We toasted to not needing men to make us happy—Jess and Marley were swearing off men after another Valentine’s Day spent alone.
No need to mention I was exceptionally happy with the man in my life or that there was a man to mention at all—sort of. It wasn’t like that with Patrick because I asked for something different, and I could lie and convince myself I was content with that.
I’d be a little more content if I was in his bed instead of a crowded club in the Back Bay, and I’d be a lot more content if I wasn’t compelled to continue inventing boundaries so that I consumed Patrick in measured doses.
The sex was…amazing, and up until that night when I showed up at Patrick’s door, I lived in dim ignorance of the kind of amazing it could be, but that wasn’t why I needed to keep our time in check. I didn’t trust myself to see Patrick outside of work more than once a week.
Spending the night was dangerous—without a clear exit strategy, we were getting fresh mango-papaya pastelitos for breakfast and that always led to Patrick licking something off my lip, and we all knew where that led.
If I wasn’t careful, an entire weekend evaporated before my eyes. Not that I didn’t want Cuban pastries or sex-filled weekends with Patrick—I did, and more than I was comfortable admitting. But he didn’t sign up for that, and if I had any hope of walking away unscathed at the end of my apprenticeship, I needed to keep it tidy. And tidy meant parceling out our time into bite-sized chunks, and no pastelitos.
“Okay, so I know I said I don’t need to be in a relationship,” Marley said, a hand gingerly touching her hairspray-frozen waves. “But I’d be happier with one, and it’s not wrong to admit that. It doesn’t make me any less strong or independent.”
“Yeah,” Jess agreed. “If that man was good enough for you and took care of you. You deserve someone who treats you like a princess.”
The words were out before I could rein in my annoyed tone. “Meaning what?”
I witnessed some version of this conversation every time I went out with Jess and Marley. They always wanted to be princesses, and though I didn’t know enough about my heritage to speak with authority, I knew some princesses lived a life very different from Marley and Jess’s imagination, and they often met with tragedy.
Marley’s eyes turned dreamy as she leaned her head toward me. “Someone who surprises me with romantic dinners and flowers at work. He has to hold the door, and get angry when he sees other guys checking me out. I love those guys who go apeshit when they see someone hitting on their girlfriends. And he goes crazy on guys who treated me bad in the past.”
“And gets mad when you offer to pick up the check,” Jess added. “I want someone who makes a bubble bath and brings me wine when I’ve had a hard day, and I want him to spend the whole night talking about what we should name our kids. I want him to want me to stay home and iron his shirts or bake brownies, or paint murals.”
“Yes!” Marley agreed. “And he picks out sexy couture dresses right from the designer for me to wear on special nights out, and has them messengered right from the shop. Oh! And he sends me to the spa for a day of pampering, just because I deserve it.”
I focused on my drink to keep my attitude in check. As far as I could tell, they wanted generous, selfless men stuck in the 1950s who also ran up against anger management issues. I wanted to tell them they watched too many cheery rom-coms, and their version of a princess’s life sounded boring, but I was working on being friendly. “Let me know when you find him.”
My back pocket jolted with a series of vibrations, and I excused myself to the ladies’ room—the list of people who texted me after midnight on a Saturday was short. Leaning against the stall door, I opened the message.
01:28 Patrick:I haven’t seen your socks in a couple of days.
01:28 Patrick:am I going to find out what color you have on tonight?
I laughed and bit my lip, ready to escape for my morsel of Patrick time.
01:34 Andy:I didn’t know you were interested in my socks.
01:35 Patrick:very interested. Starting to think you’re hiding webbed feet, but very interested.
Exhaling, I tucked my phone in my pocket and returned to our table. Jess and Marley wedged a tray full of shots between them, and several Tight T-Shirts cheered them on—as if Patrick’s texts weren’t enough reason to leave. I caught Jess’s eye and gestured to the door, mouthing that I was leaving.
“No!” she yelled. “We’re doing shots!”
I didn’t want to lie, and I wasn’t about to describe my weird arrangement with Patrick. I knew where she stood on that. “I’m tired, and I have some work to do tomorrow…”
“Just two!” Marley cried, and the Tight T-Shirts surrounding her started chanting.
I grabbed a glass in each hand, knocked them back—whatever they were—slammed the glasses down, and walked through the club without a word. Within moments, I was in a cab headed toward the North End.
Going out with Jess and Marley felt necessary—even if it was awful and I spent the entire time thinking about Patrick. Working with Patrick and sleeping with Patrick added up to a lot of Patrick, and though I struggled to find fault with either, blowing off my only friends not connected to him seemed shitty.
Aside from Jess and Marley, all of my friends belonged to Patrick: his sister, his brother’s fiancée, his brothers. They were his and they’d stay with him when this ended.
Climbing the stairs to Patrick’s apartment, the alcohol hit me hard and the horizon swayed. Goddamn shots. Either I was convincing Jess and Marley to try less douchey clubs or I wasn’t going out drinking with them anymore. I wanted a cheese plate and wine instead of bassed-out music and kitchen sink-style shots, and I didn’t care if that dropped me smack in the middle of spinsterdom or aged hipsterhood.
I leaned against the wall near his door to collect my equilibrium, and typed out the first thing that came to mind.
02:12 Andy:you said you wanted to tie me up. is that the sort of thing a girl has to request in advance, kind of like how you have to call ahead for Peking duck?
