Page 33 of American Love Story

My gut instinct was to make a joke. Whenever anything came a little too close to heaviness or baggage between me and Patrice, I quickly lightened the mood. Never giving him a reason to feel weighed down when he was with me. I didn’t want to now. I wanted to know.

“Do they?”

He scoffed then and his eyes—which could be serious, or disinterested at times, but never unkind—turned cold. “Of course, they do. But no matter how my hair is or what I’m wearing, people will always make assumptions about someone like me.” His voice was strained like talking about this took him back to a place of endless frustration. He stopped and looked away for a second and when his eyes landed on me, they weresoft again, the frustration back wherever he usually kept it under the surface. “People will always think they know who I am, and almost always, they will be wrong.”

“People suck.” It was such a dumbass response and not nearly enough, but Patrice chuckled, and a real smile tipped up those lush lips.

“They do.”

I wanted to ask more, about how that was for him. How he handled it without being angry all the time. But I didn’t. Wanting to stretch out this moment, I asked something trivial.

“So what are you doing tomorrow?”

I thought I saw a glimpse of disappointment in his eyes at my obvious attempt to change the subject. It stung, but it felt like it was too late to take it back.

He must’ve caught something in my face. “Are you okay?”

I smiled at him and tempted to reach out and touch the screen, wanting to feel closer.

“I’m fine. You didn’t say what you’re doing tomorrow?” I asked again. Not even sure why I insisted on asking the question.

He shook his head gently and sighed. “Driving back afternoon-ish actually. I need to get some stuff done for my classes next week and I won’t get anything done here. I also told Ari I’d meet him for an early dinner. So I’ll be around.” There was too much promise in that answer for me not to pounce on it.

“You want to come over for a drink after, maybe some dessert?”

That sounded a lot more salacious than I’d intended, but he didn’t exactly look put off, and I went with it. “I promise I won’t jump you, I mean, unless you really want me to.”

He laughed at that, and I lit up inside. I loved making Patrice laugh. “I told you I will always be down for someone else making me food, and I have a wicked sweet tooth. I’ll bring some wine.”

I shook my head at his answer. “You don’t need to.”

“I want to. I’ll text you when I get back. I should be back in town by 5:00 p.m. or so.”

“Okay,” I said, trying very hard not to grin.

After that, Patrice’s eyes got droopy like he was going to doze off. “I think I need to get to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

That wasn’t a question or a maybe, it was a statement of fact, and it was hard to contain myself. “Okay.”

We signed off and I lay in bed thinking about the call, the intensity of the phone sex. The way my body responded to Patrice even when he wasn’t in the room. How much I wanted himall the time.

If it were up to me, we would’ve burned the candle at both ends long ago. But Patrice didn’t operate like that; he was methodical and careful and I couldn’t blame him.

I thought about seeing him the next day, and right under the want and need, there was fear. I was scared, of whether in the end, no matter how hot we were together, Patrice didn’t want me like I wanted him.

chapter eight

patrice

Resisting Easton had started to feel like a full-time job, and I had plenty of work already.

That was the line I was feeding myself as I drove into Ithaca. I’d left earlier than I anticipated from the city, so I’d get there before 5:00 p.m. My mom had been disappointed, but when I told her it was because I needed to make sure I planned my lessons, she immediately backed off. I felt guilty about it, but my thirst for Easton had been in overdrive since last night. It was like once the dam was broken, I couldn’t think of anything other than getting my hands on him.

I was sitting there mulling all this when a call from Ari came in. I picked up, wondering if he needed to reschedule for dinner. I spoke before he had a chance to talk. “I’m pretty close. I should be in town soon.” The long silence on his end gave me pause, and when he finally spoke, I immediately knew something was very wrong. “I’m sorry to bother you.” His usual elegant and lilting accent sounded thicker in his distressed state.

“Aristide, est-ce que tout va bien?” Since I’d met him while helping Nesto with the truck, we’d fallen into the habit of speaking in French, both of our native tongues. He usually teased me about me losing my accent, but the long pause after my greeting started to worry me.

“Non. I am not good.”