Afterward, Patrick joins us and kisses me. My head spins from how brazenly he does this in front of his family, and how sure he must be about me and our relationship.
An hour later, when we arrive at his house, Patrick takes me up to the second floor (a novelty to me!) and to his childhood bedroom with its blue walls and blue carpet and blue bedspread. It screams “a boy lives here!” Right down to the participation trophies for every sport imaginable lining the top of a bookshelf. I had some of those once. They got shoved in a box and forgotten about as soon as my dad left.
“Congratulations,” I say to Patrick, looping my arms around his back. I know how hard he worked for five years to get his dream degree.
“Thank you. I hope my parents weren’t grilling you too hard,” he says.
“They didn’t really have a chance to—”
“Quinn!” comes Mrs. Hargrave’s voice through the cracked open door. “Would you mind coming downstairs and giving me a hand?”
“Mom—” Patrick starts to say.
“No.” I place a hand on his chest. “I’ll go. You need to get changed. I’ll see you out there.”
“Okay,” he says before a quick kiss. “Thanks.”
Back downstairs, Mrs. Hargrave sends Mr. Hargrave andBradley out back to assist with the tents, the tables, and the chairs. I begin to follow them, to offer some extra muscle, but she stops me. “Oh, no, Quinn. They’ll handle that. I need you here.”
If she’s insinuating something, I don’t question it because we have a nice time chatting, getting to know each other. I wash my hands and begin slicing cucumbers for the veggie platter. The one the caterer sent over was, in her words, “unpresentable.” It looks fine to me, but again, I don’t question it.
“I’m so glad we could finally meet face-to-face. Patrick has told me so much about you.” She’s popping cherry tomatoes into a plastic container. “He really likes you.”
“I really like him, too.” I hope I don’t come off as uncomfortable. I’m not in the practice of talking about my feelings, at least not the positive ones. That’s not how Mom and I operate.
“And moving in together, that’s a big step. A big step, indeed,” she says. Her eyes shift sideways toward my face. Her burgundy lips turn up into a coy smile.
Shocked, I nearly cut off a finger because I’m not looking carefully at what I’m doing. “What?”
She obviously thinks I only misheard her. “Patrick showed me the photos of the apartment in Penderton he’s thinking of renting. It looks lovely. I’m sure you two will be very happy there.”
My heart skips into overdrive. I assumed he’d move home while he figures out his next steps like most other postgrads. This is the first I’m hearing of a hypothetical apartment for us. I rearrange my face so not to show that.
“Word to the wise,” she says, giving me a conspiratorial look from beneath extra-long eyelashes. “Hargrave men are tough nuts. There are three cardinal rules to keep them happy. Three. Be agreeable and flexible. Don’t interfere with their work. And always keep their plates full.” She hands me a small plate loaded with veggies, then winks. “You’ll thank me later.”
After bringing Patrick the plate, I go through the motions of the party.
I drink plentiful flutes of champagne and meet aunts and uncles whose names I file away for safekeeping, waiting for the right moment to get Patrick alone so I can ask him about what his mother let slip. I don’t know how I feel about it yet, but I’m erring on the side of elated that there’s a future for us.
Throughout the duration of the party, Patrick shows me off proudly. Dances with me, barefoot in the grass, to music we’re too young to know the words to.
It’s not until the cake plates have been cleared, everyone having eaten different portions of Patrick’s face pressed onto too-sweet buttercream, that I catch him alone, horizontal on a lounge chair beside their in-ground pool, staring up at the darkening sky. We’re both on the drunker side of the tipsy continuum. There’s a green bottle of champagne with gold foil flakes falling off it, sitting half-drunk on the ground beside his chair.
“Recuperating?” I ask. I kick off my sandals, roll up the legs of my pants, and dip my feet in the pool. The cool water feels good on my hot, sticky skin.
“Sort of.” Patrick groans before getting up to join me. “How did you handle it all?”
“Pretty well,” I say, meaning it. I’m not used to big family shindigs. It was always just Mom and me. Against the world. For better or worse.
The thought of my mom reminds me of his. “But your mom did say something interesting earlier.”
He smacks his lips knowingly. “This is about the apartment, isn’t it?”
“It’s notnotabout the apartment.”
He takes his phone from his pocket and pulls up a rental listing to show me. “I toured it. It’s nice.”
“It is.” I scroll through the pictures.
