Yolk(39)

I’m embarrassed what I don’t know about us.

“It’s good to see you, Jayne,” he says, and my cheeks flush for altogether different reasons. I love hearing Patrick say my name. And that he knows how it’s spelled. And that every time he speaks, he leans in close to be heard. “I honestly wasn’t sure you were going to text back. I’m fucking horrible at texting.”

He shakes his head.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Almost a year,” he says. “But I’ve been visiting since forever.”

“Two and a half for me.”

“Right, you’re at school.”

“And you went to Yale,” I tell him, sidestepping the inevitable question of where I go. “I can’t believe I didn’t hear it from the church ladies.”

“I don’t think art school counts,” he says, chuckling.

I smile into my drink. He’s right.

“Where do you go?”

“Not Yale.” I say it in a disgustingly goofy way. “June went to Columbia, though. Full ride.”

“It’s so nice that you’re both here.”

“Yeah, totally.”

“We should all hang out sometime, get food.”

“Yeah, totally.” I feel instantly clumsy and inarticulate.

He watches me in a way I remember from when I was a kid. With intensity. Almost as if he’s recording me with his eyes. It’s the opposite of everyone in my life who is constantly looking past me. I don’t have to vie for his attention. It’s mine to lose.

“What about Kirsten?”

“Kiki’s in London,” he says of his sister. She had a blunt bob when we were younger. It made her seem sophisticated. “Or she was. She’s in the Peace Corps now. Panama.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” He smiles the good-natured smile of a younger kid with an impressive older sibling.

“But you, creative director. That’s awesome.”

He runs his hand through his hair. “Yeah.” He clears his throat, nodding a few times.

“Is it fucked up that I have no idea what that means?”

He laughs. “No.” He shakes off the cocktail stirrer from his drink and, absent a place to put it, shoves it in his pocket. It’s exactly what I would do. “Most creative directors are carpetbagging dilettantes who think they’re brands. Generally, I’m overpaid to answer questions about a company’s point of view. Or I guess I’ve been overpaid a couple of times. I only just got out of school.”

“How does that work? Do you work at an agency or…?”

I studied up from his website but couldn’t tell. Flash sites make me crazy.

“I’m freelance,” he says. “Which means I’m either panicking about starvation or I have a weird amount of money sitting in my checking account.”

“So, you work for yourself?”

He nods. “For now.”

I can’t believe he’s only twenty-four.

I search for clues as to whether this means he’s homeless. Nails: clean. Clothes: freshly laundered. His hair: not only washed but fiddled with long enough that a light, a mirror, and some privacy were required. Then again, I’ve heard of a girl who used her SoHo house membership to scam dates and roomies for the night. See also: Jeremy.

“That’s amazing.”

“We’ll see,” he admits. “Mostly, I have a truly despicable advantage…” Patrick glances around and leans in. “I don’t pay rent.”

“You’re squatting?”

“Yes,” he deadpans.

When my eyes widen, he shakes his head, smiling. “My mom went to NYU in the nineties and kept her apartment downtown.”

I take a half step back. “Where downtown?”

“East Village.”

“Fuck you.”

He laughs. “See.”

“So, it’s rent-controlled?”

“No.” Then he cringes.

I love that I feel completely comfortable grilling him like this. “God, she owns it, doesn’t she?” I steel myself against the tidal jealousy.

“She does.”

“My dude…” I jerk my head back from him.

“I know.” He looks a little like the gnashed-teeth emoji. “I’ve told no one. I feel like if fucking Bane came to my apartment in the middle of the night and killed me just to level the playing field it would be fair.”

“So it’s not that amazing that you work for yourself.”

“Way less amazing.”

“Fuck.” I shake my head, cutting my eyes at him. “Wait, are y’all rich?”

He pauses. “I was going to say we’re comfortable, but that’s literally…”

I finish his sentence. “What every rich kid says. Wow. I’m torn between admiration and rage. You’re so lucky.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” he says. “It’s not fair. It’s not a testament to anything that I can afford to be freelance.”

“Maybe you’re talented.”

“I’m okay,” he says. “But I don’t not know that a huge reason I even have a career is that my crew from art school blew up. I shot Danny Song for a GQ cover when I was twenty-one because he requested me.”