Page 68 of American Love Story

When I turned my head to look at him, I saw in his eyes the same thing I was feeling: totally fucking wrecked.

Easton

Being in Patrice’s arms sometimes could feel like the most dangerous and safest place I’d ever been in. Lying here with him now, wrung out and warm, enveloped in his smell, in the sweaty mess we’d made, I felt happy.

I’d been certain that my parents had ruined things with Patrice tonight. When I saw his face after what my father said, I was convinced he would never want to see me again. I watched him walk out of the restaurant and I felt desperate. For the first time ever, I’d actually called my parents on their behavior. I felt like I could walk out on them for good and I told them so. When I told my father he’d acted like an asshole, he jerked his head back like I’d backhanded him. My mother literally pearl-clutching at “my language,” like she hadn’t heard the shit my dad had said.

I walked away without even responding to her, not sure I could keep from ruining Nesto’s event if I did. The thought that my parents could’ve pushed Patrice away confirmed what he’dbeen worried about from the first moment. That our worlds could never come together, that we were too different to ever work. That soul-crushing fear was something I should’ve given more thought. Instead I rushed after him, terrified that if I waited, he’d never forgive me. That we’d go back to shaky ground if I didn’t make it clear that my parents never ever spoke for me.

“Why did you accept my apology?” I asked into the darkness.

He stayed quiet for a long time, his breaths slow, but I knew he was awake. I was starting to wonder if he would pretend to be asleep in order to ignore my question, when he finally answered. “I accepted it, because it wasn’t right to punish you for what your father said. You didn’t tell him to say any of that to me.”

The answer didn’t surprise me; Patrice had never been unfair. But there was something there. Tonight had been the second time he’d ever mentioned his father. Once again, he’d made it very clear that there was no love lost there, except there was so much hurt in those fierce eyes whenever he looked at me and told me his secret. The need to show me he wasn’t ashamed of who he was. I remained quiet, hoping he’d feel safe enough in this small haven we’d made, to tell me more. To finally let me see some of his scars, like I’d let him see so many of mine.

“I know what it’s like to feel responsible for the actions of your father and yet know you’re helpless to make him change.”

I moved so I could lay on top of him, my head on his chest and his legs spread wide, holding me between them. I turned so I could kiss him, my lips brushing the spot where his Haitian-American heart tattoo was.

I nodded and tried to respond as honestly as I could. “I wish I could just walk away, but there’s my sister, my grandfather, family obligations. I feel like turning my back on them after they gave me so much, would be ungrateful.” He brought his handsdown then and ran them across my back, and if you took away the fucked up conversation topic, it was pretty perfect.

“My mother always tells me to be grateful. To think that my father could’ve been like a lot of other wealthy men who father children they have no intention of taking responsibility for. That at least he helped us get out of Haiti. Helped me with school.” His voice was hard and his hands, which had been so gentle on me a moment before, stopped moving. “As if every cent that my father gave us, my mother didn’t pay for tenfold. As if she didn’t have to humiliate herself each time.”

I tightened my arms around him as much as I could, wanting to let him talk, but also needing to comfort him. Because Iknewthis was not something he shared very often.

He let out a long exhale before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was almost detached. “The last time I saw my father, I was a junior in high school. He came to New York with his family for Christmas and somehow sent my mother word of where he was staying.”

I tried to use the most soothing voice I could manage when I spoke. “Was that the first time you saw him since you’d left Haiti?”

He let out a long breath, as if just the memory of it exhausted him. “Yeah, it was 2002, so things still felt a little fragile with 9/11 being so recent. Back then my mom was working two jobs so she could pay for her school and our bills. We were struggling big time. I mean we had food and could pay rent, but that was about it.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, because my family always had a lot of money. I had no idea what it was like to struggle like that. Patrice paused again and bent over to bring me closer to him, his strong arms lifting me effortlessly. When he’d kissed me and I was settled with my back against his chest, he started talking again. “The day we went to see him, my mom and I hadgone to Milo and his mom’s house so we could borrow money from Dinorah to pay the heating bill.” He scoffed then and I felt his body tense. I also noticed that whenever he did that, he’d touch me or kiss me, as if it helped him calm down. It didn’t escape me how free he was becoming with his touches and kisses. So far from the man I’d first encountered, who I’d have to coax into even a few words after the sex was over.

“All the way there she kept reassuring me that it would be fine, but I could tell she was nervous. Once we got to the hotel, I realized why. My father was staying at the Waldorf-Astoria. I felt sick when we got there and I realized that while my mom had to borrow money from a friend to keep our heat on, my dad was staying in one of the fanciest hotels in town.”

“That makes me so fucking angry,” I said, shaking my head.

He kissed my neck in response and my body once again was struggling to filter all the things happening to it. “Are you angry on my behalf, Counselor?”

I turned around then so I could see him. “Of course, I am. That’s so fucked up, Patrice.”

He didn’t answer and did that silent and intense thing he always did and sucked my lip into his mouth.

When he let go and I was panting again, I let out a frustrated breath. “It’s so fucking hard to be righteously outraged about your father’s fucked-up shit when you keep licking and sucking on me.” I sounded aggravated and more than a little flustered, because I fucking was. “I should not be this turned on when you are clearly telling me something that is important to you.”

He started shaking and I wondered if he was okay, and when I turned around, the asshole was laughing at me.

I knelt in front of him, trying as hard as I could to contain my own smile. “This is serious. You’re finally opening up to me, and it is not a laughing matter, Patrice Denis.”

“Okay, bébé,” he said, and I almost regretted pushing us to get back to the conversation, because he looked so content just then. At ease, and I wanted to keep him like that for a little longer.

I turned around again, knowing it’d be easier for him to say the rest if we were like this. “So we got there, and it was so awkward. I didn’t know him very much, so the conversation went to what every conversation does with Afro-Latinx males. He commented on my muscles, asked if I had a girl and then ignored me. My um…” His voice changed then and his arms tightened around me, the lightness of the last couple of minutes, completely gone now.

“He asked my mother to go up with him somewhere.”

I wanted to sob for him, because I heard the shame clearly then.

“Baby,” I said as I tried to turn, but he kept his arms on me and rested his forehead on the back of my head.