His name was Patrick, but everyone referred to him as “the 17-year-old.” That was how his number was saved in my phone. I met the 17-year-old while visiting my 17-year-old cousin in the burbs. I was 22. The cousin brought me to a high school party. Patrick was in the corner, tall and spidery with olive skin.
After a few shared cigarettes, I found myself making out with him on the hood of my car, our bodies causing the metal to cave where we lay.
“Leave the suburbs and come live in the city,” I said, the moon looming above us. Keep reading »






