11. Chapter 11
Are you hearing me?
Ricardo [THEN]
He comes back with a few towels. I reach out to take one from him, to thank him, but before I can, he's already kneeling beside me, gently cleaning me up.
His touch is slow and careful, surprising me with its tenderness.
I let him work, savoring these last touches, memorizing the feeling of his hands on my skin.
I'm not sure if this will ever happen again. Probably not. But I'll be damned if I stop trying.
"Are you thirsty?" he asks, his voice back to that casual, detached tone that I'm starting to realize is his armor. He tosses the towels into a heap on the floor, the soft thud breaking the silence.
"Yeah," I answer, my throat suddenly dry.
He leaves for the kitchen, and I take the time alone to survey his bedroom.
It's fairly plain. Blackout curtains, belts and accessories hanging from the closet door.
A dim lamp with some plants around the nearest bedside table.
An alarm clock with a solid crack down the center of the glass.
On the dresser across from the bed is a few half used cologne bottles, the good kind.
The kind that's been driving me crazy. A few nailpolish bottles—black, purple, green. Then I see it.
He has records. Three of them, strewn across the dresser haphazardly. Gray Matter. Soulside. Rites of Spring.
Patrick comes back with two glasses of water. I lean up against the wooden headboard, the cool wood against the skin on my back and take the cup to chug the water. Patrick holds back a laugh, sipping his with more grace than I've ever had in my life.
"Thank you." I manage between breaths of air, wiping the water from my chin with the back of my hand.
He looks down at me. "You hungry?" He shrugs, scratching his head. "Because I don't have much," he says, his voice muffled. "There's cereal, leftover pizza, and stuff to make sandwiches."
My stomach growls at the mention of pizza—extra jalapenos, the kind that makes your mouth feel like it's on fire in the best way possible.
But something tells me Patrick's more of a plain cheese guy, maybe some sad-ass pepperoni if he's feeling adventurous.
I'd eat whatever he's got, though. I'm not picky when it comes to pizza.
"Honestly," He says, trying to sound casual, "I'm craving cereal."
I straighten up. "Cereal sounds great."
He's already started redressing. "When you leave, you're not allowed back unless I say. Got it?"
"Why would I do that?"
"Got it?" He repeats. "Don't be weird. Don't just show up here. You can catch me at the coffee shop. This isn't anything, I'm not giving you my number, and—"
I'm already up, moving toward the records on the dresser.
"Ricardo, are you hearing me?"
I grab Rites of Spring, the cardboard sleeve worn soft in my hands, the corners frayed from years of handling.
"Rites of Spring, 1985," I say out loud.
I carefully open the gatefold, my fingers tracing the faded black and white photograph inside, but there's no record nestled in the paper sleeve.
"Where is it?" I ask, my eyes finding his in the dim light.
He looks at me for a moment, his expression unreadable, the wall between us firmly back in place.
"This was the first album I ever bought for myself," I say, turning the sleeve over in my hands. "After I got my job at Eli's. Mine's got a gnarly scratch on it, so I never get to play it."
"It's on the record player in the living room," Patrick says finally, his voice flat, casual.
He's pulling on his jeans now, underwear already back on.
I raise an eyebrow, but his expression is still guarded.
I take the album cover with me and walk into the living room, the cool floorboards under my bare feet.
I hear him scurrying to pull on his shirt, bumping into the side of the door frame with a mumbled 'sorry' before rushing over to the record player I'm already powering up.
The vinyl is there, sitting on the turntable, the needle lifted but ready to drop.
It's on here. Like he was listening to it. Recently.
"When did you get yours?" I ask, carefully placing the record onto the spindle and lowering the needle. The first crackle of vinyl, then the opening guitar riff fills the room, raw and urgent and perfect.
"Uh, a few years ago I think," he says, his voice tight, his eyes darting around the room, anywhere but at me.
"You listen to it a lot?" I ask, turning to face him, leaning against the sound system.
"No," he states plainly, his jaw tight. "Something just... reminded me of it."
I smile, a slow, knowing smile that I know will drive him crazy. He grits his teeth, his eyes finally meeting mine.
"Was it me?"
"Ricardo. You're fucking naked in the middle of my living room playing an old Rites of Spring record, it's time to go home."
The raw guitar chords continue to pulse from the speakers, filling the small apartment with an energy that matches the tension.
I can feel the cool air against my bare skin, every nerve ending still buzzing with the aftermath of our encounter.
Patrick stands there, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression a mixture of annoyance and something else I can't quite read—maybe frustration, maybe the faintest hint of amusement he's trying desperately to suppress.
The dim light catches the silver ring on his lip, drawing my attention to his mouth as he speaks.
My grin widens, a slow, deliberate curve of my lips that I know will infuriate him. "It was me."
The confession hangs in the air between us.
I watch as his composure crumbles—a flicker of vulnerability in his blue eyes before the wall slams back up.
His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching along the side of his face.
He's trying so hard to maintain his detached facade, but I see it. I see the crack in his armor.
Patrick's had enough. He turns so fast I almost get whiplash watching him, his shoulders rigid.
His footsteps echo through the tiny apartment.
I hear him rummaging around in the bedroom, the sound of hangers clanging against the closet rod, then he's back in the living room, shoving my clothes into my chest like he's trying to restart my fucking heart with blunt force trauma.
"Wait... So, no cereal?" I ask, because my brain's short-circuited and that's the first stupid thing that pops out.
Patrick's face is a blank wall. "No. You've used up your alloted after-care time admiring my non-existant record collection."
I stand there, my clothes bunched up against my chest, my mouth hanging open.
"Bye, bye, Ricky."
His voice is cold, but there's a slight tremor to it that betrays him.
He's not as unaffected as he wants me to believe.
Him using my nickname—Ricky—is cupid's arrow straight through my heart.
I meet his gaze head-on, letting him see that I'm not going anywhere, that this stupid, nonsensical thing I have for him is far from over.
The music swells around us, the angry, passionate guitars of Rites of Spring a perfect soundtrack to this battle of wills.
"Bye." He tries again, his eyes opening wider, motioning to the door.
I fumble with my jeans, the denim rough against my sensitized skin, each movement feeling clumsy and awkward.
Patrick stands there, arms folded tightly over his chest, his expression flat and unreadable.
His eyes follow my every move as I struggle to pull on my shirt, the fabric getting twisted around my arms. I put my head through the wrong hole but manage to free myself.
The music continues to pulse from the living room.
I can feel his gaze, watching me dress with an intensity that makes my fingers tremble as I button my jeans.
When I'm finally dressed, I turn to face him, my heart pounding in my chest, waiting for him to say something, anything.
But he doesn't. He simply stares at me, his jaw clenched, his eyes stern.
I step toward the door, and he follows silently, his presence looming behind me. The apartment feels too small now. I reach for the door handle, my hand sweaty and unsteady, and turn back one last time to meet his eyes.
"I'll see you at the coffee shop," I say, and I swear I see something joyful flicker in his expression—just for a second—before his mask slips back into place.
He stands there with his arms crossed, his posture rigid as I step out into the cool night air and pull the door shut behind me.
The moment the door clicks shut, I press my back against it, letting out a shaky breath I didn't realize I was holding. My heart's still racing, my body still humming from the aftermath, but my mind is already racing ahead, planning my next move.
Because I know one thing for certain: this isn't over. Not by a long shot. I grin at the door, imagining the storm brewing on the other side, and start walking down the hallway, the sound of Patrick's record still echoing in my head.