through the front windows, deep brown, but with that striated iris texture to them. Everything looks complex just now.
I lean in and eat my soup, elbows on the counter just like how Patrick’s standing on the other side. There’s something familiar and conspiratorial about being close to him, knowing him the way I do now. I get a little nervous thrill, thinking how caught I’d feel if someone did come into the shop and saw me eating lunch with this man who isn’t my live-in boyfriend.
“So,” I say. “Jay’s still taking it pretty well.”
He nods.
“Maybe we can hang out after the weekend?” I want this man now, now, now, but I’m driving to Michigan tomorrow at the ass-crack of dawn with Jay. Jay will drive, and I will spend most of the journey thinking about fucking Patrick Whelan. I always think about sex during long rides, for whatever reason—automotive vibrations maybe or plain old boredom. Jay probably does too because by now I’ve surely programmed him to expect to get laid as soon as socially possible once we reach our destination.
Patrick clears his throat and makes a project of flattening the waxed paper on top of the brown bag. “I’m glad he’s taking it well.”
“Yeah, he’s really shockingly okay with it,” I say.
“I’m glad.” Patrick finally looks up. “But I don’t know if I’m taking it quite so well.”
“Oh.” I feel the blood drain from my face and chemicals invade my pulse. Fear messes with my physiology, blurring and blunting reality.
I calmly grab a piece of paper from the printer and calmly write Back in 15 minutes on it in marker. I tape it to the door and twist the deadbolt. I touch Patrick’s arm as I pass him and he follows me up the steps to the back room. I close the door behind us and sit on the edge of the break table.
“What aren’t you taking well?” I ask.
He holds my eyes with his then looks away as he speaks. “What we’re doing.”
“The cheating?”
“No. The being with you but not actually being with you.”
“The no-sex rule?” I ask.
He pushes a frustrated noise through his nose. “No. The you belonging to someone else thing.”
I look down at his boots. “Do you have feelings for me?” The store phone rings, making us both jump. “I’m sorry. I have to get that.”
He nods as I reach for the cordless. “Roche’s Paper.”
“Hey, lady.” Jay.
“Hey. Can I call you back? I’m right in the middle of something.”
“Just wanted to see if you could pick up some olive oil on the way home.”
“Consider it done,” I say. “See you tonight.” I wait for his goodbye and hang up the phone. “Sorry.”
“That was him?” Patrick asks.
I nod. I watch him take a deep breath.
“So, you have feelings for me?” I prompt. “Because of what we did?”
“I’ve always had feelings for you.”
“Oh. Since that night?”
“Since before that,” he says.
“I didn’t think we’d even talked before then.”
“We hadn’t.”
I frown. I don’t feel exactly creeped out, just disconcerted. “For how long, then?”
“Since maybe two years before that night. It was after your store opened but probably that same year.”
I would have been about twenty-five. That was when my grandmother died and I inherited the money that helped me move to Dereham from Montpelier and open this store and put a down payment on the little condo I owned before Jay and I moved in together.
Patrick licks his lips, looking nervous. “I don’t know if I’m in love with you or anything,” he says. “But I’ve liked you for a long time.”
“Why?” I’m cute enough, I guess, but I’m not infatuation-worthy gorgeous or crazy-charismatic or intriguing. Just a short brunette with a paper shop and a rusty hatchback.
“I was across the street one day,” Patrick says. “At the hardware store. You came running out of your store with a broom and started whaling on these two kids for throwing rocks at birds.”
I haven’t thought
I lean in and eat my soup, elbows on the counter just like how Patrick’s standing on the other side. There’s something familiar and conspiratorial about being close to him, knowing him the way I do now. I get a little nervous thrill, thinking how caught I’d feel if someone did come into the shop and saw me eating lunch with this man who isn’t my live-in boyfriend.
“So,” I say. “Jay’s still taking it pretty well.”
He nods.
“Maybe we can hang out after the weekend?” I want this man now, now, now, but I’m driving to Michigan tomorrow at the ass-crack of dawn with Jay. Jay will drive, and I will spend most of the journey thinking about fucking Patrick Whelan. I always think about sex during long rides, for whatever reason—automotive vibrations maybe or plain old boredom. Jay probably does too because by now I’ve surely programmed him to expect to get laid as soon as socially possible once we reach our destination.
Patrick clears his throat and makes a project of flattening the waxed paper on top of the brown bag. “I’m glad he’s taking it well.”
“Yeah, he’s really shockingly okay with it,” I say.
“I’m glad.” Patrick finally looks up. “But I don’t know if I’m taking it quite so well.”
“Oh.” I feel the blood drain from my face and chemicals invade my pulse. Fear messes with my physiology, blurring and blunting reality.
I calmly grab a piece of paper from the printer and calmly write Back in 15 minutes on it in marker. I tape it to the door and twist the deadbolt. I touch Patrick’s arm as I pass him and he follows me up the steps to the back room. I close the door behind us and sit on the edge of the break table.
“What aren’t you taking well?” I ask.
He holds my eyes with his then looks away as he speaks. “What we’re doing.”
“The cheating?”
“No. The being with you but not actually being with you.”
“The no-sex rule?” I ask.
He pushes a frustrated noise through his nose. “No. The you belonging to someone else thing.”
I look down at his boots. “Do you have feelings for me?” The store phone rings, making us both jump. “I’m sorry. I have to get that.”
He nods as I reach for the cordless. “Roche’s Paper.”
“Hey, lady.” Jay.
“Hey. Can I call you back? I’m right in the middle of something.”
“Just wanted to see if you could pick up some olive oil on the way home.”
“Consider it done,” I say. “See you tonight.” I wait for his goodbye and hang up the phone. “Sorry.”
“That was him?” Patrick asks.
I nod. I watch him take a deep breath.
“So, you have feelings for me?” I prompt. “Because of what we did?”
“I’ve always had feelings for you.”
“Oh. Since that night?”
“Since before that,” he says.
“I didn’t think we’d even talked before then.”
“We hadn’t.”
I frown. I don’t feel exactly creeped out, just disconcerted. “For how long, then?”
“Since maybe two years before that night. It was after your store opened but probably that same year.”
I would have been about twenty-five. That was when my grandmother died and I inherited the money that helped me move to Dereham from Montpelier and open this store and put a down payment on the little condo I owned before Jay and I moved in together.
Patrick licks his lips, looking nervous. “I don’t know if I’m in love with you or anything,” he says. “But I’ve liked you for a long time.”
“Why?” I’m cute enough, I guess, but I’m not infatuation-worthy gorgeous or crazy-charismatic or intriguing. Just a short brunette with a paper shop and a rusty hatchback.
“I was across the street one day,” Patrick says. “At the hardware store. You came running out of your store with a broom and started whaling on these two kids for throwing rocks at birds.”
I haven’t thought
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