by Zoey Castile
“Ricky,” Patrick says, half standing.
“I’m well, Pat,” Ricky assures, and Pat settles back. “Clean bill of health now. I’ll show you the scans. This isn’t about me. Like I was saying. The ups and downs—they’ll always be there, but as long as you have family, nothing else matters.”
We cheer, and I can feel the tension in Patrick by the way he squeezes my hand.
Everyone looks at me. “I’m thankful that I finally decided to continue my dream because I got to meet all of you. To Scarlett for giving me a job. To Patrick for—” I look up at him, and I lose the words I want to say because none of them are enough. “For being everything. When I’m with you, I don’t feel homesick because—I guess—I’m already home.”
My cheeks feel hot as Patrick tugs me to him and presses a kiss on my lips.
Patrick’s next. He looks around the room, smooths out the front of his shirt nervously but when he speaks, he’s sure.
“I’m thankful for the patience of everyone in this room. I gave up on myself a long time ago and the only reason I’m still here is because you didn’t. Scarlett, Kayli.” He looks at me. “And you, Lena. You brought me back to life.”
I look into his eyes and I want to tell him how much I love him. But when I do, I want it to just be the two of us.
“Cheers,” Scarlett says, and we toast one final time.
We eat until we’re too stuffed to move. We move the party into the backyard, where Hutch and I build a giant fire from the wood they chopped. Kayli and Mari dance with River, and Ricky whispers something to Scarlett that makes her blush.
Pat and I Face Time our siblings. Ari is adorable when she’s with him, and Jack is so charming, Mari comes over and tries to steal Patrick’s phone to check him out.
When we’re ready to leave, Hutch and River give us a ride back. Kayli and Mari are spending the night.
At home, Pat and I shower and fall into a Thanksgiving coma. I doze off, sleeping in the crook of Patrick’s arm, my leg across his body, his hand on my rump.
“Good night, Pat.”
“Lena?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“You can paint me for your project.”
I half think I’m already dreaming that he’s telling me this, and still, I find his mouth in the dark. His tongue. His throat. I slide on top of him, feeling the delicious throb of his cock. I decide I am not as full as I thought because I will always make room for the way Patrick feels inside of me.
17
Patience
PAT
December
The first time I was on a set for American Speed, I was cocky. I walked in there knowing that I had the lead role. I fucked up over and over, forgot my lines, and I never apologized to the hundreds of people I delayed with my bullshit. I never thanked the crew, the director, my co-stars for how many times I was wrong. I don’t know why everything went so quickly to my head. When I was with the boys of Mayhem City, I worked harder than I’d ever had. I wanted to be good. I wanted to be seen. But after the movie, I felt like I was being given my dues and then no one could tell me anything.
Standing naked in Lena’s studio, I feel the heat of anxiety I didn’t have when I was filming. I’m aware of the sunlight refracting from the snow outside. It’s been snowing for a week since Thanksgiving, and we haven’t left the house. I’ve been mentally preparing myself for this moment, but now that I’m in here, I don’t know what to do with my body.
“Where do you want me to stand?” I ask, tugging off my shirt and boxers. I hold them in my fists, and she takes them from me.
“What do you do before your workouts?”
“Stretch.”
“Then do that a little while I finish setting up.”
She’s in my long johns and a Wonder Woman tank top that’s covered in paint, despite the apron wrapped around her neck and waist. Her hair is tied neatly into a bun and three skinny brushes are pierced through the center. My little artist. I would do anything to keep that smile on her face, because as she looks at me, I don’t feel bare or exposed. I feel like I am exactly where I need to be.
She moves me like a mannequin, adjusting my arms so that I don’t look as stiff as I feel. It almost reminds me of the way Ricky used to adjust my stance when I was dancing, only when Ricky did it, I wasn’t sporting a semi.
“Don’t even think about it,” she says, warningly, but still biting that sexy bottom lip.
I have no idea what she’s doing on the other side of that canvas as she paints, but for the next week, we rinse and repeat. Being naked for Lena this way makes me feel aware of my body in different ways. I’m not hiding. I’m letting her put me on display. The promise I make to her is that I can’t see the painting until it’s done. When she isn’t painting me, she’s painting other things. I lose her to this studio, but it’s where she belongs. She works day and night and all I can do is help with what she needs.
One night, after a long session of me standing on my feet, I complain that I need a treat. She gets on her knees and takes my dick into her mouth, licking me until I come on the strip of canvas that covers the floor. I return the favor by laying her flat and drinking my fill of her. When she comes, she kicks out with her leg, accidentally knocking over the watercolor bins behind us. The water is cold and she squeals.
“Turn around,” I tell her, and she barks, “You turn around.”
But she does it anyway, rolling onto her belly. I spread her legs with my knees and guide my dick into her folds. Her hands spread on the canvas leaving smudges of her handprints in blues and pinks and greens, each and every color mixing in together. Even my knees drag the splashes on the blank canvas as I pound into her. There’s paint all over our skin, and just before I feel ready to come, she slips off me. She pushes me to the ground and climbs onto my dick. We tussle that way, fucking every way we possibly can, making a mess of color and sweat.
When we’re finished, my hair is stiff with paint and probably more.
“You’d make a good redhead.” She laughs when she sits on my abs.
“How dare?” I ask and that makes her fold in half with giggles.
“I honestly don’t think we’ll ever be clean,” I tell her.
“I like you a little dirty.” She bites at my ear.
She decides to keep that canvas and stretches it on a frame when she’s satisfied with the colors.
LENA
I finish my painting of Patrick in mid-December, which gives me just enough days to make sure it dries properly before I have to show my work to Professor Meneses.
I am proud of the work I put into making sure he looks like the man I love. Just thinking that—love—keeps surprising me. That feeling has been there for so many months, but I never let myself say it. I want to believe that he’s having the same emotions on his end, but a part of me is scared. I’ve never said it to someone and meant it. When I tell Patrick that I love him, I don’t want to take it back.
The night before I have to bring my painting in for show, I make dinner. I can’t remember the last time I cooked, except for the help I put into Thanksgiving dinner. Patrick has taken care of our meals, including doing the things around the house.
Cooking relaxes me and helps me focus and is an excuse to sing around the kitchen. While the pernil roasts and the rice cooks, we sort the books in the living room.
“Isn’t this going to make it harder to find a book I want to read?” Patrick asks, putting the last blue book into the blue section.
“Don’t ruin my Pinterest vision. We have the color spectrum on one wall and the black-and-white gradient on the other side. This is the shelf for the books you’re reading and they can be any color. That way, you actually keep track of what you’re reading.”
He blows a raspberry on his palms, but keeps on sorting.
When we’re finished, we both survey the room.
“Are those all the boxes?” he asks.
We framed the pictures from his family and placed them around t
he wall. There’s still a spot over the mantel, but I’ve got a surprise painting that I haven’t shown him yet.
“That’s all. Congratulations on your new home, Mr. Donatello.” I get on my toes and stare into his jade-green eyes.
“Thank you, Lena.”
“Oh, your manners are so sexy,” I tease.
Just then, Ari texts me.
“How’s she doing?” Patrick asks.
“She says she’s super stressed about tests and wants to run away.”
Patrick breaks down the empty boxes, and frowns. “Should we be worried?”
I like that he says “we.”
“She’d run away here, so maybe.”
He shrugs, not looking at me as he cuts and folds. “We have plenty of rooms. I’m sure there’s one we haven’t fucked in.”
I want to laugh, but she sends me a sad-faced selfie in her room. I stand in front of the rainbow bookshelves and smile. I send her that photo. Patrick comes around me from behind and kisses my left cheek while I look into the camera. I snap the photo.
“I think this is our first photo together,” I say.
“Let me see.”
He takes a deep breath as we look at it. We are perfect. The hundreds of pearly scars are like the tail end of a shooting star on his cheek.
“Send that one to me,” he murmurs on my skin.
When he kisses me, I get spinning, dizzying lust that clouds my thoughts.
I send it, and then hook my fingers around his waistband. “I have a surprise for you.”
“Really?”
I lead him down the hall to my studio. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
My studio is all cleaned up. My paintings are wrapped in brown paper so I can take them to class next week. The one that’s of Patrick is covered in a white bedsheet. I want his approval before I pack it up.
When I unveil the painting, I watch his facial expression. At first, it is frozen, like he’s too stunned to move. Then, his smile creeps up slowly, baring his teeth. His eyes roam the canvas from top to bottom, my own excitement building with his silence.
“Well, what do you think?” I ask tentatively.
He takes my hands in his. “It’s incredible, and I’m not just saying that because I’m the subject matter.”
“You know this has to be up in the gallery for a week, right? My teachers and classmates and the student body will see it.”
He presses his forehead against me. “You’ve told me a dozen times, Lena.”
“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I think I am. I’m terrified about what people will say when they see me. I’ve spent so much of my professional life caring about this one thing. But I feel like I’m letting the world see this version of me. I get to choose it. You’re helping me control that.”
“So, you’re telling me you like it.”
“I love it, Lena.” He lifts my chin with his finger. He takes a deep breath, and a part of me knows what he’s going to say. Has hoped he’d say it, because if he doesn’t, I will. “I—I love you.”
I slip my hands under his shirt and feel the speed of his heart. There is no turning back for me once I say this. “I love you, too, Pat.”
18
Breakup in a Small Town
PAT
I can’t sleep that night. I know all of the things I told Lena, and I meant them. Mostly. The biggest one being that I love her. I’ve never loved anything or anyone the way I love her, with the exception of my family, and that’s a different kind of love. I want Lena to be my family. I want her to be my everything.
And yet, I can’t shake the thoughts of what will happen when she takes that painting to school. I shoot Chris a text. I haven’t talked to him since Thanksgiving because I’ve felt better than ever. It was a little bit of a surprise seeing him there, but I can understand why Kayli had suggested him in the first place. I also send Jack a text message asking him for an update about whether or not he’ll be home for Christmas.
By dawn, I realize I’m not getting any more than the couple of hours of fitful sleep I managed. It’s strange that this is the first time since truly knowing Lena that I am this restless. While Lena’s still knocked out, I decide I want to surprise her. I get into my truck, buckle up, and for the first time in nearly a year, I drive.
There is no one on the snow-covered roads but me. For the first half hour, I clutch the wheel hard, my shoulders tense. When I was a kid, our parents used to drive to the Christmas-tree lot nearby. Ronan and Jack and I would wander around the rows of giant pines and pretend we were in the North Pole. I wasn’t going to decorate for Christmas since Lena was going to be gone and Jack and I haven’t done that since our parents passed. But things are different now. I’m different.
Aren’t I?
When I get to the lot, they aren’t even open yet, but the guy on the grounds makes an exception because I pay in cash. He stares at my face the entire time, the scent of coffee and cigarettes clinging to his thick jacket. I am an oddity to him. I will be an oddity to anyone who sees me.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” he asks.
I shrug. “Did you go to Bozeman High?”
He shakes his head.
“Then I don’t think so.”
I carry the giant pine tree over my shoulder with one long-held breath, then drop it in the bed of my truck. As I drive home, my phone starts blowing up. I don’t check it because I don’t want to be distracted. Call me paranoid, but even though the road is empty, I don’t want to take the chance. Worry takes over. I realize I didn’t leave a note for Lena before I left. I thought I’d have more time.
I pull over and flip through the notifications. Scarlett. Chris. Miriam called me three times. Jack. Fallon and Aiden even. People I haven’t talked to in years. Daisy. A wave of heat crashes over me as my heart races. I don’t read any of the messages, but I know enough that something just happened.
Lena’s name is the only one I care about. I try to call but it goes to voicemail. I have a single bar, but her latest text comes through.
Where are you? she texts.
Me: I went out.
Me: What happened, are you okay?
Lena: I’m fine. Don’t come home. Go to Scarlett’s.
I don’t like the sound of that one bit, so I hit the gas and turn on the road leading home. My heart beats like a war drum the entire way there, and I understand why she wanted me to stay away.
As I crest the hill, I see her in our living room pacing back and forth through the glass. There’s someone with a camera standing at my front door. I don’t know why it takes me so long to see the others. Because I wasn’t looking for them, I was looking for Lena. Half a dozen more men and women pour out of a white van and surround my truck.
The paparazzi have finally descended on me. The question is, why now?
I click on the voicemail from my agent.
“Hey, babe, it’s Miriam. Why didn’t you tell me you were out and about? We could’ve done something really big with this. Don’t worry, there are still opportunities. People’s offer is still good as long as it’s an exclusive. They want an interview with you and the girl. Call me back when you get this.”
Me and the girl?
My heart feels like it’s shot straight out of my body and a sick, twisting feeling returns, slick and twisted and all too familiar. I kill the engine and grip the steering wheel. I consider getting out of the car. I consider hitting reverse and running. But as the swarm of reporters encroach, a shotgun blast rings from the tree line.
Scarlett’s black Jeep is zooming in our direction. The photographers race back into the van.
Why are they here?
I should go inside to get the answer, but I am frozen inside my truck. I clutch my phone in hand and search the internet for my face. For the photo I know I’m going to find.
Lena grinning into the camera, and me kissing her cheek, right there for the world to see.
LENA
&nb
sp; I wake to the incessant buzz of my phone.
“Pat, is that you?” I ask, and roll over to find an empty bed and an eerie silence. I unlock my phone and scroll through a dozen text messages from Ariana.
I’m sorry.
She took my phone and gave it to her boyfriend.
I’m so, so sorry, Lena.
Please tell Pat I didn’t know what she was going to do.
Panic shakes me from head to toe when I don’t find Patrick in the house. Did he see the photo posted online? Did he decide to leave instead of confront me? I realize the picture’s been up for hours, the traction building now that it’s morning. But Ari’s messages are from midnight, after we went to sleep. I didn’t feel Patrick wake up. I wouldn’t know when he left.
I rake my fingers through my hair and try to figure out what to do. Mostly, I pace around the house in panic.
The caption on the XYZ Instagram page reads: Sources from the Martels have shared a photo of American Speed actor and his new lady love. Could the disgraced star be ready for a second chance? This is the first photo that’s surfaced of Patrick Halloran since the accident that ended his career and nearly claimed his brother’s life. Does everyone deserve a second chance? Stay tuned for our coverage leading up to the anniversary of the scandalous film.
I call Ariana but she doesn’t pick up. I call my stepmother and leave her a voicemail that I hope my dead parents forgive me for. When a white van crests the hill with out-of-state plates, I call Scarlett. She tries to calm me down, but how can I calm down when there are photographers with cameras all over the place?
I text and call and scream for Patrick. He can’t come home to this. But he hasn’t answered. All I can do is resort to pacing until his truck finally appears, soon followed by Scarlett’s Jeep. The boom of a shotgun causes the strangers and trespassers to scatter. My mind is whirling, my heart twisting with fear.