8. Sunlight and Shadows
I t’s just past two when the Phillips’ gate clicks shut behind me.
The Friday sun blazes like it hasn’t moved all day.
The air smells of jasmine and temptation, sweet and heavy like summer holding its breath.
The pool glistens—blue, glassy, still—framed by neatly clipped hedges and sun-bleached concrete.
There’s no radio playing, no distant lawn mower, no noise drifting over the fence.
Just the hum of the filter and the far-off buzz of cicadas, their steady drone rising and falling like audible heat.
And then I see him. It’s just like clockwork. A coincidence? I wonder.
He’s stretched out in a lounge chair across the deck, lying on his stomach with one arm slung over his head and the other dangling limply off the side.
Patrick is shirtless again, but this time wearing a light blue Speedo rather than the green swim trunks he wore last Tuesday.
His headphones cover his ears, the cord trailing into a small cassette player resting on a towel near his hip.
His back rises and falls with the rhythm of someone fully asleep or pretending to be.
I get to work uncoiling the vacuum hose, connecting the skimmer, and testing the chlorine. I check the filters and sweep the tiles—the usual tasks I perform each time I’m here—anything to stay busy. But my eyes keep drifting.
His skin is smooth and pale, with just the faintest tan line forming around his waistband.
He will darken quickly if he continues his apparent tanning routine.
His hair looks damp at the ends as if he had swum earlier and let the sun do the rest. The leg closest to me dangled over the lounger, the other stretched long, his calf tensed, like mid-dream. An unconscious pose, perhaps. Or not.
I catch myself staring too long and force my eyes back to the brush as I run along the pool’s bottom.
I peel my shirt off, partly because of the heat, partly because I always do when skimming the deep end.
My body’s changed since Bayview. I’ve kept the lean swimmer’s frame, but the daily work grind carved it harder—shoulders broader, lines sharper.
Pool work keeps me cut without trying, and I know how I look now when I move.
Sometimes, in the mirrored sliding doors at homes like this, I catch my reflection without meaning to—angles and motion mid-stride—the slope of my obliques, the faint ridges above my hips.
My chest is fuller than it used to be, and my muscles are more defined, rising and falling with each breath.
I watch how the upper fibers flex when I push the pole forward, how my shoulders bunch and pull as I drag it back in long, steady strokes.
The tendons shift visibly beneath the skin now—neck to collarbone to pec, a quiet sync of effort and control.
The reflection catches me straightening—maybe an unconscious pose, just in case he’s watching. Of course, he’s not. Or perhaps he is. It’s hard to tell behind those sunglasses.
Thoughts of Kevin slip in—him stepping out of the gym, his eyes warm and familiar.
Kevin, four years ago, with his sensitivity and seductiveness.
Kevin, three days ago—the way he looked at me: not prowling, not possessive—just open, writing his number on a receipt for me.
Maybe he’d been waiting, too, but then I remember the blond boy he was with at the café on Sunday, and I change my mind .
But now, in this heat and stillness, it’s Patrick I see—all ease and silence. No demands. No expectations. Just skin, innocence, and the slow rise and fall of possibility.
And in my head, I imagine what could happen.
I picture walking over, slowly pulling off my shorts, and leaning above him. Maybe his eyes open, or they don’t. I touch his back, just a brush of my fingertips, and he doesn’t stop me. He wants it. He’s been waiting for it.
In the fantasy, I’m confident. I’m in control.
I straddle the chair, gently remove the headphones, and murmur something he barely hears before gently kissing his neck and exhaling warmth into his ear.
I roll him over, and his mouth is soft, surprised at first, then eager.
I trail my fingers down his sides and feel him harden under me.
In this version, I’m the one taking, not asking.
No flashbacks, no questions. Just movement, friction, escape.
But that’s all it is: a fantasy, a flicker. Patrick is me four years ago, and I’m now Kevin: older, more experienced, more dangerous. I want to be Patrick, though, with Kevin above me, and then I hate myself for thinking it.
I plunge the net in hard and swirl it aggressively across the surface of the deep end, trying to shake the thought loose.
Patrick’s just a kid, nineteen or maybe twenty.
But he appears younger, like someone who hasn’t decided who he is yet and still has the chance to become someone he won’t regret.
I can’t decide if that’s what draws me to him or why I should leave him alone.
A splash of water from the skimmer hits the concrete and my legs, jolting me out of it.
Then I hear him.
“Mister Pool Guy,” he says, his voice groggy and teasing. “You trying to splash me? ”
I glance up. Patrick is sitting upright now, headphones around his neck, eyes squinting into the sun. There’s a lazy grin tugging at his mouth.
“Sorry,” I say, straightening.
“I didn’t see you come in,” he counters, stretching his arms over his head like a cat.
I look away too fast. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
“Well, too late now,” he says, rubbing his chest like scratching an itch. “Are you always this quiet when you clean?”
“Depends on who’s around,” I say, immediately regretting the flirt in my tone.
Patrick catches it, though. He doesn’t drop his gaze.
“Guess I’m lucky, then,” he says.
Silence hovers between us. Not heavy—but charged.
I wipe my hands with the small towel around my belt loop, aware of how my face probably looks—flushed from the sun, still damp with sweat, eyes squinting against the glare.
I’ve got that look people tell me is intense when I’m not trying.
Thick brows, deep-set eyes. The kind of face that always seems to be thinking, even when it’s blank.
Girls used to say it was sexy. Men in Atlanta say it’s dangerous.
Patrick hasn’t said anything, but I can sense how he sees me—like I’m already halfway unwrapped.
“I should finish up,” I say, returning toward the pool.
“Take your time,” he says. “I like watching you work.”
A glance over my shoulder confirms it. Patrick is reclined again, but he’s sitting, facing me this time.
His headphones are back in place, but he’s not pressing play.
He’s just watching me, grinning—his legs spread, his knees at least shoulder-length apart, the way guys tend to sit when they’re relaxed.
I see his elbows resting on the arm of the lounger, his hands landing casually on his upper thighs, his fingers dangerously close to the elastic of the Speedo—its light blue hue leaving little to the imagination.
Its material is barely able to contain the outline of his arousal.
I pack my equipment more slowly than I need to, then raise my shirt above my head before allowing it to slide over my torso, feeling his eyes on me the whole time. I want to take it off again: just to pose, to tempt, to provoke. But I don’t. Not this time, anyway.
When I leave, I don’t say goodbye. I don’t need to. This isn’t over yet.