18. Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Marcy
Ironically, 24-Hour Taco wasn’t actually open twenty-four hours a day, but it did stay open until two a.m. on weekends. Patrick and I pulled up our cars side by side in the parking lot. I hopped into his car and we routed through the drive-thru, ordered our drinks and tacos, and parked back beside my car once we’d paid and picked up our order.
The place inside was packed and several groups hung out at cars in the parking lot. I powered down my window and sat cross-legged in my seat. Much easier now that I’d switched into the T-shirt dress.
We munched on our food with the car radio on low. It felt like old times, before fake engagements and political campaigns run by treasonous turncoats. Whatever Patrick thought of Bea, I’d taken my position.
Just like old times…except not. Shoot. I hadn’t allowed myself to think about kissing Patrick all night, mainly due to the energy required to keep my dress intact (failed) and my face in an expression both pleasant and professional (also failed, numerous times) .
“We’ve barely had time to talk lately.” Patrick cracked open a catering container and took a whiff. He scowled. “Whoa, what is that, blue cheese?”
“I told you those wouldn’t hold up. Thus, tacos.”
He peeked into another container and popped a stuffed mushroom into his mouth. “Mmm. How utterly room temperature.” He made a face. “We need to catch up on our shows. There’s a new season of Celebrity Houseboat with weekly episodes on streaming.”
“YES.” The word came out forcefully and rang in my ears. Why was this so weird all of the sudden?
Oh right. Because we were fake engaged and I wanted to tackle him to the ground. The soft, soft ground.
Now that I’d thought the awkwardness into existence once again, and finished my second taco, I couldn’t pretend at our old normal. None of this was normal. Only I didn’t know how to talk about it.
Of course Patrick noticed. My not having any commentary about one of my favorite reality shows made for a huge tell. “Hey. What’s up? Is it your family? The wedding?”
I let my head fall back against the headrest. “I’ve ignored their texts and calls this week. And their emails. And I’m pretty sure a fax at the office, but I tossed it in recycling.” It had definitely been content of the bridal variety with my name on it. A perplexed admin delivered the printout to my cubicle, claiming she didn’t realize the office fax machine was still operational.
Nonna Russo would find a way.
“I’ve been having a hard time finding the bandwidth to deal with the wedding-that-shall-never-be while sorting out my business plans. I want to be ready when the space becomes available. Any word yet? ”
“Weirdly, no. I have someone looking into it, and she’s usually on top of things. I’ll ask her Monday. My office’s legal secretary.” He sipped his drink. “Did you hear your brother took her out?”
I clucked my tongue. “That boy has no shame. Matteo gets dates from going to the doctor.” Front desk staff, medical assistants, and once, a podiatrist. A legal secretary? Add her to the list.
“Funny you didn’t question which brother. Matteo really likes her. They were going to meet up for coffee. Come to think of it, I haven’t heard from him all week. And Carmen’s been pretty quiet too.”
Huh. My player brother getting serious? Interesting.
“I still haven’t talked to him much about…us,” Patrick continued.
My senses went on alert. “What do you mean, us?”
He lowered his drink, shifting the ice. “You know, that little development of getting engaged to his sister while he had zero idea we were dating. He didn’t seem all that bothered because he’d already assumed this is just a sham for the money.”
Our sudden arrangement probably wasn’t a stretch for him to believe when the dangling promise of many thousands of dollars came into play.
Patrick quieted and watched through the front windshield the teenagers out way past their bedtime. Neither of us would ever have been allowed to hang out in a 24-Hour Taco parking lot at this time of night at their age. But then again, we’d been the responsible kids who never dared try.
I guess at twenty-eight, it was never too late to be a potential disappointment to your parents.
Only my parents wouldn’t be disappointed. I’d seen how they looked at Patrick. Not only the matriarchs, but Papá too. They adored him. My brothers considered him family.
And then there was me.
I…cared about Patrick. No. More than that. I loved him. I’d loved him for years. But adding on attraction to that love…that was new. Mostly new. New as an adult.
“You’ve gotten quiet,” he said through the dark.
The distant glow from the restaurant windows and the few parking lot lights offered some light, but deep shadows crossed Patrick’s face. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“You were quiet first.” I held my breath. I wanted to say so much but had no idea how. How to sum up years of our relationship as friends and shift that to consider us possibly being more? This was too big. Too much of a moment to reveal in this small car.
My mind flashed to the memory I’d tried to suppress for so long. The humiliating, horrible memory.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but the memory broke through like the rebel I wasn’t.
Junior prom. We’d agreed to go as friends. Mainly, so we could each experience prom and check off the milestone while not making it a huge deal. A lot of our friends did the same. We’d ended up going as a big group, planning dinner first at someone’s house whose parents offered.
The guys cooked all the food, spending a few hours preparing, while their dates predictably spent the entire day getting ready. Salon appointments, nails, the whole deal.
The dance was not exactly the magical event in movies, and there were certainly no choreographed dance numbers, but we had fun.
Afterward, we headed to a friend’s house for a bonfire and a sleepover. Not a wild party by any means, and the best for that very reason. Patrick and I hung out with the marching band crowd, the honor society, the debate team. We weren’t looking for trouble. I’d almost always felt like myself around these friends. And of course, with Patrick. I wouldn’t have wanted to spend my prom with anyone else .
I’d never planned to kiss Patrick. I hadn’t been drinking anything other than soda and lemonade all night, so I couldn’t blame it on youthful drunkenness.
Maybe it was the high of the night with friends. Who knew. As the group headed inside and the fire died out, Patrick and I stayed, talking.
I still remember how I’d suddenly grown so cold, my teeth audibly chattered. Patrick laughed and scooched closer. He wrapped his arm around me. I turned, and that was it.
I kissed him. I just went for it. I wasn’t thinking anything other than he was the person I trusted most.
I had other friends. Girls who I told legit secrets to. But Patrick existed in another category. I’d always set him aside from everyone else.
And I don’t know, I guess I let my emotions control me. As my lips touched his, I feared for the worst. What if he sat there cold with fish lips? What if he didn’t kiss back?
But he did. He kissed me back.
My entire world shifted. My brothers would destroy me—he’d been their friend first. My parents would forbid us from hanging out: no boy/girl hangouts alone! And I’d never look at Patrick the same.
But he was kissing me back. He must have felt something more for me to kiss me back. This meant he liked me as more than a friend.
I didn’t know what to do with that information, but I wanted to kiss Patrick on prom night. I wanted this memory forever.
Suddenly, the kissing stopped. Patrick’s eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted. He bolted up from his folding camp chair so abruptly it tipped noisily into the grass. “We should get inside.”
I sat, numb. He’d kissed me back.
“This…probably wasn’t a good idea,” he said. “Come on. ”
He didn’t wait for me. And he didn’t look back as he retreated into the house.
We never spoke of it again.
Like, ever.
I mean, literally never.
I’d barely slept that night. True, I was tucked into a sleeping bag on top of industrial basement carpet and scrunched between two mouth-breathers, one of which talked in their sleep. When I closed my eyes, I could only see Patrick’s terrified expression. Those painful words repeated. This wasn’t a good idea.
Kissing me was not a good idea.
If mortification was food, my level of mortify equaled moldy, ruined bread. Bread unable to be saved by a quick reheat in the microwave or with a hefty slab of butter. Just trash-bound bread no one wanted.
When my family asked about prom the next day, I told them all the happy, fun things. Inside, I agonized how I’d ruined my friendship with my most trusted friend.
Patrick didn’t come by the house the rest of the weekend. Back at school the following Monday, I dreaded seeing him. I rehearsed seven different apologies. In one practiced scenario, I wore a wig and spoke only in French, pretending to be someone else.
But when I saw Patrick, he approached me as if nothing happened. Nothing at all.
As if our kiss never happened.
Somewhere in those following weeks, my numbness thawed. I began to believe it too. Maybe it was no big deal? Oops, we kissed! L-O-L.
But then why couldn’t either of us admit we’d made a dumb mistake? The not talking about it part made me doubt myself even more. Weeks passed, then the whole summer, and senior year started. We were busier than ever, keeping up our grades, applying to colleges, and juggling after-school activities .
I told myself the kiss wasn’t a mistake because it never happened. Sometimes I wondered if I’d dreamed the entire night and we’d never been the last ones in front of those dying embers.
My solace through all of that confusion: baking.
Pop-Pop had only been gone about a year at that point. Nonna still appeared in a fragile state some days. She baked from time to time but not every day. Not like when it had been her job, her livelihood.
A shift happened then, where I recognized the peace of kneading dough. I could work out my frustrations on it, or let my head empty out completely and focus on the simplicity of crafting a hearty loaf.
I’d delved into pastries, cakes, and cookies a bit, but bread had always been my go-to when life got tough. I couldn’t control what happened out of the kitchen, but I could fine tune a loaf of bread and make people happy serving it.
Entering reality again, the similarity of this moment to that night after prom grew stark and clear. The 24-Hour Taco parking lot had cleared out of teens. Patrick and I sat close with darkness cloaking our faces. A chill washed over.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
No! This was too similar! I didn’t dare turn my head. I refused to look at him. Don’t look.
“Marcy? What’s wrong?”
Everything was wrong. I loved him and I’d always loved him, but how could I say the words? I’d tried so hard for so long not to say the words. We talked about anything and everything, including breast cutlet inserts apparently, and yet this conversation was a canyon of dread I’d feared for over a decade.
It was much easier to pretend nothing happened that night.
But the truth was, it happened. And I knew to my core it hadn’t been just a kiss. While it hadn’t been my first kiss, that kiss with Patrick was the most meaningful kiss I’d ever experienced to this day.
And he’d rejected me.
We’d been playing a game all these years. How long can we last, erasing that moment, before one of us breaks?
I felt the fissures expanding into cracks, but I held tight.
“Marcy, I have something to tell you.”
I turned to stone. My breath stopped. I managed a single word. “Yeah?”
“I’m the one that made a mistake that night. When we kissed. The kiss wasn’t a mistake. I’ve regretted walking away ever since.”