agreeable, low-maintenance, chill. I decide not to leave anything on his nightstand. It wouldn’t work on a Patrick.

I hope this ensures that he’ll want to see me again.

“I love the subway,” I tell him in a small, light voice. “I’m easy.”