WE REACH PATRICK’S HOUSE with twenty-nine minutes to spare. I walk up his front steps, giddy with excitement and a little nervous. It’s dark out now, like it was when we left for the hike this morning. The day I envisioned then was different from the one we’ve had—I imagined lunch on some sunny patio, the smells of frying food drifting over us, the quirky colors and eclectic antiquity of Austin’s storefronts. It hardly matters to me now. When I linger on Patrick’s porch, my butterflies are fluttering at full strength.
I look at Patrick and find him grinning widely. While the day hasn’t gone as planned, we can salvage this.
Except when Patrick opens the front door, my heart sinks. My butterflies drop dead.
We hear the unmistakable chatter of voices, the clinking of glasses. In the living room, Patrick’s parents sit looking fully comfortable on the gray couch, like they’re in the middle of a long evening in.
“You’re back,” Mel says, setting her half-full wineglass on the coffee table. I recognize the charm on the stem, the Hawaii-themed set Patrick’s parents have had forever. “Siena, how’s your wrist?” she asks, sympathy wrapping her voice like a heavy quilt.
“Oh,” I say, fighting to focus past my disappointment. “It’s fine.”
Patrick jumps in, sounding uncharacteristically sharp. “What happened to your dinner with the Rossis?” With how easygoing he was earlier today, I’m distantly glad he seems genuinely put out.
“We left early,” Mel explains. “When you texted that Siena was hurt, well, we just had to come home and check on her. Do you need anything, hon?”
I cut Patrick a glare communicating, Seriously? He does not meet my eyes, which is probably smart. “I’m really fine,” I tell Mel, the sentence coming out rigid. “You two should go out, enjoy your evening,” I continue, the cheerfulness in my voice feeling like it’s pulling the corners of my mouth up into a smile.
“Believe me,” Patrick’s dad speaks up. “We’re not missing anything.” Greg is reclined with his feet up on the matching gray ottoman. He rubs his beard, eyeing his wine with satisfaction past his glasses.
“Greg.” Mel elbows her husband, chiding. “The Rossis are nice.”
Greg rolls his eyes.
“Okay, well,” Patrick interjects woodenly. “We’re going to hang out in my room.”
Mel waves us off, and I follow Patrick down the hall, disheartened. I can’t help resenting every light on in the house, every laugh from Patrick’s parents. This was the one part of the day that was supposed to go the way I’d hoped. Now it’s flattened into this unrecognizable shape, just like everything else.
When we’re in Patrick’s room, we close the door as much as we possibly can while obeying Mel’s rule. Then I round on him. “You told them?” I hiss.
“Why wouldn’t I tell them?” he says, the strain not gone from his voice. “They were going to find out when they saw you with your wrist in a splint.”
“That would have been after their night out.” I glare, not wanting to risk him missing the implication of what I’m saying. “After we’d had sex.” While I’m whispering, I have half a mind not to. If my voice carries past the cracked door, well, what’s the harm? Mel can’t keep us from having sex any more than she already is.
Patrick’s shoulders sag dejectedly. “I really didn’t think they’d come home early. I’m sorry, Siena. But . . .”
“But what?” I snap. I feel my composure shaking, my face heating. This debate is veering into fight territory—heading down the conversational one-way street in front of which I’ve posted a DO NOT ENTER sign. Still, the open door keeps my voice a controlled, fierce whisper.
His eyes skirt mine like he knows what he’s going to say will provoke me. Which it probably will. “You are hurt,” he says delicately. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if we just took it easy tonight. We can watch the ball drop in Times Square, order something on DoorDash.”
I have no interest in taking it easy. To me, this injury doesn’t exist for the next forty-eight hours. “No,” I say firmly, my voice changing to a calm I hope leaves no room for discussion. “I know you’re just suggesting those things because you want me to rest. But I can take it easy when I’m home in Phoenix.” Patrick winces, hearing the spite in my repetition of his words. I preempt his rebuttal. “Patrick. It’s my body. I get to decide if I rest it or not.”
My point works on Patrick instantly. His gaze rises to mine. “Okay. Fair. What do you propose we do, then?” He sounds resigned, the way he did at MUN conferences when he knew his proposal wasn’t going to pass. “Sprained wrist or not, our previous plan is just not going to be doable.” He waves to the door right as Mel’s laugh drifts down the hall.
I chew my lip. I’m disappointed, but faintly, I’m glad we’re not fighting.
This relief pushes open new possibilities in my head. There were other things I’d wanted to do. Tonight doesn’t have to be a total waste.
“What about your friends’ party?” I say, the new potential of this plan hitting me like a rush.
Patrick looks doubtful, concern in his eyes warring with the point I just made.
I go on, gentler. “Would you want to go if my wrist weren’t hurt?”
His expression settles. “It does sound more fun than watching the ball on TV with my parents,” he admits, starting to smile.
“Well, I feel great,” I say genuinely. “I promise if I get tired, I’ll tell you and we’ll come right home.”
Patrick’s eyes flutter closed in momentary exasperation. When they open, he puts on a lightly annoyed smile. “You know, since you quit Model UN, have you considered trying debate team?”
I grin, lighting up with some of what I felt when we pulled into Patrick’s driveway. While I’m still disappointed, I’m determined to hold on to this glittering new consolation prize. “Maybe I will,” I say. I let my head start to fill with unfinished sketches of memories I hope I’ll make in the next few hours, new glimpses into Patrick’s life and this wonderful city illuminated by the special and unpredictable magic of New Year’s Eve.
“Well, let’s go, then,” Patrick says.
I push open the door, and it feels like reopening the night’s possibilities.