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“Nothing,” Nick mimicked under his breath. “That’s right. Everything’s fucking fine.”
“Nick, are you okay?” Eddie looked like he was going to cry. “Did you get in trouble?”
“Don’t worry about it, Ed,” Nick muttered. “Not your problem.”
Nick shut himself up in his room. I walked Eddie down the hall and told him one last time to go to bed. In the living room, my dad was sound asleep in the recliner. As he snored, I turned off the TV.
My own room was frozen in time. High school wrestling trophies, a couple of sports posters and a chaste pinup of an airbrushed blonde in a bikini.
On the bed was a quilt my mom made when I was a kid.
I should have burned it.
I couldn’t.
I opened the window to let in the damp night air and unbuttoned my shirt. In Rome, I’d lived off of Livia, but I’d bought my own clothes. Nick was right, though — the shirt was expensive. After years of denial, all I’d wanted to do in Italy was indulge.
I’d gotten the shirt last spring. But as I stripped it off, it still gave me satisfaction to feel the fabric, admire the fine quality and the pale shade of gray.
Kicking off my shoes, I stretched out on the bed. Paying Nick’s fine left me strapped. That and fixing the roof would drive a painful wedge into my savings.
I should cut down on my time with Christina. She was my biggest expense. My guilty pleasure, my only luxury now.
When I got out my phone, there were no new texts.
She was so far away. I wanted to feel her soft skin, smell her clean scent, stare into her bottomless eyes. Hear her filthy mouth. Crush her body locked with mine, a potent mix of jiggle and muscle.
Instead of turning my phone off, I tapped her name.
“Hello?” She answered immediately, breathless and excited. “Patrick?”
“What would you do?”
“What?”
“What would you do to make my birthday wishes come true?”
She inhaled and hesitated. “I’m not alone,” she whispered. Her voice was scratchy from the game. “I’m sharing a room with three other girls.”
“Are they asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me.”
“Patrick…”
“Tell me, Christina.”
“I’d bake you a cake,” she said, saucy, like she was being so funny. “Alayercake. Do you like chocolate? Cookies aren’t the only thing I can make.”
I waited.
“And I’d read to you. You’ve been reading me so many nice bedtime stories, now that I’m bringing books to your room. I think it’s your turn. Maybe I’d even sketch you and you could laugh at my sorry drawing skills. Ooh, and I’d makeyoubreakfast…”
“And?” I put an edge in my question.
“I’d kiss you,” she whispered. “Everywhere. And — I’d suck you.”
