The Space Between (30 page)

22:35 Patrick:
when I get you home, youre mine.

23:04 Patrick:
here’s the thing about whiskey: its great

I chuckled, and typed out a quick response.

00:19 Andy:
on my way out soon, glad I missed the raw bar, you saw me this afternoon, and im always yours.

00:20 Andy:
where are you?

Emerging from the bathroom, I found Lauren belting a light raincoat while Shannon reclined on a tufted chaise. “Don’t worry about this stuff,” Shannon said, her hand waving toward the mountain of gifts. “I’ll keep it in my guest room until Matt can drop by.”

“Yeah, he’ll love doing that when he’s too hungover to blink tomorrow,” Lauren replied. She glanced toward me, a questioning look in her eye. “Walk with me?”

I nodded, and we departed after another round of hugs. “Any idea where they’ll be?”

“They ate on Berkeley Street, and I’m guessing they either went to M at the Mandarin Oriental or Eastern Standard. Sam’s probably the ringleader, and I bet he’s all about M. That boy is hooked up at all the VIP spots.”

Thankfully, Shannon’s apartment on the southern slope of Beacon Hill was only a few blocks from the Common and Boylston Street, and the trek in nude heels wasn’t treacherous but it did force me to shorten my steps. I gazed at gorgeous brick homes as we strolled, thinking back to the snowy day in January when I hiked these streets after my interview with Patrick and Shannon.

At the edge of the Common, Lauren grabbed my wrist and pointed across the intersection. “Do you see what I see?”

And there they were: four well-dressed, strikingly handsome hooligans stumbling and shoving each other, howling with laughter, and looking like trouble. They crossed toward the park and nearly walked right by us.

That whiskey must have been fabulous.

“Dude, dude, it’s Princess Jasmine and Miss Honey!” Riley yelled, his fist landing on Patrick’s shoulder for emphasis.

Lauren and I glanced at each other, quickly shaking our heads. “I don’t know what it is about these kids and nicknames,” she muttered, “but you’re an official member of the club now.”

“Miss Honey?” I asked.

“You know,” she shrugged. “From
Matilda
? That sweet, innocent teacher?”

“Oh yeah,” I replied. “They don’t know you at all.”

“Nope,” Lauren giggled.

Riley wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “You’re like really high priced call girls.”

Patrick squinted, studying me as if he didn’t believe I was standing five feet away before grabbing the neck of Riley’s shirt. “Did you just call her a hooker?”

“No,” Riley replied, drawing the word out. “It’s just funny that they’re standing here, on the corner. And they’re really hot. So hot.”

“Come on, Matthew,” Lauren commanded, grabbing him by the belt and waving for a cab. “Time to put you to bed. And I have cake. Andy, text me tomorrow.”

“Whatever you do, do not eat that cake,” Patrick yelled. “It’s perverted!”

Lauren and I exchanged another confused glance as she poured Matt into a cab. Patrick maintained his hold on Riley’s collar, his gaze dark and unfocused. Against my better judgment, I pried his fingers away and wrapped my arm around his waist. “Enough of that,” I murmured, and he dropped a sloppy kiss on my mouth.

Sam wagged his finger between Patrick and me, a puzzled look crossing his face. “What…?”

Riley clapped Sam on the back and pointed down the street. “Are we going to M or what, man? The night’s young and so are we. And you said you’d introduce me to those actresses who were shooting that film in Southie.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s—”

“Nope.” Riley towed Sam toward Boylston Street. “Classified information.” They walked away, Sam glancing over his shoulder repeatedly before they detoured down a side street.

“Whiskey, huh?” We wandered through the park, my arm anchored on Patrick’s waist to minimize his wobbling.

“Whiskey is great,” he slurred. He was silent for a few moments, the sounds of my clicking heels echoing around us. “My aunt, my father used to say she was a tough old broad, she used to drink whiskey in bed with an alligator every night.”

“Yeah, I’m sure she did,” I replied.

“After my mother died, she came over with casseroles. So many casseroles. Chicken divan. Chicken à la king. Chicken cacciatore. Chicken pie. Chicken and dumplings. Fuckin’ chicken. One time, Shannon left it in the oven too long, Jesus, Shannon should not be allowed in a chicken.”

“You mean a kitchen?”

“That’s what I said. It is a fucking public health crisis when she tries to cook. And she left it in too long, and when she tried to get it out of the pan, my hand on the bible, the dish slipped off the counter and popped Sam square in the eye. That son of a bitch had a black eye for a month, and no one believed it was a casserole. They just assumed a girl beat the shit out of him. But that was a meatloaf.”

My apartment was closer and as we made our way to my floor, it was obvious that Patrick was in no shape for steep, narrow stairs, slipping and knocking his shins against the risers every few steps. “Fuckin’ stairs,” he groaned.

He leaned against the wall while I fished my keys from my clutch, his eyes sweeping back and forth across the landing.

“Andy,” he whispered. “Where are we?”

I pushed him through the doorway, propping him against a wall while I stepped out of my heels. “My place.”

“No shit?” he murmured. “Final frontier. There’s probably something else I don’t know about you though, but I don’t know what I don’t know. You don’t give me much, Andy. I don’t even know your long name, like your
real
name, not Andy.”

“Andriel Ava Mazanderani Asani. You can see how I’d need to shorten that.” I glanced at him while he listed precariously to the left. “And you only have to ask, Patrick.”

“‘If you have to ask, you’ll never know.’”

“Not sure that quote applies to this situation.” With the hot pink necklace returned to its peg in my closet, I padded into the kitchen. Patrick followed and pawed through my refrigerator.

“I can’t find any roast beef…or anything from the deli.”

“I keep a vegan kitchen here.”

Patrick slammed the refrigerator shut and stared at me, shocked. “There’re so many things wrong with that statement. You’re not a vegan.”

I shrugged. “Sometimes I am a vegan, and…you’re not going to remember this conversation tomorrow, so let’s not argue about it.”

His hand waved toward the wall of boxes. “Packing up already?”

We didn’t reach a clear agreement on my move-in date because I couldn’t get out of my lease within Patrick’s timeframe of right-that-second.

“Never unpacked,” I murmured, my fingers flying over the buttons of his shirt.

“Lauren used to live a few blocks away. Chipmunk Street. Wait—no, Chestnut. Fuck, Andy, she makes him so fucking happy. He used to be so, I don’t know, cold. Like he didn’t care about anything. He didn’t want to care. But now? Happy. Not like double rainbows every day happy, or some bullshit, but he’s…I don’t know. Loved. He’s loved, and he loves her, and for a coupl’a kids who wouldn’t know how to love a leprechaun if it fucked us in the ass, he’s working at it, and doing it, and it’s working.”

“A leprechaun, huh?”

I stared at Patrick, a glass of water with a cucumber slice for extra hydration in my hand, and waited—I didn’t want to interrupt his diatribe. It was illuminating and hilarious, and keeping my laughter in check was testing my abdominal muscles.

“Bed. Now,” I ordered, and Patrick complied. “Drink this.”

Knowing his track record with cell phones and whiskey, I retrieved his phone, keys and wallet from his pants and set them on the other side of the room. When I turned around, the glass was empty and Patrick was sprawled across my bed with his eyes closed. I retreated to the bathroom to remove my makeup and change, and found him flopped on his stomach when I returned.

Apparently, he was a wiggly drunk.

Smoothing the covers around us, I pressed my hand to his back. He was right: a few hours apart felt like a short eternity, and his skin against mine was all I needed to recharge.

He rolled over, scooping me into his arms. “Do you love me?” Patrick asked, his voice thick and quiet.

I brushed his hair back, my fingers moving through his soft strands. “Yes.”

“Mmm,” he sighed, his eyes drifting shut. “‘If you know, you need only ask.’”

PATRICK

I
probably didn’t
appreciate college while I was there. I didn’t value self-replenishing dining halls, schedules that conveniently avoided Fridays and anything before noon, or the seemingly endless excuses college kids invented to throw parties. I knew I didn’t appreciate it, and the three hundred and thirty-mile drive to Cornell was a definite reminder. Once I was deep in the rolling hills of western Massachusetts, the gilded memories of a responsibility-free youth crept into sight.

Nonetheless, college was a messy time for us, and it was the first and only time in my life that I was separated from my siblings for more than a few days. All told, I spent two solid years alone at Cornell before Matt showed up.

Shannon should have been a year behind me like always, but Angus went to war with her during my first semester away. Before I made it home for Thanksgiving break, he emptied her college fund. He justified his behavior with his breed of fatherly wisdom, insisting Shannon was attending college with the intent of finding a husband, and he didn’t deserve the tab for that.

It didn’t deter her. She picked up her real estate license and cleaned up during the condo and loft boom, went nights to Suffolk University in the city, and proved Angus very wrong.

Good old Angus. May his ornery, angry soul rest in peace…or the eternal fires of hell. Whichever.

Smiling and nodding while the university lavished praise on his generous gift and visionary approach to preservation arts were preferable only to wading through a septic tank explosion. After six rounds of stiffly posed photographs and four requests for comments on my father’s commitment to developing a robust crop of young sustainability architects, my forced smile started to crack.

“That’s a great question,” I replied, my eyes darting across the ballroom in search of the closest exit. “He believed…it was important…to put new architects through their paces. Learn the craft. And what better way to learn than by doing?”

That was a nice way of saying he was a massive douche who taught us by making us figure it out ourselves.

“I’m curious, Mr. Walsh, what propelled your father to embrace sustainability when the preservation field was slow to get on board?”

I glanced at the student reporter and withheld a snicker. Angus never embraced sustainability; he seized every opportunity to criticize our decision to move in that direction, and harped on our every misstep as evidence of our foolish strategy. Sam was still bruised from Angus’s final beating on that topic.

“Well…”

“Just the man I wanted to see!” A strong hand clamped over my shoulder, and I was face-to-face with David Lin. Never was I so relieved to see my undergrad roommate, and I clasped his hand in a firm shake. “How the hell are you?” He glanced at the reporter. “Mariella, I need a few minutes with Mr. Walsh here. If you have more questions, forward them to his office. Give the reporter your card, Walsh.”

She accepted my card—with my new title—and moved on to get comments from other university leaders.

“Thanks for that,” I said, inclining my head toward the reporter. “How long’s it been, Dave?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and bobbed his head from side to side. “At least three, probably four years since I’ve seen your pretty face.” He looked around the venue and leaned forward. “I’m sorry about your dad. Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Catch up?”

“Lead the way.”

*

Dave mentioned several
recent additions to the area, but I was compelled to stick with something I knew well: Stella’s Café. Cornell was always the kind of place that lived untouched in my memory, and I preferred the old haunts.

“Is it true that Mr. Disinterested is getting married?”

“True. The big day’s coming up. Next weekend.” I sipped my iced coffee and smiled. “He couldn’t have found a better girl. Such a sweetheart, but she doesn’t take any of his shit. It’s awesome to watch someone put him in his place, seeing as he likes to think he knows everything.”

“Never thought I’d see the day. He was my back-up, you know,” Dave said. “I need to revamp my long-range relationship strategy if he’s off the market.”

“Off the market,” I confirmed. “And, I don’t doubt you, Dave, but I don’t see him playing for your team.”

“Well, shit.”

“What’s this new gig you’ve got?” I asked.

Dave passed a hand over his forehead and adjusted his glasses. “Associate Dean. Never thought I’d be The Man. Definitely not The Man in the suit,” he laughed, gesturing to his gray three-piece. “But I’m more interested in what you’re doing. Hell, we used to talk for hours about the shops we were going to open and the shit we were going to do, and you’re the only person from our graduating class who went out and did it all. We were going to change the world, one brick at a time. I give you a lot of credit. We all do, up in the Ivory Tower, that is.”