Hot Toot
by Domonique Dierickx Krentz
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
Jazzi and Coco have been calling me nonstop. At first, the voice messages dripped with concern: “What did he do? Are you alright? How can we help?” But now they are curt, almost threatening: “We need to know what’s going on,” and, “If you don’t answer, we’re coming to break down your door.” I text them: “I’m fine.”
No sooner does the swoosh of the sent text sound than Coco is calling me. I can’t avoid her any longer, so I answer: “Hey.”
“Hey, hold on a sec. I’m getting Jazzi in on this.” Jazzi pops on, and suddenly I’m getting railed by both of them. “What the hell happened?” Coco demands.
Jazzi interjects, “Yeah, one minute we’re all having a good time, and the next you’re busting out the door?”
“Did he grab you? Harass you?” Coco’s voice is venomous.
Jazzi is speaking, but I’m on a new train of thought. Did Patrick harass me? It would be easy to say he did.
“You didn’t even let us talk to you,” Jazzi continues. “We ran out after you, but you were gone. It’s like you disappeared.”
“Did Patrick say anything?” I have to know what they know.
Coco lets out an exasperated sigh. “He was dumbfounded. Jazzi and I both laid into him, but he insisted he didn’t know what happened.”
I dig a little deeper. “What else did he say?”
Jazzi shouts, “Nothing! He was too busy trying to dry off.”
“Listen,” Coco softens her voice. “we’re behind you in this. We have no loyalty to Patrick or any of those guys. If he did something out of line, we want to know.”
“We’re on your side, Pier,” Jazzi says firmly. “I was pretty drunk, and I wasn’t really paying attention to you and Patrick. I thought it was cute you were sitting on his lap, and I remember thinking you two seemed to be hitting it off. That’s why when you stormed out, it was such a surprise. I’m sorry if stuff was going on that made you uncomfortable. I would have stopped it had I known.”
Coco piped up, “To be honest, I was impressed he kept his hands above the table. I mean, it looked like he was conscious of it. So again, I want to know what set you off, if only so I can be more aware.”
“He really didn’t say anything?” My breath is stuck in my throat.
“No,” says Coco.
“He didn’t,” confirms Jazzi. “But obviously he did something to make you react the way you did.”
They are waiting for my answer, and finally, my breath releases. “I think it was just a bad misunderstanding.”
“About what?” Coco raises her voice.
“That’s between me and him.”
It’s apparent Jazzi and Coco aren’t getting the answers they want, so I give them more without giving myself away.
“I think I overreacted. You know how I am sometimes.”
Neither one of them sounds convinced. I can’t blame them. Throwing two drinks on someone is pretty extreme. I don’t want to answer any more questions, so I say, “Too bad I don’t have any way to contact him. I could try and sort it out.”
Coco is quick to respond. “Well, he’s contacted me through my channel. He wanted your number but of course, I didn’t give it to him. I told him I’d pass his info on to you. You want it?”
No. I don’t. I want this entire thing to go away. But “no” would be the incorrect answer, so I say yes, and Coco rattles off Patrick’s number. I plug it into my phone, already hating the conversation I know he deserves.
“Let us know what happens,” says Jazzi.
I promise I will.
* * *
The more time that passes, the more I realize Patrick is a decent guy. I think of what it must’ve been like to have Coco and Jazzi confronting him in a crowded club, accusing him of doing something wrong. Something horrible. No one would blame him for defending himself. He could have told everyone the truth, that I crapped on him and tried to hide it by faking outrage. He could have totally outed me. I was no one to him. What did he care about my honor?
But he didn’t rat me out. He kept my secret. Suddenly I am ashamed, not only for throwing drinks at him, but also for thinking — if only for a split-second — I could weasel my way out of this by saying he acted inappropriately.
I’ve been staring at his number, my finger hovering over the call button, but I take the cowardly way out and text him instead.
Hey, it’s Pier. About the other night... I’m sorry.
There. Hopefully he’s busy at work and won’t see the message for a while. Feeling a mix of relief and anxiety, I start to lay down my phone, but it alerts before I can.
I’m going to call you. Please pick up.
Oh hell, he knows I have my phone; I can’t ignore him. My stomach twists, and my whole body tingles in a cold sweat. The phone rings in my hand, and I brace myself. “Hello?”
“Hey, Pier,” he says, not at all harshly, but like he’s worried about me. “Are you okay?”
Stunned by his demeanor, it takes me a few seconds to respond. “Um, yeah.” That’s not true. This whole thing is eating at me. “Actually, no, I’m not.”
“What’s going on?” Patrick sounds genuinely concerned. He knows he did nothing wrong. But the big question is, does he know my hot toot was more than a hot toot? Did the water I threw on his lap dissolve the evidence? That was the whole point but, up until now, I figured he knew I shit on him. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe all he knew was that I farted on his lap and that was that. I decide to believe this.
“Patrick, listen. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. You didn’t deserve that.” I hear him take a breath.
“No, I didn’t.”
I feel deflated. Even though I barely know this guy, I did something to call his character into question. I hurt him. That’s not a good feeling.
Before I can say anything else, Patrick speaks. “Let’s cut to the chase, Pier,” he says, his voice louder, but not aggressive. “You shit on me.”
My blood is like ice. Is he speaking figuratively? Like I did him dirty?
He clears that up right away: “You literally shit on my lap.” He sounds like he’s talking through a smile.
Again, I am stunned. Words won’t come out of my mouth, and I stammer for an explanation.
He stops me. “I don’t know what it was, something you ate, the alcohol, but whatever, you were uneasy. I could feel you shifting in your seat, like you were trying to get comfortable. At first, I thought maybe your dress was too tight but, when you sat on my lap, I could hear your stomach growling, and I felt how tense you were.”
I’m so embarrassed. “I had lobster,” I say through a thickened throat. “I shouldn’t have. Seafood doesn’t agree with me.”
He laughs like we’re old chums shooting the breeze. “But sometimes you just gotta, right? I’m the same way with dairy. I know if I eat ice cream I’m going to suffer, but sometimes I do it anyway. I get it. I’ve been there.” Patrick chuckles and quickly adds, “I mean, been there in that I know the feeling, not that I’ve ever shit on someone.”
I can’t help but smile. Patrick is a friend I want. With every utterance I feel more at ease, so I tell him everything, from primping in Coco’s bathroom to storming out of the club.
“And so, I threw the drinks on you hoping it would cover whatever I left on your pants,” I conclude.
He has been snickering throughout my story, but now he’s silent, like he’s thinking. “You knew how that would look, right?” he asks.
I’m brought back to shame. “Yes, I knew how that would look.”
“Your friends really came after me. Caused quite a scene. It took me forever to convince them I didn’t know what happened, and that I...” — his pause is painful — “didn’t do anything wrong.”
I hang my head. “I told them I overreacted, and it was a misunderstanding. Thank you for not telling them what really happened.”
Patrick laughs but it isn’t lighthearted. “Thank you for not telling them what really didn’t happen.”
I think: It crossed my mind. And I cringe.
“You know,” Patrick goes on, “an accusation like that haunts people. I’ve seen it happen to both men and women. Sometimes the accusations are true, and the person gets what they deserve. But for those who never deserved it, well, it’s not a fun shadow to live under.” Now he laughs like he means it. “I mean, just look at what’s going on in Hollywood right now. What a mess!”
I accept this mild chastening and fast-forward in my mind, thinking of what could have happened had I acted on that fleeting plan. I knew Coco and Jazzi would believe me, and if things had gone further, most people would probably believe me, too. But what if Patrick had fought back? I’d have been exposed as a liar, a detriment not only to myself but to all people who had been truly victimized.
“It was a horrible thing to do,” I tell him. “I sincerely and wholeheartedly apologize.”
“Well, it’s all water under the bridge now,” Patrick says, bringing me back from the pit of self-loathing I was about to dive into. “What’s funny is, I would have covered for you.”
“You would have?” I don’t believe him.
“I would have. I mean, we’d just met each other so you didn’t know that. But, yeah, as soon as I realized what was happening, I would have swept you onto the dance floor and made a plan, like pretend we were totally infatuated with each other and couldn’t wait to get out of there.” He chuckles. “But you acted first.”
“I was trying to save my dignity,” I lament.
“I know,” he says. “I did cover for you, in a way.” He’s back to laughing now.
“How so?”
It takes him a while to say what he says next because he’s trying to keep his chortling at bay.
“Your hot toot reeked. I took the blame.”
“You are an angel,” I reply. The embarrassment is eroding. There are no more secrets here.
Patrick says he needs to get back to work. So do I. Even though it has been absolutely humiliating, I’m going to miss this conversation.
“Pier,” Patrick stops me from saying goodbye.
“Yes?”
“Throwing drinks on me was a red flag, but I don’t think you are one. Would you be interested in having dinner with me sometime?”
I bloom inside. Never did I think the conversation would end like this. “Yes, I would be interested.”
“Great!” Patrick laughs in that easy way that is becoming familiar. He tells me he’ll give me a call soon. I can’t wait to let Coco and Jazzi know he was nothing but a gentleman at the club and, to prove it, we’re going on another date. I’ll come up with some illogical excuse for throwing drinks at him, and they will believe me.
Even though we both need to go, we talk for several more minutes, and Patrick ends up mocking a child’s voice: “Mom and Dad, how did you two meet?”
I am not one to analyze a person’s every word, trying to find deeper meaning where there is none. So, I laugh, because I know he’s making a joke. And it’s funny.
Finally, we both know it’s time to hang up. Patrick reiterates that he’s going to call soon so we can set up a time to go out to dinner.
“But one request,” he says, almost like a warning.
“What’s that?” I ask.
He laughs, and not only does it sound familiar, it’s comfortable.
“What?” I’m laughing now, too.
“No seafood,” he says before hanging up the call.
Copyright © 2025 by Domonique Dierickx Krentz
