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.”
chapter 26
Patrick walks me to the train. We’re huddled under his umbrella, and he’s tilting it to favor my side, his shoulder getting soaked in the process.
When we get to the subway, he pulls me under the marquee of the Mediterranean restaurant on the corner. He closes the umbrella and hands it to me.
I shake my head, like a child, leaving the umbrella to hang between us.
“I’m older than you,” he says, urging it forward. “You’re taking it.”
It’s a nice one, a real one, not even the five-dollar kind you buy off the street.
“Thank you.” I smile at him.
He pulls his hood up and smiles back.
We stand there, cheesing.
He grimaces right as I feel it, the rude flick of cold water spraying us both as we’re almost decapitated by an advancing golf umbrella to our left.
I wipe my face as Patrick ushers me close with a hand to my hip.
We resume grinning, this time for being so oblivious. I nod at the subway stairs behind me.
“Wait,” he says, taking my hand. “When do you leave for Texas?” His warm thumb brushes the length of mine.
“Friday.”
“Let’s hang out before you go.”
“Really?” The hopeful lilt in my voice is mortifying.
“Yeah, really.” He chuckles.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
He leans in and kisses me.
“I’m glad you called,” he says, mouth inches from mine. I hug him hard. “You can keep the umbrella,” he says in my ear. “But I want my fucking sweats.”
I hug him tighter, my New Yorker tote stuffed with clothes mashing between us. I want to tell him I love him, but instead I say, “We’ll see,” and clatter down the stairs. I wave before disappearing around the corner.
I imagine Patrick talking to his friends. The dude group chat. Wondering if he’ll say we hooked up anyway. That I took him in my mouth. Or that I led him on. Calling me a prick tease. Immature. I close my eyes. Things seemed fine, but you can never know what anyone else is ever thinking. Or what they’ll say about you.
I dig for my MetroCard, hitching my bag onto my hip so I can feel through the different shapes for the right one. My fingers catch loose change and various hard crumbs native to the bottoms of purses before curling around the metal carabiner of June’s keys. I fish them out along with my wallet.
Instead of going to Brooklyn, I take the F uptown. On the train, seated across from me, is an older white guy with wire-frame glasses and an orange beanie pulled up high on his forehead. He has his notebook out. He’s doing line drawings of different passengers. Sketching quickly as if trying to capture everyone in New York. I want to take the seat next to him and flip through his book to look for Cruella.
The New Yorkiest New Yorkers aren’t exactly like Pokémon Go, but they also sort of are.
I wonder if Patrick has any favorite New Yorkers. I’ll bet he does. He loves details. I replay the last twelve hours in my head, plucking out different aspects of his apartment. The movie poster. His heavy art books. That goddamned avocado egg timer. The way his kitchen towel felt in my hands as he washed and I dried. I don’t know what this feeling is, this crawling, spreading sensation that feels at once joyful and like shame. Why didn’t I know before this that Patrick was perfect for me? I can’t believe he has that flower hair catcher thing in his tub. I picture us in London. In Paris. At Léon in front of Jeremy, who I can pretend not to recognize as I walk by. I hug myself, smiling.
“Jayne!”
I look up, stunned. Suddenly I’m at June’s building and I’m still smirking stupidly with my arms wrapped around my middle. June gets off the elevator with her eyes wide. I let the smile drop. I thought I’d have a few seconds to get my bitch-face situated.