Page 23 of American Love Story

As I started coming up with a response, things became clearer for me, too. “Domestic violence, sexual assault…those are black and white things. It’s not hard to go on a righteous rantabout someone hurting their loved ones. As far as I’m concerned anyone who’s out there defending rapists can fuck right off. With this, every step of the way I feel like I am fucking it up, or worse, trying to get people I thought shared my views to admit that there’s even an issue.”

Patrice looked at me for a few moments as if calculating what I wasn’t saying, but when he spoke the understanding in his voice felt like grace I didn’t deserve. “Not ignoring it, letting the public know you’re addressing it,isa first step.”

I made a noise between resignation and frustration.

“I’m going to talk to Sheriff Day. I’m not anywhere near done with this.” I sounded more sure than I felt and Patrice looked like he was reading right through me.

“So are you going to ask him to hold the deputies pulling that shit accountable?”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Patrice just picked up his fork and kept eating. After a minute, he spoke again. “I’m glad you’re talking to the sheriff but, I’m just going to give you this to think about, and then I’d like to get off this topic. It’s never been ‘a couple of bad apples’ issue, it’s asystemicissue. Removing one or two guys may be a temporary solution or appease a few people, but’s it’s not what will fix things in the long run. That fix involves a lot more discomfort and painful conversations than getting the two guys who can’t keep their shit in check in trouble.”

He was right and yet I knew that it was probably as much as I would get from Day. It was hard to hear, and even harder to acknowledge, that the best solution I could come up with was not going to fix anything.

“I don’t want to fuck this up or make it worse by trying to help.”

Patrice stared at me so intensely, like he was trying to figure out what I was about. If I could really be trusted. “This sort ofthing always gets to a place where you need to pick a side.” He laughed humorlessly as he played with the stem of the wineglass. “And the side I’m on, the one you have to pick if you’re going to really make a change here—it doesn’t get a lot of wins.”

I groaned feeling that truth sink into my bones like lead.

He raised his gaze from the table up to me, his eyes less hard now. “I’m glad you’re not acting like you have an easy fix for this, or that you even have any answers.”

“Thank you for saying that, and for understanding. I can’t imagine how frustrating this all must be for you.” This time his lips turned up, and it was almost a smile.

“Frustrating is a mild way to put it, but again, hearing you say that you get none of this is simple helps.”

I kind of marveled at the fact that we were able to talk like this. That he wasn’t making demands or ultimatums. Before I knew it, I was blurting it out.

“Why aren’t you pissed at me right now?”

He really took his time on that and I found that I wasn’t nervous about his answer; we’d somehow reached a place where we seemed to be on the same page.

“If changing things was up to just you, up to any one of us, I would not be sitting here. I’d be fixing it.” He let that last part sit there between us; what else was there to say?

After a moment, he glanced around the room, his eyes landing on my enormous wine rack, which was mostly filled with bottles from my family’s vineyard. “Are you going to the Fall Wine Festival this weekend?”

I almost got whiplash from that sudden shift in conversation, but I went with it.

I’d promised my mother I’d take her for a little bit, since she felt compelled to attend any event Archer Vineyards—my family’s business—was sponsoring. She had no interest in the business—never had—and my father barely let her inon anything going on. But he did require that she make an appearance and perform her duties as the Mistress Archer, and I usually let her drag me along when I could. I sighed and looked over at Patrice, who was still waiting for my answer.

“I will probably stop by. I always go with my mom for a little bit. Are you going?”

He looked like he wanted to ask something, but after a moment, he took a sip of champagne and shook his head. “No, I’m driving down to the city tomorrow. My mom always makes this traditional Haitian dish called soup Joumou this time of year to mark the start of the Holiday season. Soup Joumou is traditionally made on New Year’s Day to celebrate Haitian Independence Day, but at some point in college, my mom started making it in the fall. All the guys and their families go.”

I assumed byguyshe meant his three best friends, Nesto, Camilo, and Juan Pablo. They’d all grown up together in the Bronx and now Patrice and Nesto had coincidentally ended up here, but the other two were still in New York City.

I looked over at him and smiled, noticing that his expression lightened just from the mention of his friends. “Sounds like fun. Are you staying for the whole weekend?”

He stood up and grabbed this plate as he answered me. I guess we were wrapping up the evening. “I’ll be back Saturday night.” He extended the hand with which he held the plate. “This was great. Thanks for the food and the wine. I would’ve probably just caved in and had a burrito for dinner.” He made a face and winked at me, and my dumb heart wanted to burst just from that.

I stood with my plate and walked with him to the kitchen. “It was nothing. I was glad to have someone to eat with. Most nights I just eat standing up in the kitchen. It was nice to set the table.”

He leaned against the kitchen counter, once we’d cleaned up and I sat down on the island right across from him. Iwas intensely aware of his body. Then again, I was always hyperaware of Patrice whenever he was in the room.

We were so close, but I could not touch. I was practically vibrating with the need to run my hands over his chest. To kiss and nip at his skin like I’d done before. I had to close my hands into fists, because the temptation was almost overwhelming. After a moment, I cleared my throat to say something,anything,to break this tension.

“So will you stay with your parents when you go to the city?”