by Cara McKenna
“So that’s why I’m here,” I say lamely.
Patrick clears his throat. “No offense, if you’re a feminist or whatever, but aren’t you Jay Fleury’s woman?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“He seems like a good man,” Patrick says, cautious and clearly confused.
I nod again. “He’s wonderful.”
His fingers wrestle with themselves, as though he wishes he had a mug, too, to keep them busy. “Well, I’ll be honest with you, Robin. Even if he was a world-class shit, I wouldn’t ever mess with another man’s woman.”
“It was his idea,” I say and watch Patrick’s hands go perfectly still.
“That sounds a bit fucked up. No offense, Robin.”
“It’s a lot simpler than I’m making it seem,” I say, wondering if it might not be the opposite. “Would you consider it? It’s important. To him. To both of us.”
“Why do you need to…do whatever you need to? With me?”
I think I catch his ears go a bit pink then wonder if they’ve been like that all along from the cold.
“I have some feelings for you, and they won’t go away,” I say. “I don’t think I can move on with Jay until I—” I pause, dogged by my own flagrant selfishness. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. This is the most psychotic thing I’ve ever done. I can’t believe I came here and said this to you. I’m so sorry.” I get up and put my still-steaming coffee on the cutting board by the sink, stuff my arms into my coat sleeves and head toward the door. I hear Patrick’s chair scrape behind me.
“Don’t just dump that on me and run off,” he says.
I stop. I turn and look at him and my face must be as red my scarf. “It sounds really horrible when I say it out loud.” I look at his feet. “Like I’m propositioning you. And I guess I am.”
“I gotta say, I don’t get it.”
“Me neither,” I say and I laugh, wanting to die.
“I’ll think about it.”
His words knock the sense clear out of my brain. I blink a few times. “Will you?”
He nods. “Send your man over this afternoon. I want to hear him explain it.”
“But you’d…you’d think about it? You’d be okay with kissing me, or more?” I blush so hard I feel sunburned.
“I’m not okay with anything ‘til I talk to him,” Patrick says, walking over. “You tell him two o’clock.” He pulls the door open for me. “Drive safe now.”
* * * * *
It’s a quarter after five.
When Jay left to go to Patrick’s three hours ago, he’d looked pale and understandably freaked out. I don’t know what I’d have felt if I was him—how I’d feel toward Patrick Whelan. I’d be scared, I bet, because Jay is a slender five-foot-eleven and Patrick’s probably four or five inches taller and he’s pretty jacked, if his arms are any indication. There’s no reason Patrick should have a beef with Jay but that’s bound to be intimidating.
I’d also be super pissed, I think, because if I was Jay I’d have been on my way to talk to the man my long-term girlfriend—who I’m super-awesome to—admits to being obsessed with. Obsessed in a joyless kind of way, I should add. I don’t like having feelings for Patrick. I never think about him when I’m having sex with Jay…at least I never mean to. Sometimes I slip up but I’m always careful to come staring right into Jay’s eyes if we’re face-to-face. Sometimes my brain gets itself in trouble if he’s taking me from behind.
You can probably tell that I fret a lot. It’s one of my dearest hobbies, one that drove my dad nuts while I was growing up. I wish I could call him now and ask his artless, sage advice. He makes everything sound so obvious. If I could somehow explain my problem without creeping both of us out, he’d probably say, “So, Jay’s upset because you want to bang this lumberjack guy? Well, of course he is. Haven’t you ever heard of monogamy? Christ, Robin, it’s not rocket science.”
I jump when I hear the car door slam in the driveway. I run downstairs to the living room like a puppy and watch through the picture window as Jay walks up the side steps. He does a little dance, a shuffly mashed-potato dance on the doormat, cleaning off his shoes before he comes in. It seems obscenely normal in light of what’s going on.
“So?” I ask, nearly falling as I slide across the kitchen floor in my socks.
He kicks his sneakers off and tosses them in the bin by the closet, just like normal. When he looks at me, I can’t read him. He holds his hands up, showing me a pair of red, blistered palms. I notice little bits of wood stuck to his hat.
“Oh my God, he made you chop wood with him? For how long?”
“Three. Fucking. Hours.”
“He didn’t give you gloves?”
“This is with gloves. Look.” Jay raises his arms up like a zombie, not quite to the shoulder. “That’s as far as they’ll go, now.”
“Yikes.”
“Can you take my hat off for me?”
I do and he walks to the table and slumps into a seat, looking wrecked. I sit across from him and clasp my hands, pretending to be patient, dying of curiosity.
“So what happened?” I ask.
“I tried to explain it to him, and I think I made as much sense as I could’ve hoped to.”
“What did he say?”
Jay purses his lips. “He said he likes you. That way. He said he’s always liked you.”
“Really?” My heart doesn’t flutter, I promise you. It sinks straight down into my feet.
He nods. “But he never thought you felt that way about him. Because you always seemed to avoid him, after he was released. And, he said, because every time he runs into you, you always look worried he might headbutt you or something.”
“Oh.” That was never my fear. As threatening as Patrick Whelan arguably looks, I’ve always been more afraid of what I’m capable of when I’m within ten feet of him.
“I think he’s like half in love with you, Robin.”
“Do you think that’ll make things more complicated?”
“Probably.” Jay sighs and finally makes solid eye contact. “But I think he’ll do it. Are you… Do you think you’re in love with him?” There’s a cold fear in his eyes.
I shake my head. “I don’t really know him that well. It’s just sexual. Or whatever primal kind of thing you feel when somebody rescues you. I love you,” I add emphatically. “And whatever I feel about him, it’s nothing like that. Like us.”
He nods, solemn but steady. “Well, if I had to guess, I think he’ll do it.”
I marvel that we can even be having a calm discussion like this.
“Although he kept squinting at me, like I was trying to trick him or something,” Jay says.
I smile at him to cut the tension. “Do you still think he’s an asshole?”
He sighs again, so theatrical I assume it’s a joke. “Jury’s still out… I guess he’s okay. He gave us some wood,” he adds. “But I don’t think I’ll be able to get it out of the car for a few days. I could barely turn the key in the ignition.”
I stand and give Jay’s shoulder a squeeze.
“Ow.”
“Sorry.” I pat his head instead. “Go find some football to watch or something. I’ll bring you a beer and start dinner.”
* * * * *
Three days later I’m meeting Patrick at the bar. I dropped by his house again on Monday evening to ask if he’d like to come out for a drink this week and see what happens, or to talk more. He said sure, and now I’m sitting in one of the booths by the window, just before eight o’clock, eyes on the parking lot, heart jack-hammering my ribs. I’m afraid he won’t show and even more afraid he will.
I wasn’t sure what to wear. Jay was around when I was changing and I hope he noticed me putting on my crappiest underwear, so he’ll know I’m not planning on going hog-wild tonight. I’m trying really hard not to appear too eager. Actually, I think I’m overdoing it a bit, acting as if this whole situation pains me greatly. If there’s a tightrope for people walking the line between
“selfish harlot” and “dewy-eyed martyr”, it’s very narrow, and the chasm is so deep I couldn’t tell you if there’s a net or not.
Jay’s gone from disbelief to acceptance in the last few days and is now treating the whole thing like a project. He bought a copy of this book called The Myth of Monogamy and seems to be tackling the situation sociologically. Typical, rational Jay. Pragmatism is his Prozac.
From my seat in the booth I can almost see the spot where I got threatened at knifepoint back when I was twenty-seven. Our town is small and the Tap is its only bar. I decided I liked beer enough to get over my bad memories a long time ago.
I hear a door slam out in the dark and then Patrick Whelan’s walking toward the entrance. I look away. I don’t want him to see me watching if he glances at the window, which is so stupid. He spots me when he enters and heads right to the booth and sits down across from me, looking tall and solid.
“Hey, Robin.”
“Hey.” I glance around, feeling as if everyone must know exactly why we’re here.
“You have a good day?” he asks, chattier than I’ve ever seen him. I realize he must be as terrified as me and I relax.
“It was all right,” I lie. I was useless and jumpy at work all day, counting down the seconds to this very moment. “Can I get you a beer?”
“Sure.” He taps my plastic pint glass. “What’s that?”
“Sam.”
He pulls out a battered old leather wallet and hands me a few bucks. “Get us a pitcher. We’ll probably need it.”
I laugh, relieved beyond words. He smiles at me. I haven’t seen him smile like that in years—not since our visits.
I fetch our pitcher. We say cheers and clack our glasses together.
“So,” I say. “Jay can almost lift his arms again. After all that chopping.”
He nods. “I didn’t think he’d keep going for that long.”
“Why’d you make him chop wood?” I ask.
“I figured it might get his aggression out so he wouldn’t snap and try to kill me.”
I laugh. “So you gave him an axe?”
“I’m not really an expert about stuff like this.”
I nod and smile and look down into my beer, turn the glass around and around on its coaster. More Than a Feeling comes on the jukebox and I tap my fingers along to it. “So. Jay said you said you feel…something? For me?”
He nods, casual, as if I’d asked if he’s ever been to Montreal.
I take a deep drink. “I don’t really know what I’m after,” I admit and meet his eyes.
“He said you guys are happy. But you…”
“I’m obsessed with you,” I offer, voice low and private. “Or my body is.”
I catch his eyebrows contract. “Because of what happened?”
“Maybe. Probably.” I didn’t know Patrick before the attack but I’d seen him around town. He never really made an impression before that night. I touch my neck, the spot where my tiny cut faded into nothingness years ago.
Patrick watches my fingers. “And you think if we, if you and me, do something…then you’ll get over it?”
“That’s the basic idea. I don’t know if it would work or make things worse, to be honest.”
“I don’t want to be responsible for breaking up anybody’s home,” he says. “I’m here because your man said maybe it would help you guys. And because I like you. Not just like you, I mean. Because I’m attracted to you.” He huffs out a breath, looking as if he just spoke fluent Esperanto and blew his own mind.
Seeing Patrick this way—sitting across the table from me looking so lost—reminds me of visiting hours. I do something I’d always wanted to do then but wasn’t allowed to. I reach out and put my hand on his wrist and smile at him. He stares at my fingers for a moment then pulls his arm back and covers my hand in his big one. Then he seems to remember where we are and takes it away, eyes darting toward the bar.
“Jay said he thinks maybe you…like me. A lot,” I say.
He nods, giving me nothing to work with.
“I’m a little worried I might end up jerking you around. God, that sounds really egomaniacal. Plus I’m probably jerking you around already.”
Patrick shrugs. “I think you both did your best to explain it. I know the score.” He takes a couple swallows of his beer. “Look,” he says finally. “We can talk this to death for the next five hours, or I can lay it out for you.”
“Okay.”
“I like you,” he says, eyes watching his fingers drumming the tabletop. “As a person. And I’d genuinely like to see your relationship work out.” He clears his throat and continues, quieter. “But I’d also like to sleep with you, or however far you want to take it. I also think this idea’s nuts and I wouldn’t be surprised if it wrecks things with you and your man and I wind up in the middle of it.”
“Oh.”
“But I also think that you and me, we’re not close or anything. Not for a long while, anyway,” he says. “No offense, but there’s not a ton at stake here. You know, friendship-wise? There’s not a lot at stake for me. So sure, I’ll go along with whatever you guys agree on.”
“Wow, okay. Thanks. That actually made everything seem a lot clearer.”
“But listen.” He rubs a palm over his eyes. “I don’t want this to end up like Springer. I don’t want your man calling me or showing up at my house with a shotgun or hassling me at work or any of that. Or worse, taking it out on you. If you think he might get that way, do everybody a favor and call it off now.”
“I follow. I don’t think any of that will happen. He’s known I have feelings for you for four years. Since before I even knew what they were all about. He knows it’s just part of the package with me. And he’s not a jealous guy.”
“Yeah, I guess not… This whole letting-you-be-with-another-guy thing,” Patrick says. “Would you do the same for him?”
I grin, guilty. “Not in a million years.”
He nods. “Anyhow, that’s all I’ve got to say about it. Count me in.”
“Wow…just like that?”
He smiles. “Just like that.”
I feel my body relax. I realize I’ve been hunched forward, shoulders tight, elbows on the table, and now I lean back into the booth’s vinyl padding and push out a long breath. I stare at Patrick, like really stare, because I feel like I finally can, now that everyone knows where everyone stands. I move my foot under the table and press my ankle against his. He presses back. It’s just legs, not even the sexy parts of legs, but I feel energy, electricity zapping through two pairs of jeans and shooting right up my bones into my hair and fingernails. I lose my mind a little. Patrick sips his beer, looking dutifully neutral, scanning the activity around the bar.
Moondance comes on. I push my shoe off and run my stocking foot up the inside of Patrick’s leg. His eyes glaze over. I’m not trying to tease or torture him. I just want to turn him on, plain and simple. I want proof that he wants me back and that I have the power and also the permission to fuck with our boundaries, shamelessly. I rub the ball of my foot up the inseam along his big thigh, stopping an inch or two from where I guess his crotch is.
He clears his throat and refills his glass.
“So,” I say, foot still nestled between his legs. “Are you free later this week at all? Maybe you could invite me over for dinner or something.”
“I’m a pretty lousy cook.”
“Well, I’ll bring something then.”
He nods. “Okay.”
“Friday? Seven?”
“Sure.”
I smile. Friday is perfect. Firstly because I don’t think I can wait more than two days, and secondly because I don’t want this ridiculousness to eat into my weekend time with Jay. I feel as though it’s something I should be fitting in, like a doctor’s appointment.
We sit, sipping our beer, listening to Van Morrison, not saying anything. I study Patrick, and he seems to study me back. I take my foot away as we drain our glasses.
“You good to drive?”
I nod. “Walk me to my car?”
“I can’t stand up yet,” Patrick says. “Why don’t you go use the ladies’ or something and let me cool off?”
I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning, so outrageously pleased that I’ve managed to arouse this man. I take our empty glasses and pitcher and leave them on the bar on my way to the bathroom.
Patrick’s standing beneath the keno monitor when I emerge and I stare at the numbers to keep my eyes from drifting to his crotch. He pulls the door open and follows me out into the parking lot. I walk to my car and hear him behind me.
I turn and smile up at him. “Thanks for meeting me tonight.”
He nods. He looks around us, maybe avoiding my eyes, maybe on the alert for knife-wielding Dartmouth poli-sci majors.
“Can I kiss you good-night?” I ask, more nervous than I’ve been around the opposite sex since eighth grade.
“Sure. Maybe we should go behind my truck though.” He nods to where he’s parked, farther from potential prying eyes.
I put my hand in his and it’s warm and big. He leads me to the edge of the lot and we stand behind his cab, mostly hidden. The parking lot’s got a streetlight at every corner—it didn’t used to, trust me—and I stare at Patrick in the pinky-orange glow and watch the steam of his breath form and disappear in the cold breeze. I watch his lips.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks.
I nod, still focused on his mouth.
When he leans in and kisses me…shit, I don’t know. People talk about melting and that’s how it feels, honest to God. My bones go soft and my body warms and if I wasn’t held in place between a truck and a solid wall of man, I bet I’d fall over. I feel those big, rough palms on my jaw and he angles his head and kisses me deep, filling me with his tongue and his heat and his noises. And he can kiss. My hands flap around, unsure of where to go until I settle them flat against his chest on his black fleece jacket. I feel and hear him groan when I kiss back and it triggers something in me. I pull his zipper down and run my palms over his work shirt, so tempted to rip it open and scatter his buttons all over the asphalt.
