American Love Story (Dreamers)

by Adriana Herrera

  He lifted a shoulder and went in for another bite. “It’s nice to not have to eat alone. That’s one of the things I’ll miss about having roommates. I like my space, but living with Nesto all those years I got used to sitting around a table.” There was a real wistfulness in his face and I wondered how much he was missing New York.

  “Do you miss the city?”

  Another shrug. “I do, but having Nesto here is great.” He picked up the napkin and wiped his mouth. “And living in New York on a graduate stipend isn’t the easiest. So the job and better income goes a long way in helping with the homesickness.”

  I nodded, not sure what to say. No matter how much I tried to claim some independence and step out on my own, I always had a pretty massive safety net. Going to Buffalo instead of letting my parents pay for me to get into Cornell was more symbolic than anything. I still had full access to my trust fund, if I ever decided I wanted to stop working.

  I was still thinking about what to say when he smiled at me. “Besides it’s not too bad in Ithaca.” He paused then, and the smile evaporated from this lips. “For now, at least.” He looked like he wanted to say more, instead he grabbed his glass and took a long drink.

  I wondered if he was thinking about the stops. If he wanted to say something, but wasn’t, because of how I might react. I wanted to know though. I wanted to hear his thoughts.

  I knew I was probably playing with fire, but I asked anyway.

  “I saw your tweet about the traffic stops.”

  He put his glass down as I said that, his attention fully on me and I could almost see his hackles go up.

  “You mean the sheriff department’s practice of stopping young men for essentially driving while black?”

  There was not much I could say to that, other than agree.

  “You’re right. It’s a problem.” I wanted to say more, tell him I was feeling like my hands were tied. That I thought we were not doing enough to address the incidents that had already happened and nothing to prevent new ones. Instead I just looked down at my plate.

  Patrice’s face turned thunderous, like he couldn’t believe this was my explanation. He put down his fork and pushed his plate forward, half of the food still on the plate.

  “If you know it’s a problem then why hasn’t the DA’s office made a public statement? Why has there not been a single word on this in the media? Because so far it’s just been black and brown boys getting hassled a little bit, and that doesn’t even escalate to the level where anyone in law enforcement even deems to talk about it?”

  He looked disgusted and it took everything I had not to get defensive. To start parroting out excuses.

  Patrice’s words brought home once again that we weren’t doing nearly enough. I pushed my plate away, practically squirming under Patrice’s stare. I debated with what to say next. There were so many ways I could go here, but I would not bullshit him on this.

  “Honestly, I’m out of my depth here.”

  Patrice looked at me like he was trying to figure me out.

  “No one’s saying dealing with any of this is easy, but acting helpless or like acting it’s out of your hands is not it. It’s irresponsible.”

  I ran a hand over my face and sighed again. “I’m realizing I know a lot less about dealing with this situation than I thought I did.” I let out a tired laugh at that. “I’m not even sure why I would think I was equipped for any of it. It’s not like I’ve had to deal with this particular issue before.”

  Patrice raised an eyebrow, but he was not giving me anything.

  As I started coming up with a response, things became clearer for me too. “Domestic violence, sexual assault...those are black-and-white things. It’s not hard to go on a righteous rant about someone hurting their loved ones. As far as I’m concerned anyone who’s out there defending rapists can fuck right off. With this, every step of the way I feel like I am fucking it up, or worse, trying to get people I thought shared my views to admit that there’s even an issue.”

  Patrice looked at me for a few moments as if calculating what I wasn’t saying, but when he spoke the understanding in his voice felt like grace I didn’t deserve. “Not ignoring it, letting the public know you’re addressing it, is a first step.”

  I made a noise between resignation and frustration.

  “I’m going to talk to Sheriff Day. I’m not anywhere near done with this.” I sounded more sure than I felt and Patrice looked like he was reading right through me.

  “So are you going to ask him to hold the deputies pulling that shit accountable?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  Patrice just picked up his fork and kept eating. After a minute he spoke again. “I’m glad you’re talking to the sheriff but, I’m just going to give you this to think about, and then I’d like to get off this topic. It’s never been ‘a couple of bad apples’ issue. Removing one or two guys may be a temporary solution or appease a few people, but it’s not what will fix things in the long run. That fix involves a lot more discomfort and painful conversations than getting the two guys who can’t keep their shit in check in trouble.”

  He was right and yet, I knew that it was probably as much as I would get from Day. It was hard to hear, and even harder to acknowledge, that the best solution I could come up with was not going to fix anything.

  “I don’t want to fuck this up, or make it worse by trying to help.”

  Patrice stared at me so intensely, as if trying to figure if I could really be trusted. “This sort of thing always gets to a place where you need to pick a side.” He laughed humorlessly as he played with the stem of the wineglass. “And the side I’m on, the one you have to pick if you’re going to really make a change here—it doesn’t get a lot of wins.”

  I groaned feeling that truth sink into my bones like lead.

  He raised his gaze from the table up to me, his eyes less hard now. “I’m glad you’re not acting like you have an easy fix for this, or that you even have any answers. Honestly it’s a relief to hear it because at least that means that you see it for what it is. Hard work.”

  “Thank you for saying that, and for understanding. I can’t imagine how frustrating this all must be for you.” This time his lips turned up and it was almost a smile.

  “Frustrating is a mild way to put, but again, hearing you say that you get none of this is simple helps.”

  I kind of marveled at the fact that we were able to talk like this. That he wasn’t making demands or ultimatums. Before I knew it I was blurting it out.

  “Why aren’t you pissed at me right now?”

  He really took his time on that and I found that I wasn’t nervous about his answer.

  “If changing things was up to just you, up to any one of us, I wouldn’t be sitting here. I’d be fixing it.” He let that last part sit there between us, what else was there to say?

  After a moment, he glanced around the room, his eyes landing on my enormous wine rack, which was mostly filled with bottles from my family’s vineyard. “Are you going to the Fall Wine Festival this weekend?”

  I almost got whiplash from that sudden shift in conversation, but I went with it.

  I’d promised my mother I’d take her for a little bit, since she felt compelled to attend any event Archer Vineyards, my family’s business, was sponsoring. She had no interest in the business, never had, and my father barely let her in on anything going on. But he did require that she make an appearance and perform her duties as the Mistress Archer, and I usually let her drag me along when I could. I sighed and looked over at Patrice, who was still waiting for my answer.

  “I will probably stop by, I usually go with my mom for a little bit. Are you going?”

  He looked like he wanted to ask something, but after a moment he took a sip of champagne and shook his head. “No, I’m driving down to the city tomorrow, sinc
e I don’t have more classes for the rest of the week. My mom always makes this traditional Haitian dish called Soup Joumou this time of the year to mark the start of the Holiday season. Soup Joumou is traditionally made on New Year’s Day to celebrate Haitian Independence Day, but at some point in college my mom started making it in the fall. All the guys and their families go.”

  I assumed by guys he meant his three best friends, Nesto, Camilo and Juan Pablo. They’d all grown up together in the Bronx and now Patrice and Nesto had coincidentally ended up here, but the other two were still in New York.

  I looked over at him and smiled, noticing that his expression lightened just from the mention of his friends. “Sounds like fun. Are you staying for the whole weekend?”

  He stood up and grabbed this plate as he answered me. I guess we were wrapping up the evening. “I’ll be back Saturday.” He extended the hand with which he held the plate. “This was great. Thanks for the food and the wine. I would’ve probably just caved in and had a burrito for dinner.” He made a face and winked at me, and my dumb heart wanted to burst just from that.

  I stood with my plate and walked with him to the kitchen. “It was nothing. I was glad to have someone to eat with. Most nights I just eat standing up in the kitchen. It was nice to set the table.”

  He leaned against the kitchen counter, once we’d cleaned up and I sat down on the island right across from him. I was intensely aware of his body. Then again, I was always hyperaware of Patrice whenever he was in the room.

  We were so close, but I could not touch. I was practically vibrating with the need to run my hands over his chest. To kiss and nip at his skin like I’d done before. I had to close my hands into fists, because the temptation was almost overwhelming. After a moment I cleared my throat to say something, anything, to break this tension.

  “So will you stay with your parents when you go to the city?”

  He gave me a look like he wasn’t sure if I was being serious or not in my sudden interest of his family. “It’s just my mom. Well, she’s married now, but that happened only a few years ago, so it’s not like I call him dad or anything. They got together after I started college. He’s a nice guy and he treats her well.” He did that shrug thing I’d noticed he did when he was trying to convey indifference. “My dad was never really in the picture.”

  Now I felt like an asshole, because from what my friend Priscilla had told me I should’ve assumed that his family history would be complicated, and probably not in my WASPy, everyone hates each other but pretends everything is fine kind of way. I was about to try to pivot away from a topic that clearly was going to be problematic, when Patrice moved to pour some more champagne in my glass and topped himself off.

  “My mother was my father’s mistress in Haiti.” He looked right at me, head back and shoulders straight. Like he wanted to make it very clear that he was not ashamed.

  “He came by every day for a few hours, but he was never a parent.” He made a dismissive hand gesture as he spoke. “He said hello and asked me how I was doing or whatever, but he wasn’t my dad.”

  He chuckled, but again there was no humor in it. “I didn’t realize not everyone’s dad came over from six to eight at night Monday to Friday, until I was like eight.”

  I tried to say something because I felt like him sharing this was some kind of self-punishment. “Patrice you don’t—”

  He shook his head and kept talking. “My dad had money and he wanted to take his family to France when things got bad after the coup. He told my mom he couldn’t take us with him. His wife wouldn’t tolerate that, but he did help her get visas for us to come here.” There was an edge to his voice. Whatever else happened between Patrice and his father, none of it seemed like it had been good.

  “He gave her money too. We left Haiti by car and drove to the DR, then flew out of Santo Domingo to come here.” I noticed he was no longer glaring, just talking. Telling me his story. Opening up to me.

  “That must’ve been so hard, Patrice.”

  He lifted both shoulders and shook his head, clearly not as unaffected as he wanted to appear. “I was six, so I don’t remember a lot. I do remember feeling afraid. I’ll never forget my mom’s face when we left our little house and got in the car to leave. She looked so scared. We only had two suitcases and left everything else to my mom’s family. When we got on the plane to Miami, my mom doubled over.” The edges of his mouth were tight, his handsome face pinched with the images from those times. “I remember she shoved a handkerchief she always carried around into her mouth, and sobbed so hard her shoulders shook.”

  A breath shuddered out of me picturing him as a little boy, his entire life changing.

  “I’d never seen her like that. I remember I needed to go to the bathroom, but I didn’t tell her. I was so worried about making her more upset. She’d always been a rock you know? Calm,” he said, holding out a steady hand. “When I was little if I fell and showed up at the house with the bone sticking out of my leg, she just turned around to get her purse, and said, ‘You’ll be fine. We can take care of that in the ER.’ But that day, she was inconsolable. But she was just a kid herself, she was only twenty-seven.”

  I shook my head as he talked. I could not imagine what it was like to leave everything behind like that. Not knowing when or if you’d come back, if your family would be okay.

  I couldn’t not touch him.

  I got closer and ran my hand over his face. “Patrice.”

  He shook his head then looked at me like he forgot I’d been there the whole time, and then laughed. “I don’t know what it is about being around you, but I just want to spill my guts.” He sounded embarrassed and a little bewildered.

  I was going to make a joke or say something to make thing less serious, like I usually did, but I stopped myself. Patrice didn’t need me to make this funny or light. He had opened up to me for a reason. Even if neither of us could admit what that reason was yet.

  “I’m always in awe of people that do what you and your mom did. Pick up and start over in a new place, with a new language and which honestly isn’t always very welcoming. And to achieve everything you have. It’s amazing.” The awe in my voice was one hundred percent sincere.

  That was the last straw apparently, because he stood up from the counter so he was facing me, our bodies only inches apart. “Why can’t I stay away?”

  He didn’t need to say from what or who.

  “I’m right here.” I was going to say something else about how I was happy to be his friend, but I left it at that. Because I was here. I could rein it in, I could be respectful, but if he wanted more...

  I was here.

  He moved his body closer, his feet planted on the floor, but his torso swaying in my direction and I didn’t move, too turned-on and overwhelmed by the feel of him. I stood there, barely breathing and hoping he lost it first, my heart pounding in my ears.

  I could almost taste him again, but when I tipped my head up, hoping for a kiss, he closed his eyes and stepped back instead.

  “I’m going to head out.” He smiled, friendly, but the moment was over. “Thanks again for dinner.”

  Point taken.

  I walked him out of my apartment and watched as he took the stairs. I weakly reminded myself that friendship was better than nothing. I could at least build something with him, but I was not going to lie to myself. What I wanted was Patrice Denis in my bed, and I was certain that’s what he wanted too.

  Chapter Six

  Patrice

  “What is this? A college professor wearing sweats and basketball shoes. How was your night with Juan Pablo and Camilo?” my mother said, giving me her usual commentary on my clothes with a grin as I stepped into her house. I’d been home for a couple of days but had barely had a chance to see her.

  I bypassed her comment about my clothing and distracted her by giving her a tight hug and a d
ouble kiss hello.

  “Sa’k Pase, Manman?” I kissed both her cheeks and went into my mother’s picture-perfect living room.

  She gave a knowing look as she went in for another hug. “I’m good, but I was talking about your clothes.”

  I pointed at the couch, grinning. “Is this new?” I asked as she went into the kitchen. She’d moved out of the Bronx to Mt. Vernon a few years ago when she got married, after she and my stepdad bought a house. She had such a different life now than the one we’d started out with in this country. But I worried sometimes the need to make sure she had financial security didn’t let her enjoy what she’d achieved. I also knew she had never quite gotten over some of the stresses of those first few years. At least she’d been working on some of it. In the past year she’d started seeing a therapist to sort out some of her anxiety about her business, and she did seem more relaxed.

  “It’s new. I got it for Oriol, for our anniversary.” I had to laugh, it was just like my mother to get my stepfather a couch she wanted for his birthday. “But tell me what you were up to today, I’ve barely seen you,” she said as she walked over to her open-plan kitchen.

  I sat on the new couch as my mom came out from the kitchen with glasses of fresh juice. “Here. Have some carrot and ananas.” She sat down next to me on her gorgeous brown leather sectional, wearing her “at home” clothes. Which usually consisted of jeans and a nice sweater. The braids in her hair coiled into an intricate design. She looked young and lovely, like the successful businesswoman she was. She’d had me when she was just twenty-one, so she was only fifty-six and did not look a day over forty.

  She clicked her tongue at whatever she saw on my face, patted my leg with a perfectly manicured hand. “So tell me, how is it? I want to hear more about your new place and job.”

  I sipped from the juice and sighed, so good.

  “I sent you the photos,” I teased, knowing that would not be nearly enough. She’d asked for pictures the day I moved in, and I made sure to send a few featuring some of the kitchen cabinets which were laden with the dishes and glasses she’d gotten me. “It’s very nice, almost brand new, and the guy who owns the building is—”