Chapter Four
Patrick yawned and stretched his arms over his head. Waking up early to practice with Anita had been critical. But seriously, when was he supposed to sleep? Last night he had to go to a new restaurant opening in Philadelphia and had not gotten home until the wee hours. Now he still had to finish his latest blog post, respond to a few different inquiries on his social media pages, and organize the photos from the restaurant opening. It was nine p.m. already, and he was exhausted. Clearly he had blocked out how physically taxing comp practice was.
Necessary, though. The way Anita had felt in his arms…
But she had blocked him out long enough for him to stop dreaming. Or at least try.
Patrick yawned again and went to the small kitchen to get himself a glass of water.
The ficus Anita had given him as a joke was looking a little peaked. She had told him it would suit his “bachelor pad,” but he hated to think he couldn’t even take care of a damn plant. Water. Plants just needed water, right?
He filled his glass from the stainless-steel fridge dispenser and glanced at the empty wall of exposed red brick in the living room, the lack of ornamentation.
“When are you finally going to move in, Patrick?” Anita had asked a few months ago. Minimalism did not quite suit her. Her own apartment was a riot of color and throw pillows, cozy rainbow-colored cable blankets, and half-drunk mugs of tea on every available surface. She presented the world a buttoned-up, elite athlete, while inside she was a neurotic marshmallow.
He definitely had a taste for marshmallows.
Patrick’s phone pinged with a social media notification, and his heart flopped uncomfortably. He had deadlines. Hecould not keep standing around musing over things that would absolutely never happen.
He had never intended to become an influencer. He had started his blog,PhillyProud, as a way to distract himself from his unrequited adoration of his beautiful and talented friend. As one does.
It had been a good time to leave the Dancesport world, though. Patrick was not a masochist. He did not want to keep going every single day to watch the woman he loved and the ridiculous partner she had chosen over him.
And seriously, Mikhail? After Tyler and Giorgio and a few other scattered dudes Patrick knew would never last, Anita had picked Mikhail? Apart from his decent technique, he wasn’t terribly creative with choreography, and he had almost objectively “stupid hair.” It was a thick black ball of too much hair gel, an environmentally unfriendly amount of hairspray, all styled into a ludicrously outdated pseudo-pompadour. It didn’t deflate even after two hours of dancing, which proved to Patrick its direct impact on climate change.
Patrick could be forgiven for never wanting to be in the studio with the jerk, right? The feeling had definitely been mutual. Mikhail didn’t trust Patrick—which, all things considered, he shouldn’t have.
Life was all about timing. One fateful instruction from his soccer coach to try dance to improve his footwork, and he ended up meeting the love of his life. Who didn’t even really like to be touched unless they were dancing together.
Patrick yawned again, downed the glass of water, and did a couple of jumping jacks to wake himself up.
Work. He sat down at his laptop and pulled up his social media and email accounts. He had already pre-scheduled his posts for the next two weeks and frankly did not have the time to spend trying to write pithy comments on other people’s poststonight. As quickly as he could, he clicked through the emails, confirming a few deadlines on articles, updating an editor from theInquireron article progress, and sending out an invoice for a paid sponsorship with a men’s clothing store that he had completed. Once he checked his messages, he could finally go to bed.
Unusual. Only one message.
It was from an account he didn’t recognize, PHL29848, and the avatar was a photo of the Philly Phanatic. When had subtlety gone out of fashion? It wasn’t like he used the Rocky steps for his brand logo. Whatever it was, it was not bound to be urgent.
Still, he had a duty. He had to be there for his followers, respond quickly to messages, or he would quickly find himself waiting tables again. Damn it, he desperately did not want to go back to that.
MISSING YOU…
No name, no photos, no links.
What the fuck?Was he hallucinating through his fatigue?
Nope, not a hallucination. Just an all caps direct message written in red font.
He clicked on the PHL29848’s profile page, but it was mostly landscape photos of different Philadelphia landmarks and only dated back a week.
Whatever, he was too tired for spam. He deleted the message, made sure he blocked PHL29848 so whatever creepazoid it was couldn’t follow him, and fell asleep within moments of his head hitting the pillow.
Chapter Five
The next day, the sun broke crisp and clean, the idea of snow left somewhere back in February.
Patrick knew better. A born-and-bred Pennsylvania boy never trusted March.
He jogged down the streets of his small town, past evidence of Lewis’s gentrification, large two- and three-story Georgians and Cape Cods set back from the street and fronted with lawns that would be emerald-green in the summer. Especially after the last three months in the over-tangled bustle and smoky snow of New York, the country air restored him.
