Growing up along the coast of Maine, I did not have many options when it came to friends. I wasn’t slamming Jess—there were only forty-six other kids in our graduating class. We’ve always had an easy relationship where we could go months without seeing each other yet pick up where we left off without a shred of awkwardness.
But the fact remained, close friendships were not my strength and I was exceptionally picky about the people in my circle. I possessed enough self-awareness to recognize that keeping people at a certain distance was a measure of preservation formed from years as an outsider. I’ve always been a little out of the ordinary.
I didn’t have the opportunity to meet others who embraced me and shared my interests until arriving at Cornell, and when faced with the option between people who could hold an intelligent conversation and people who grew up on the same frozen tundra, I’d chosen conversation.
Jess accepted this about me, and I accepted that she believed a billionaire would see her across a crowded bar, decide he couldn’t live without her, fuck her in an alley or the back of his limo, and demand she move into his mansion to be his wife and sex slave.
She spent a lot of time fucking skeezy guys in alleys. It wasn’t particularly reasonable, but at least she was upfront about it.
Patrick, should he choose to speak in more than a few words at a time, had the makings of an incredible conversationalist. His thoughts on architecture, history, ecology—all of it interested me, and I was comfortable saying he’d enjoy talking to me, too.
Getting a drink and chatting with Patrick after work would cross an entire quartile off my bucket list. While I’d initially pegged Patrick as a beer drinker by virtue of his rugby player looks, I’d guess his tastes ran closer to rich wines and whiskey or scotch. Sipping some fifteen-year Macallan, we’d bitch about the minimalistic modern craze and speculate about those early craftsmen who built a city on a hill.
His hand would stroke my leg, squeezing above my knee when he laughed at my pithy takedown of all things laminate. As the night wore on, his fingers would tease under my skirt while he debated the value of preservation legislation. He’d argue that, while well intentioned, much of current regulatory guidance prevented preservation from being in line with sustainability as his fingers slipped beneath my panties and into my wet heat. He’d make his point while he brought me to the edge, his eyes sparkling with the secret knowledge that he was wrist-deep and getting me off in a crowded bar. He’d press himself against me when I found my release, swallowing my cry with a smoldering kiss and a promise for much more when he got me alone.
“What was that?” Marley asked, her hands frozen mid-wave.
“What was what?”
“You made a sound. Like…like a sex sound. Did you see a hot guy?”
Oh, shit. Oh,shit.
I needed to lock that shit down. No more mixed shots.
I gave Marley a confused shrug, clearly indicating I thought she was hearing things. When she resumed fanning herself, I pressed my glass to my forehead in an attempt to temper the Patrick Walsh as Sex God fantasy playing behind my eyes.
And I thought vodka would sort me out. This called for stronger liquor. What was the right potion to quell spontaneous sexy fantasies about an off-limits man who spent more time scowling than speaking?
Absinthe, my voodoo priestess.
Maybe Jägermeister, my favorite frat boy.
Probably a lethal combination of the two with a chaser of tequila, my Mexican medicine man, followed by a good, old-fashioned stomach pumping.
“So where are you from?” Marley shouted.
I glanced at Marley, her fanning slowing. “Wiscasset. Jess and I went to high school together.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said, nodding quickly. “But like, where are youfromfrom?”
She squinted at me, and I groaned inwardly. I got the ‘you don’t look completely white but I can’t tell whether you’re something else, so whatareyou?’ question more than I should.
Every time I avoided an explanation of my genealogy and opted for vague responses that illuminated the inappropriateness of the inquiry. A backhanded quip was on the tip of my tongue but I swallowed it, remembering Marley was one of two friends I could currently name in Boston, and she was letting me stay at her place.
“My dad was Persian.”
“Where is that? Is that a country?”
“He was from Iran, but lived in London and Istanbul.” Marley didn’t seem to notice my tone was beyond condescending.
Her eyes widened then narrowed, and I wondered which part she was struggling to understand. “Was? He’s not alive?”
“No. He died when I was young.”
“Oh my God, that’s awful. What happened? Wait. I’ve heard about Iran. Wasn’t there a war there? Aren’t there a lot of terrorists over there? Was he like…involved with that?”
And there it was.
