22. Echo Chamber
T he cicadas are screaming. It’s the first thing I notice stepping into the Phillips’ backyard: how the heat has squeezed their sound into this relentless electric buzz.
The pool water shimmers, barely disturbed, and the air smells like sun-warmed flagstone and cut grass.
Overripe hydrangeas slouch in the midday heat.
Dropping the skimmer pole beside the pool steps, I kneel to test the water.
It’s warm, almost too warm. It’s the kind of warmth that makes everything feel dreamlike and untrustworthy.
Thoughts about last Wednesday and what Kevin said in the bookstore still haunt me.
He didn’t say no, but neither did he say yes, which may be worse.
“Maybe” is a suspended sentence—a kind of cruelty you can’t prove.
The skimmer moves in slow arcs across the water’s surface, like trying to smooth out a wrinkle in memory.
The pool is too perfect—no leaves, no bugs—just this clear, silent mirror I can’t stop stirring.
The heat presses down on me, thick and slow, and hard to stop thinking about Kevin’s face when he said, “Let’s not make it into more than it was.
” That line keeps looping back like a stuck track.
I try to shake it by focusing on the sound of water lapping against the tile and the low hum of the filter system.
That’s when the sliding door hisses open behind me.
Patrick steps onto the upper landing, barefoot, standing just inside the line of shade cast by the awning above him.
He’s shirtless again—shoulders sun-warmed and golden.
He’s leaner and not as soft as I remembered, though he’s not muscular either.
His stomach is flat, his chest defined in a way that only youth can pull off effortlessly, despite being non-athletic, and thanks to privileged genes.
He’s wearing another Speedo, this one navy blue with white stripes that sit low on his hips.
How many pairs of swim shorts does one person need?
If they are all new, is he modeling each for me each Tuesday and Friday?
His dark Ray-Bans contrast with the white towel slung over one shoulder, and he’s got his weight cocked on one hip as if he doesn’t know—or doesn’t care—what that gesture conveys.
Patrick sips from a tall, clear plastic cup.
It’s a reddish drink with crushed ice—maybe a strawberry daiquiri or something made to resemble one.
His lips are stained red from it, soft and bright like candy.
When he draws on the straw, his mouth closes slowly and deliberately, his cheeks hollowing before letting the straw fall away from his lips.
“You’re sweating through that shirt,” he says lazily. “Want something cold?”
I should say no to maintain my professionalism, even if it’s not the kid paying for the maintenance contract. But today, I’m not interested in being professional. Today, I want to feel something sharp, something I can control.
“Sure,” I say, straightening. “A soda or something. Nothing that will make my lips red.”
Patrick grins and tosses back, “So glad you noticed,” before turning to head back into the house. His gait is loose and confident. No, he’s cocky. He knows I’ve already lost whatever argument I was having with myself.
He disappears into the house, towel still slung casually over one shoulder, hips moving like he knows someone’s watching.
There’s every reason to look away—to remember this is a client’s kid, barely out of high school.
But something lingers. Maybe it’s his inexperience, or that brazen confidence, or the way his eyes land like a dare, like the roles reversed and I’m the one hunted.
Maybe there’s no real attraction at all—just a question: could I have him if I wanted?
While alone, I walk to the back corner of the yard and open the pumphouse door.
The equipment groans softly inside. Cramped and hot, it’s like a sauna steeped in rubber and chemical residue.
A low pipe forces me to duck my head as I wipe the sweat off my brow with the edge of my sleeve.
The air barely stirs, and my shirt clings to my damp chest as I crouch beside the filter pump to check the pressure gauge.
Even here, the cicadas buzz—muffled, but relentless.
What I don’t hear is Patrick’s approach.
He slips inside the confined space like heat itself—quiet, invasive, impossible to ignore.
Sensing movement, I turn to find him standing just behind and over me, holding a can of something cold and studying the same gauge I do.
The metal can clicks against the equipment frame as he sets it down.
“Place is like a kiln,” he says, his voice low and just behind my right ear.
“Yeah,” I agree, clearing my throat and reaching up to adjust a valve. “Filter’s running fine, though.”
His breath is on my neck before I can straighten fully.
“You don’t have to act like I don’t know what this is,” he says. His fingers skim the small of my wet back—just enough contact to be undeniable.
I remain still, half crouched and half bent over. My height and the pumphouse roof don’t allow me to stand fully erect .
“This isn’t a mystery, you know.” His voice is softer now, almost kind. “You watch me. You linger. And maybe you tell yourself it’s nothing, but you’re here.”
Turning, the space between us collapses until there isn’t any. My back grazes the valve box as Patrick leans in, his cherry-red stained lips catching mine before fully registering the movement. It’s hot, fast, open—all tongue and heat and pressure. My eyes stay open.
There’s no tenderness in it—just impulse and friction.
My response is immediate—pushing back and kissing him harder. Not out of desire, but to reclaim the illusion of choice. Because Kevin kissed me and called it nothing. Because I asked him to lunch and got a maybe. Because sleep and good judgment haven’t come easily in over a week.
Patrick leans back and pulls me into him, his hands clenching my wet shirt like the kind of prey that hunts through surrender, aching to be devoured and daring me to take more. And so I do.
Then I stop.
“Don’t,” he whispers. His lips are even redder now. “You want it.”
“That’s not the problem,” I answer, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Patrick watches me with a kind of amused disappointment. “I don’t care if I’m your second choice. Just don’t pretend I’m something else.”
That hits hard and unexpected—the second blow of the day—and I want to react, to take it out on him. But I don’t.
Instead, I step past him through the doorway, picking up the drink he brought me as I exit. The can is already sweating, cold against my palm, but I don’t take a sip .
“I need to finish the pool,” I say, not looking at him.
He doesn’t move. “Whatever you’re looking for, I hope it’s worth it.”
Stepping back into the sun, the air out here feels different—less like punishment and more like reality. The buzz of insects grows louder as I finish the pool in silence, every motion mechanical. Patrick has already gone into the house and doesn’t come back out.
What happened in the pump house wasn’t desire—it was defiance, a way to reroute the ache.
Even as Patrick kissed me, there was nothing in it I wanted.
Kevin hides behind his walls. Patrick offers himself.
But what’s missing is something neither has given, and for the first time, there’s no pretending not to see it.
~
I take a long, hot shower when I get home, then put on a clean T-shirt and boxers, and collapse into bed while the sun is still setting. The sheets are tangled and damp beneath me, but it doesn’t matter. I close my eyes and try to reset—try to pretend today didn’t get to me.
My thoughts drift to Kevin—the way his mouth moved when he said my name. That moment in the restaurant when it almost seemed there was something still there. His shoulders, his laugh, the way he used to look at me—like I was someone he trusted, not someone he barely knew.
The images won’t stay, though. Patrick bleeds in—his long torso stretched in the sun, the way he looked up at me and knew exactly what I was thinking.
I try to force him out, to drag my thoughts back to Kevin, but the harder I cling to the memory, the more it shifts.
Now Kevin has Patrick’s mouth. Patrick’s body.
And I’m not sure which version I’m reacting to.
Reaching for the only kind of comfort I can summon, my fingers slide under the waistband of my briefs like muscle memory. It’s desire and distraction at once—like the images of Kevin and Patrick—separate yet inseparable.
My hand moves anyway.
It’s not exactly satisfying. It’s more release than relief. More erasure than escape. A way to make the ache quieter for one minute, maybe two. When it’s over, however, I feel worse. I’ve just told myself another lie and called it comfort.
I clean up, toss the shirt across the room, and pull the covers up to my chest. The ceiling fan clicks softly above me, and I stare at it long enough for the room to lose shape.
I don’t know what I want anymore, just that it isn’t this.