28. The Romance of Misery
I arrived at Ansley thirty minutes early, thanks to lighter-than-expected traffic and rushing through my first two appointments.
A shady table near the far end of the square offers the best view of the parking lot, the same table where Kevin and I first spoke.
It’s half past eleven, so the lunch crowd hasn’t hit yet.
A waitress brings water without asking, assuming I’ll be eating at this café. I thank her, then check my watch.
Kevin said Noon.
The ice cube lingers against my lips as I sip the water slowly. I’m sweating through my shirt already. The traffic on Piedmont is sluggish, a string of brake lights blinking at intervals. I count the red cars. Four. Then six. Then seven.
I study each new arrival in the parking lot, guessing who might be Kevin.
I don’t even know what he drives. Will he walk up from the gym entrance or come from the lot?
Will he be in work clothes or already dressed for the gym?
I picture it again and again, rehearsing my face when I see him.
Do I smile? Stay cool? Stand? Stay seated?
Each possibility sifts through my mind like sand.
Time moves in slow, deliberate ticks. Why can’t he be early, just this once?
Noon comes and goes.
The chair shifts beneath me. Arms cross, then uncross. A glance around—cool, casual, unbothered—like I’m waiting on a friend, but my leg won’t stop bouncing.
The sun shifts, and the line of shade is moving past me. I ask the waitress to move to another table. She’s kind and lets me switch. I scan the lot again.
12:09.
Kevin is late. Maybe he’s stuck in traffic. Perhaps a meeting ran long. It could be he’s on his way right now, rehearsing what he’ll say, just like I did. I wonder if Josh knows about this—if Kevin told him. If he’s being watched. If he’s afraid.
12:14.
I order a Coke to keep the waitress from checking on me again. When it comes, the ice is already melting. I take one sip, then push the glass aside. If Josh knows, maybe he said something. Maybe Kevin didn’t forget—perhaps Josh told him not to come.
12:19.
Our last call replays—every pause, every sigh, the way Kevin’s voice cracked when he said, I remember . I wish I didn’t.
Maybe he’s parking. Maybe he’s already walking up, and I just haven’t seen him yet. One more minute, I tell myself. Just give it one more minute.
12:26.
I glance at the empty chair across from me. For a second, I imagine Kevin in it—arms crossed, lips parted like he’s about to apologize or explain or lie. The water glass slides an inch toward the empty seat before the realization sets in.
12:31 .
He’s not coming. I feel it now—not like a thought, but like gravity. No footsteps. No shadow falling across the table. No second chance walking up from the lot.
No one’s coming.
My jaw tightens as cash lands on the table—careless now. Nothing is worth finishing. I don’t bother to refold the napkin. I leave it crumpled, like the hour just wasted.
By the time I reach the Phillips’ property, I’m done pretending to feel anything but pissed.
~
For once, Patrick isn’t draped across the lounger by the shallow end.
Perhaps he’s still away, or maybe his parents have returned from Italy.
Then the movement by the back stairs catches my eye.
It’s Patrick, and he’s just coming out of the house barefoot and dressed like he has plans to be somewhere else in white linen shorts and a blue polo shirt.
Patrick stops when he sees me. “Oh boy,” he says, eyebrows raised. His Ray-Bans sit on top of his head, which he lowers to shade his eyes. “You’ve got that look again.”
“What look is that?”
“The look people get when they’re in love with someone they shouldn’t be,” he says.
“Not in the mood today, sonny,” I say.
“You’re never in the mood, pool guy,” he quips back .
I chuckle, but not from humor. It’s more about acknowledging that I’m the paid service provider, and his parents are the clients who are paying. “What do you know about love?”
Patrick shrugs and sits on the edge of the pool, dipping his feet into the water. “I know enough to see what it does to people. It makes them brave sometimes, but it also makes them stupid a lot of the time. Makes them miserable most of the time and horny the rest.”
How astute for a nineteen-year-old prick, I think. The skimmer gets checked, then the brush meets the tile. “Sounds about right.”
“The worst part,” he says, watching the ripple trail from his toes, “is it tricks you into thinking misery’s romantic. Like if it hurts enough, it must be real.”
Something about how he says it—unpolished but honest—slows me down. The brush rests against the tile as I half-turn toward him.
“You’ve been hurt?” I ask.
He shrugs again—no smirk this time, just something quieter beneath it. “Haven’t you?”
For a moment, we sit in it—the heat, the hush, the things neither of us is saying—while the cicadas keep buzzing like they know something we don’t.
Then he kicks water at me.
“What the hell—”
“You need to cool off,” he grins.
A playful lunge sends him stumbling back, laughing. I give chase and catch him, and soon, we’re grappling by the pool’s edge, trying to grab each other’s wrists while slapping one another’s hands away—until I fake him out and tug hard enough on him to launch us both into the pool .
The splash is enormous, and water floods my nose. I surface, sputtering, and slick my hair from my face. Patrick comes up beside me, spitting water in my face and laughing uncontrollably.
“You’re a bastard,” he says.
“You’re not wrong.”
We drift to the wall, holding onto the edge.
Patrick retrieves his sunglasses from the bottom of the pool with his toes and puts them back on. He speaks first. “You don’t have to tell me what happened. But whoever hurt you is an idiot.”
I close my eyes and let the cool water pull the heat from my skin. The ache’s still there—but it’s not choking me anymore.
“Yeah,” I say. “He is.”
Patrick doesn’t say anything right away. He floats beside me, his sunglasses dripping.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, voice lower now, “if you ever want to talk—or just swim and not talk—I’m around.”
For the first time, he isn’t posturing or acting arrogant. He’s not trying to be clever. He seems to be offering something real.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
He nods, pushes off the wall, and floats on his back, arms out like a mannequin in Sunday clothes tossed into the deep end.
“Hey,” I call out. “I thought you said you couldn’t swim.”
“Nah,” he says. “I said I didn’t like cold water. It’s nice and warm in here today.”
Patrick mumbles under his breath, “What kind of fuckin’ moron thinks a kid with a pool doesn’t know how to swim?”