Page 20 of Patrick

“A sleepover doesn’t necessarily mean⁠—”

“Since when? Now who’s acting like they’re still in high school?” There’s a gentle tease in his voice, but I hear the seriousness there too.

“So it’s all or nothing with you, then?”

“You don’t know me, Fifi. If we’re testing things out between us, then let’s do it. You need to take the Trick’s Stick for a test run. See if I’m worth all your trouble.”

I laugh, but it’s nervous and brittle. He’s right. I don’t know him—at least not that way. But I do know he’s teasing because he’s as nervous as I am.

Shaking him up and taking the normally cool, unphased Trick by surprise is my favorite thing in the world. That jolt of adrenaline or hormones or whatever it is that kicks in feels so wild it could be addictive.

With the Trick-fueled buzz, I venture into a dangerously unprecedented level of flirtation.

“A stick is a stick, isn’t it? Let’s see how you do at convincing me to test yours. I need to be romanced.”

“I bet you do. In that case, I’ll bring some candy.”

“You’re such a jerk.”

“What? You can’t have a treat now and then? You know, a Trick and a treat?”

Laughter bubbles so loud that I cover my mouth before one of the girls checks on me. They would hate to miss out on any whiff of something fun.

“I don’t eat candy. My body is a temple.” I use my best flirty tone of voice, and he blows out a whistle.

“That’s something I need to see, up close and personal and unveil⁠—”

“Then you’ll have to romance me with something better than candy, Tricky man. Come by after 8. My roommates will be out by then.”

“Where are you?”

I give him the address. “Don’t worry, I have my own room with an en-suite, so we’ll have plenty of privacy.” He blows out a whistle. The wolfish sound unnerves me, so I add, “To talk.” Shit. What’s wrong with me? Where’s all that confidence? What happened to flirty dangerous Fifi?

He laughs. “I’ll be there, Fifi⁠—”

“Must you call me Fifi?”

“Must you wear pink?”

I laugh again, grateful for his talent in snapping my tension and hoping I can get off this emotional roller coaster with him long enough to really get to know him and enjoy… whatever.

He joins in chuckling, and the feeling I get in my chest is like the whoosh from a flock of birds gracefully taking flight all at once. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before, not in any of my encounters with him. Certainly not with any other boy I’ve dated or kissed or whatever over the years. Though I always compared other boys to Trick. He was always the standard.

“I gotta go, Fifi. We have a game at Merrimack, and the bus is leaving in fifteen.”

“Oh. That’s only an hour away. I wish I knew. I’d have gotten tickets.”

Sighing, I tell him good-bye, and we end the call. The stark silence that follows is like a wake-up slap.

Being here at UNH with him, free to flirt, to touch, to plan, to date, to see him and be with him any time, is like a long-held dream coming true, the kind of dream that’s more like a fairytale, the kind you hope for but you know is never going to happen—and boom. Here it is, happening.

And now my head is having some kind of cognitive dissonance reaction, trying to figure out what’s real and what’s not. I feel the break physically like a fissure trembling through my whole body, the departure from my norm, from the old world that held me back from Trick.

I drop the phone on my bed. Then I run to the bathroom because the fracture is so severe that the trauma assaults my belly, and I’m afraid I might puke.