Page 79 of Patrick

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It’s late afternoon and already getting dark before we dress again, mostly because Trick’s stomach won’t shut up and I feel guilty depriving him of food. I throw on an old T-shirt of Trick’s that he left here and I maybe forgot to return on purpose.

“Let’s go off campus to get some food,” he says.

He doesn’t have his car, so he drives my turquoise Mini Cooper, and we escape to the coast to a place called Markey’s and get some take-out fried clams for me and burger and fries for him.

“Some people say Markeys has the best fried clams around,” I say as we drive to an empty spot along the beach. He doesn’t take the bait—so-to-speak. “Jennings Market has the best.”

“Of course they do.” His lips are tight as we pull over and park.

“You don’t like the smell of fried clams, do you?”

“No.” He gets out of the car and I follow him to the deserted picnic area and sit at the table.

He heaves in a breath of the salty breeze.

“I’m sorry, Trick. I should have realized⁠—”

“No. It’s mostly the smell of raw fish, or fish while it’s cooking that bothers me. But in the closed space of a car…” He shrugs and looks away, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

I push his box of burger and fries in front of him. “These are yours if you still have an appetite.” I push my box of clams as far away from him as I can manage and still eat them.

I want to tell him I get how hard it must be for him to work around fish all the time and deal with it secretly. I want to ask him why he doesn’t tell his dad and urge him to do it because I can’t stand the idea of him being miserable another minute.

But I don’t say anything because I know he absolutely doesn’t want to talk about any of that. He plucks a fry from the box and it takes no time for all the food to disappear.

He takes my hand/ “Let’s take a walk.” We walk on the empty beach in Salisbury. It’s low tide and getting cold, a typical winter evening.

“It’s beautiful out tonight,” I say. “The sky is so clear. Maybe that’s why it’s so freaky cold.” I squeeze his hand, relishing the warmth.

“You mean invigorating.” He hugs me close to him, but when a gust whips us with frigid sea air, we go back and sit in the car.

“You make my car seem tiny,” I say as we shut our doors against the wind.

“It is tiny, sugar lips. But it’s hella nicer than my old beat-up car.” He leans in and kisses me, gathering me in his arms. “Speaking of old and beat-up, you look great in my old T-shirt.”

“It’s not my usual style, but I like it.” I dip my head and sniff. “Your scent lingers in the material somehow.”

“You know you’d make anything look good. You even make my oversized shapeless game jersey look like a work of art when you wear it.”

“You only say that because you don’t know any better. I should teach you some fashion sense and make a designer version of your game jersey. A version that would make your eyes pop to the moon and back.”

“That’s my kind of fashion lesson. Teach away, my design diva.”

“You don’t think I’m serious, do you?”

“Fifi babe, the day you showed up at the rink looking like you stepped out of my most impossible dream, I stopped thinking, serious or otherwise.”

My heart hiccups and I swat his arm, feeling off balance and fuzzy, like a swarm of hot bees took over my body. Then I leave my hand on the hard ropey muscle of his arm, my skin feeling too hot. A bubble of laughter escapes.

He goes on undaunted as usual. “But when my brain restarted, there was no choice but to take you seriously and any other way I can get you.”

His lopsided grin makes me really laugh, and I roll my eyes, maybe more at myself than him.

He tugs me to him and kisses me.

“I’ll prove you right then,” I murmur.