I don’t know if Vince Devlin is a Catholic or not, but I have started thinking of him as St. Vince, patron saint of girls who haven’t had enough fun in their lives yet.

I’m lying here on his big amazing bed, in his big amazing loft in DUMBO, watching him plate the dinner that he just had delivered. My body is both ravaged and revitalized, my brain is both carefree and racing. It must be because he plowed away at me until I was hanging upside-down off the edge of the mattress.

When he called me and told me that he’d be coming to pick me up to bring me to his place, I thought he meant in an Uber. He didn’t. When I came down from my apartment, I found him casually leaning against a motorcycle, a helmet resting between his arm and hip. Every fantasy I’d ever had of Maxwell Caulfield from Grease 2 had still done nothing to prepare me for the reality of such holy hotness.

“You’re kidding, right?” I said.

“Would I kid you?” He kissed me and then grinned as he handed me the helmet. “I won’t go very fast, don’t worry. But it’s easier than driving from here to DUMBO.”

I can’t say that it was on my bucket list to ride on the back of a motorcycle, with my arms clasped tight around the waist of a sexy man, and a warm summer night breeze through my hair—but now that I’ve done it, it is way at the top of my list of things that I am so glad I finally did.

His loft is beautiful and warm in a masculine way, and it smells like him. There is one huge stylish fiddle-leaf fig tree in a corner, leaning towards the light of the oversized industrial window that looks out over the rooftop of a smaller renovated factory/loft building. His living room furniture is spare but exquisite and comfortable. Next to the antique leather sofa are five plastic buckets, one much smaller than the other four. Four of them are overturned, one is a container for drumsticks.

“Is the little bucket for your little brother?”

“What’s that?” he says, all chipper as he brings two plates and silverware over to the bed. He is shirtless and wearing only a pair of sweatpants and Vans.

“Those are for bucket drumming, right? Is the little one for your brother?”

“Why yes it is. You wanna try?”

“Uhh, maybe later.”

“You ever seen someone bucket drumming?”

“In the subway station once, yeah. It was awesome.”

“I wonder if I know the guy.” He puts the plates down on top of the sheet.

“We’re eating in bed?”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “Second course of the night.”

I shake my head, feeling my cheeks get warm. “So you’ve given lessons to kids?”

“Yeah, why? You want me to teach your class sometime?”

The thought of him doing anything for me after September makes me excited and nervous and sad, but I just shrug my shoulders. “I mean, I’m sure the parents will hate me if I introduce my students to bucket drumming, but I’m sure the kids would love it.”

“Oh they would. I’m kind of awesome, myself.”

“I believe you.”

“Oh don’t just take my word for it.” He strides over to pick out a pair of drumsticks from one bucket, twirling one of the sticks between his fingers while he uses one bucket as a stool and brings another between his feet, pulls two more buckets in front of that one.

I sit up, covering myself with the sheet.

Slouching, he taps on the edge of the bucket between his legs, warming up, then starts into a beat, using his feet to move the bucket in different angles, and banging on all three buckets, including the one that has a bunch of sticks in it. It’s not just the primal energy and rhythm or the fascinating way that he manipulates the buckets to change the sounds, or the muscles and veins that are bulging on his arms, but the easy physicality of the performance, the confidence and focus with which he makes this noisy music—every cell of my body is vibrating because of him.

After the finale, after playing for about ninety amazing seconds, he tosses one of the sticks up in the air then catches it, and there wasn’t any doubt in my mind before, but now I know for a fact that he is way too cool to be hanging out with the likes of me. My heart is pounding, and there’s no way that I can digest food after that. I slowly place the plates on the floor, so they won’t fall off the bed…

“Wow. Where’s my purse? You can just have all of my cash. That was incredible.”

“That one was on the house.”

When he saunters back over to me, he is only slightly out of breath, and completely capable of taking mine away again as he pulls down the sheet I was using to cover myself, and presses himself down on top of me.

When we finally get around to eating dinner, it is room temperature, but we have worked up too much of an appetite to care.

I watch him eat, like an athlete after a game. He has so much energy but he usually seems so cool and controlled. I can’t help but wonder if any of it’s an act, but he always seems so authentic. Maybe that’s why he’s such a good salesman. I want to ask him, but I don’t. I want to ask him if there’s anything he can’t do, but I don’t. I want to ask him if he’s ever been a butt model, but I don’t. Instead, what comes out of my mouth is: “Has Sadie been in touch with you since the weekend?”

A deep crease forms between his brows as he shakes his head. “No. I blocked her on my phone, and she hasn’t e-mailed me or anything. Why? The principal been in touch with you?”

“No. Not since I tossed his clothes out my window and yelled at him. He would see that as encouraging my bad behavior.”

Vince rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

I do love that Vince is so uncritical of my freak-out that day. Whether he was watching from across the street or not. I was deeply ashamed of myself, because I was still seeing myself through Russell’s eyes. It’s a lot easier to feel good when I look at myself through Vince’s. I just can’t imagine why Sadie would want to walk away from that.

“Did you love her?”

He freezes for a moment, before going back to chewing and swallowing what he was eating. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and angles himself so that he’s facing me square-on. I wipe my fingers and get ready for his answer, because I can tell it’s not going to be a flippant one.

“I’ve thought about this a lot. Almost as much as I’ve thought about you, since last Saturday. I thought I loved her at first. I guess I wanted to. That feeling I had in my gut, I thought it meant I was in love with her because I was afraid of it. But I think my gut just knew it was wrong and I was trying to justify this choice that I’d made to be with her. Now…I think I loved who I was trying to be, when I was her boyfriend. Does that make sense?”

“Oh my God.” I push my plate aside and hold my hands up over my head. “That’s it.” I reach out to pat his knee. “That’s exactly it! I’ve been trying to articulate how it was for me with Russell—and that’s it. I loved the person I was trying to be when I was with him. But that’s not me…That’s not true. That’s always going to be part of me, it’s how I was raised. But it’s not who I am.”

“So why were you engaged to him? I mean, you could have said ‘no.’”

I curl my legs up into my chest. “Yeah, I guess. I think I’d just given up on love and it seemed like since it all happened so easily that it was right and fine and why not?”

“You gave up on it? You’re what—twenty-seven?”

“Yeah. Is that one of your party tricks like guessing shoe sizes?”

“Hey, I don’t guess, I have a gift.”

“Right, sorry…No, I just…Um well I fell in love with my first boyfriend when I was sixteen.”

“Oh.” He seems surprised, or maybe disheartened to hear this. “In Bloomington?”

“Yep. And it was first love, you know, it felt so big and beautiful and forever, and I thought I was so lucky to have met the person I’d spend the rest of my life with when I was in high school. And we went to I.U. together. I studied education, and he studied creative writing.” I look up at Vince’s face and his expression and body language is so puzzling to me. It’s like he’s ever so slowly deflating. “Anyway, after we graduated, he decided to move to L.A. to be a screenwriter, and he didn’t want me to go with him.”

He wrinkles up his face. “Without discussing it first?”

“Not really. We had always talked about staying in Bloomington. I’d teach and he’d self-publish books until he got a publishing deal. And then he just…told me. He had already made all the plans to go out there on his own.” I know what Vince is thinking. “I really don’t think it had anything to do with another girl, it was just that he wanted to start over without me. And I took it really hard. And I didn’t want to get hurt like that again.”

“Have you seen him since then?”

“No. Not at all. He sent me an email when he got there, and I didn’t write back. That was it. I got off of Facebook because I didn’t want to see any pictures of him or know what he was doing.”

“So…you’re still not over your first love?”

“I don’t know if anyone ever really gets over their first love. It’s not the person that I had trouble getting over, it was being in love for the first time. And then, finding out that you can fall out of love. Or maybe I really am an overly-sensitive big baby….I’ve just never been cheated on before. I don’t think.”

“Me neither. That’s the part of all this that I can’t wrap my head around. I can’t believe I was so busy not paying attention to her at that point that I didn’t see any signs. I can’t believe she cheated on me with that guy. I can’t believe that guy would cheat on you with anyone.”

“Even her?”

“Especially her. Have you seen her?”

“No. I don’t think I want to.”

“Yeah, it’s probably for the best.”

Uh oh. I do not want to know what that means.

He lies down across the mattress, as if this conversation has exhausted him. I reach out to touch his hand. He plays with my fingers, before saying: “At least you’ve been in love.”

“You haven’t?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet.” He presses his hand up against mine. “I may be an insensitive big baby.”

I lie down beside him. “I think you’re so much more than that.”

His arm curls around my waist as he rests his forehead against my arm.

There’s a silence growing between us, but it’s not a question mark, it’s an ellipsis...we both know there’s a connection, we both know what’s going to happen next and we’re both hovering here in the remaining space between us before the amazing idea of me and him becomes something real. The real thing will either be incredibly beautiful or beautifully terrible, but I am willing to let this man break my heart. It’s a given that it will happen, eventually, but at least I know that the journey to this heartbreak will feel good enough to make the pain worth it.

All those feelings I tucked away years ago for safe-keeping? I’m unlocking the chest and it’s up to Vince to decide if he can handle what’s inside, but he’s the first and I secretly wish he could be the last man I ever open it up for. How could I not?

He’s tracing little circles around my belly with his fingertips.

“Hey?”

“Yeah?”

“Should we go somewhere? Some place in public where we can talk and get to know each other, without the potential for engaging in sexual activity?”

“That place doesn’t exist in my world, darlin’.”

“I mean if you don’t want to be seen in public with me…”

His head pops up. “What? Are you insane?”

“Well…”

He sits up and stares down at me. “Why wouldn’t I want to be seen with you?”

“Because you’re cool and I’m not.”

“Oh right. Meet me by my locker at lunch and we’ll walk to the cafeteria together.  We can hang out at the brass doors after school, but my cool friends will probably ignore you.”

“Yeah, I wish I hadn’t said that out loud.”

“If you’re free on Saturday night, I’d like to take you to a party. My partner, Eve, is having a big birthday party. She’s turning thirty-five. Should be a rager.”

“Oh gosh, I don’t know if I can handle a rager.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be the one handling you.”

I punch his arm.

“All night long, baby.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good. It’s a date. Come on. I wanna show you something.”

I give him a look.

“It’s not my dick. Get your mind out of the gutter and put your clothes on.”