THANKSGIVING PREP IS IN full swing back in my apartment. The kitchen smells like spices and baking bread. Patrick and I are enlisted in peeling potatoes next to Robbie, who’s cutting green beans and who I’m glad to have as our new buffer. What’s more, we have the entertainment of hearing Robbie attempt to convince our mom to let Chloe come to dinner.
“I’m sure Chloe has plans with her own family,” Mom says decisively.
Or I consider her reply decisive. Robbie does not. “Her parents are super chill,” he insists. “They won’t mind.”
Mom turns up the heat on the stove. The blue flame grows under the pot of cranberry sauce. “Do you even know her parents? You two started dating like last week.”
Dad, who’s kneading bread at the counter, nods in silent agreement.
I hide my grin behind a potato I’m peeling when Robbie frowns, realizing he doesn’t have a good defense. “What if she asks them and they agree?” he poses to Mom with renewed energy. “Then can she come?”
Mom opens the oven to check on the turkey, pouring the smell into the room. I know she’s only half paying attention to this debate. “It’s just not appropriate,” she says. “We’ll have her over for dinner another night.”
“How is it not appropriate?” Robbie protests, sounding indignant. “Siena has her boyfriend here. Why can’t I have my girlfriend?”
I exchange a look of amusement with Patrick. We know what’s coming. It’s not the first time Robbie has tried to include various girlfriends in holidays, family road trips, birthday plans. It never works. Invariably, the girlfriends do end up coming over for dinner “another night.” I’ve made enough conversation with Katies and Sarahs over Macaroni Grill sides for a lifetime.
“Patrick is different,” Mom pronounces. “He’s family.”
I cringe inside, guilty and stressed.
Robbie opens his mouth, but I’ll never know what poorly planned point he was going to make because Dad chooses now to interject. “Your grandparents don’t need to see you and Chloe making out before they eat, Robert. They’ll lose their appetite.”
Robbie cuts the edges off his green beans with vigor. “You can’t compare me to Siena and Patrick,” he complains. “They’re . . . old.”
I put down my potato. “Hey!”
He ignores me. “So you’re saying I can’t have my girlfriend over until we’ve been together long enough to be boring? No offense,” he adds to Patrick, and very deliberately not to me.
Patrick doesn’t get the chance to respond because Mom fixes Robbie with a withering glare. “If you could demonstrate the maturity needed to stay with one girl for more than three months, then we could maybe invite her to Thanksgiving next year,” Mom says with finality.
Under ordinary circumstances, I would love watching my mom dunk on Robbie like this. Even with three years of Model UN on my résumé, I don’t have half of my mom’s debating skill. Right now, however, I’m unable to enjoy the demonstration. Robbie’s words have gotten under my skin like salt in a hangnail. Not because they were mean, but because he wasn’t wrong. We are boring. I used to hide the word behind stable, comfortable, drama-free. The fact that my self-involved fifteen-year-old brother sees it proves how undeniable it is.
Robbie pouts into his green beans. Even he’s smart enough to know not to press Mom further.
“You know, just because we’ve been together for three years,” Patrick says to Robbie, “doesn’t mean we’re boring. It means we’re special.” I can’t quite read his tone. Patrick is never ever less than graceful and enthusiastic with Robbie. Right now, though, there’s something other than innocent observation in his voice.
Robbie glances at him. “Sure. Yeah,” he says. They’re even and flavorless syllables. Without elaborating, Robbie stands, pulling out his phone. I know he’s heading outside for privacy to FaceTime Chloe.
While my parents start up a detailed discussion about the oven schedule, I’m left with just Patrick. I guess it was inevitable, which suddenly feels obvious. Yes, Siena, you will end up spending time alone with your own boyfriend.
Patrick slides his chair closer to me. I can only muster a weak smile, still hating how hard my brother’s words were to deny.
“Hey,” Patrick says, his voice soft. “I know what you’re thinking.”
I search his expression. Once, Patrick really did know everything I was thinking. Where I wanted to go for dinner, what conversation I was worrying over, what tests had me stressed. Does he feel this, too? How boring we’ve become?
“You’re wrong, though,” he goes on. “I’d be happy to make out with you in front of your grandparents to prove it.”
A laugh escapes me, catching me by surprise. His face splits into a delighted grin. Despite the heat of the kitchen, his reaction warms me in a different way, even while it makes me a little sad.
He must notice, because sympathy shades over his expression. He leans closer to me, elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of him. “Whatever it is, you can tell me,” he says, quieter.
He’s only inches from me, smelling the way he does. While Patrick’s kindness is genuine, I’m caught off guard. I’m certain he’s got no idea what a huge answer I could give him. I chew my lip, working over what to say. With hours until Thanksgiving dinner with my entire family, I’m pretty sure it’s not the time to unravel my every messy misgiving and uncertainty about our relationship.
Spontaneously, I reach for my reply—and grasp on to some smaller, more manageable truth. “I just wonder if we’ve been together so long we’ve forgotten how to flirt,” I say.
I notice it’s strangely relieving to confess. It’s only one of my fears, but it’s a real one. While I’m not ready to get into every problem with our relationship, I feel okay with maybe opening up this one. It makes me suddenly grateful for our privacy.
I watch Patrick closely for his reaction, which surprises me. He looks . . . amused. There’s even relief in his familiar features.
“Me?” he says. “Forget how to flirt? No way.”
Once more, I laugh. His amusement is contagious, even if it’s the last thing I expected. Still, it’s welcome, especially when privately, I sometimes wonder whether I’m not the only one whose passion has faded. For both of our sakes, I wouldn’t want him to stay with me if he’s not feeling a spark.
Looking pleased, Patrick leans just a little closer. “Need I remind you how I put the moves on you in sophomore year? You think those skills were a fluke?”
I don’t need reminding. In AP European history, we had to do a “French Enlightenment Salon” presentation, each of us playing philosophers or social critics exchanging ideas in one unstructured conversation. He played Voltaire, while I was Descartes. He flirted with me so much our teacher wrote in his feedback that to his knowledge, Voltaire and Descartes never had a “romantic liaison” on account of them not even being contemporaries.
The memory is like melted ice cream. Sweet, but spoiled. It aches in a place I thought empty. “I don’t think you’ve ever been so proud of a B minus,” I say softly, holding on to the sweetness.
Patrick doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely worth the five hours of extra credit I did to rescue my GPA.”
We share a smile. I don’t know if it’s at all sad for Patrick. It is for me. I have so many happy memories of him, of the Patrick I fell for. But memories aren’t enough to hold two people together, I remind myself. What we had feels like history, no different from Descartes and Voltaire. Things I know happened instead of things I feel.
Like he’s reading my mind, Patrick’s expression shifts. I hardly recognize the way his eyes dance. “I have not forgotten how to flirt,” he assures me. “I’ll prove it to you.”
Automatically, I scoff. Then I catch myself. I look over, studying him, not sure what I’m hearing. “How?” I ask.
Patrick doesn’t move, his shoulders relaxed, his hands still folded. He looks perfectly comfortable. “Just prepare yourself to be flirted with,” he says. “And while I’m at it, I’m going to challenge you to dust off your skills as well.”
My stomach flutters a little, my smile loosening into something more like a smirk. I’m surprised and not surprised at the same time. On the one hand, my boyfriend wants to flirt with me. Super normal. On the other, my boyfriend wants to flirt with me, which hasn’t happened in months, for sure. It’s like how in a dream, stuff makes a weird sort of sense even when it’s wildly different from real life.
What he’s proposing would definitely count as giving him mixed signals. I want to do it anyway. And maybe, I realize, it’s something I have to do to know for sure if we still have anything.
Patrick raises his eyebrows, waiting for my reply.
“Come on, Griffin,” he says. “Show me what you’ve got.”
The look he’s sending me is one I’m distantly familiar with. I can’t quite place it, like I’m squinting over an unfocused photograph. Until it hits me, and suddenly I’m fifteen, in the front of the class with Victor Hugo and the Marquis de Lafayette. The sparkle in Patrick’s eyes, the smug curve of his lips. It’s exactly the look Patrick-Voltaire gave me years ago.
I can’t help it. “Game on,” I say.