Chapter 13
“I really think Margo is coming around,” said Jordan. “She only gave me one withering look last night, and it barely even chilled my bones at all.”
They were sitting upright on opposite ends of Will’s sofa, Jordan’s legs resting on top of his, sharing the packet of Frazzles torn open between them.
“Sure,” said Will, opting not to mention that Margo still hadn’t forgiven Jordan for spilling Rioja on her sofa the year before. “And I think you’ve got a fan in Dylan. They watch your videos.”
“Oh my god, a Gen-Z likes my content.” Jordan laughed. “What an honor!”
“I keep getting lectures on radical LGBTQ+ politics every time I go over for tea,” Will continued. “They’re at this hilarious age where they think they invented being queer.”
“Precious. Remember being sixteen and thinking you were the only gay in the village?”
“Only one in the world,” said Will. “When I started going to bars and realized there were more, I felt this incredible sense of belonging, but also…”
“You were annoyed you weren’t as special as you thought you were?” Jordan asked, reading his mind, as was his wont. “Me too!”
“Are we the worst?”
“Yes. But we’re the best at it, so it’s all right.” Jordan picked up a crisp and examined it. “Speaking of,” he said, “what’s going on with your new best friend? Should I be jealous?”
It was the first mention Jordan had made of the movie star Will had brought to dinner, and Will had started to think he wasn’t going to bring it up, that maybe he’d slipped into a fugue state last night and Patrick’s presence at the table, praising Margo’s cooking and joking with April about Captain Kismet and seeming like he was genuinely having a good time, had all been a dream.
“Patrick?” Will snorted. “I wouldn’t worry just yet.”
“He does seem to like you,” said Jordan. “Not to imply that you’re not endlessly fascinating, but…what’s that all about, I wonder?”
“I get the impression that he’s just a bit lonely,” said Will. “It must be a strange life, when you think about it. Spending months on end away from home.”
“Traveling the world, being paid millions of dollars to be filmed in the most flattering light imaginable,” said Jordan. “My heart bleeds for the man.”
“Why would a movie star want to hang out with us?” Will continued.
“Who wouldn’t? We’re great.”
“Maybe it’s some kind of rich-person game, where he slums it so he can see how normal folk live.”
“Oh! Like a hidden-camera kind of situation?” Jordan’s eyes lit up. “Do you think it could be part of some new TV show?”
“I don’t know. I keep thinking—”
“That you expected him to be taller? So did I. But that’s the thing they never tell you about movie stars. They’re not these giants of Olympus, they’re just regular-sized.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
“Go on then.”
“I just get—and I know you’re going to call me an idiot, so don’t bother—but…” Will squinted and then rushed: “A flirty vibe?”
“Straight guys do love to flirt with gay men,” Jordan said, appearing to give Will’s theory serious consideration. “It grants them the validation they need, and they get to pretend they’re being evolved at the same time.”
“He’s probably being friendly, and I’m overthinking it,” said Will, feeling foolish for even voicing the idea. “I mean, could he be gay? Surely not, right? Just…nice?”
“Life is full of such conundrums,” said Jordan. “Is he handsome, or does he just smell really good?”
Will smiled. They played this game often. “Do you actually like him, or is he just a doctor?”
“Does he have his life together, or does he just own a bed frame?”
“Is he obsessed with you, or does he just text back?”
“Is he the one, or is he just wearing one of those denim jackets with the fleece collar?”
“Oh god, I love those.” Will pressed his hand to his forehead in a mock swoon.
“Everybody does,” said Jordan. “Any man looks hot in one of those. Put Patrick Lake in a sherpa jacket and you’d be a goner.” A moment passed in silence as both men conjured and savored that particular image.
“Maybe he’s bi,” said Will. “Or pan.”
“If that were the case, it would make him the first bisexual in the universe who doesn’t mention it all the bloody time,” Jordan retorted. “Have you been on TikTok lately? For a group of people who are constantly complaining about being erased, they really don’t shut up.”
“Not you practicing your tight five while I’m trying to have a conversation,” said Will. “What’s next, a joke about vegans?”
“The meat industry is killing the planet and there is absolutely nothing funny about that, William.” Jordan popped a Frazzle into his mouth. “OK, fine, do you want to know what I really think?”
“Rarely, but go on.”
“If Patrick is into men, and that’s a big if…I don’t think he’d be into you specifically.”
“I take it back. I never want to know what you think.”
“I’m being serious. There’s a reason that muscular, straight-acting, white gay men tend to only date other muscular, straight-acting, white gay men, not fruity little F-words like us.”
Will sighed and nodded in reluctant agreement. Because Jordan was right, of course. How many times had a guy seemed enamored of Will’s looks on an app, his tall lean frame and dark body hair, only to drastically change his tune as soon as they met in person and heard his loud, reedy voice? Even Ry had gone and found a deeper-voiced version of him, one without all the flouncy extras. He felt stupid for entertaining this train of thought. He should know better by now.
But Jordan wasn’t finished.
“There’s a reason,” he repeated, and he reached out to touch Will’s hand. “I think they’re jealous of us.”
Will scoffed, nearly choking to death on his Frazzle in the process. Jordan sat patiently until he was finished spluttering, then continued.
“It takes a lot of time and hard work to put on muscle,” he said. “But ultimately, most of us are capable of that, given the inclination. It takes even more work, even more practice and constant self-policing, to make sure your voice is never too high or soft, your wrist never too limp. That sounds like quite an exhausting way to live, doesn’t it? Then there’s the likes of us. I truly believe that it takes greater strength and genuine guts to be like us. To live as freely and faggily as we do, even though we know it might get us killed if we sashay down the wrong street at night. I don’t care how square someone’s jaw is, or how well he catches a ball or throws a punch. I’d rather risk a beating than hate who I am, or have women be afraid of me. We’re the real men, Will. Never forget that.”
Will sat for a moment absorbing this.
“Do you really believe that?” he asked.
“I never say a single thing I don’t wholeheartedly believe,” Jordan replied, hand placed beatifically on his chest. “By the way, your hair is looking a bit frizzy. What conditioner are you using? You know curls need extra moisture, I’ve told you this.”
Will stuck up his middle finger and snatched away the last remaining Frazzle. Loving Jordan was akin to loving a house cat—just when you thought they’d finally shown you their soft underbelly, they swiped at you with their claws to remind you who was boss.
The buzzer rang. Will disentangled himself from Jordan, playfully batting at his friend before walking over to the front door and peering at the little screen.
“Speak of the devil,” he said.
“No way,” said Jordan. “Superman is downstairs? How does he even know where you live?”
“He insisted on dropping me off after dinner last night.” Will hit the intercom button. “Hi, come on up,” he said, frantically swiping at the pungent, starchy dust that he could now see was all over his T-shirt and jeans. “What is he doing here?” he yelped in Jordan’s general direction.
“No idea,” said Jordan, not stirring from the sofa. “I bet you’re wishing you’d hoovered better.”
“Shit. Do you think I have time now? Real quick, like?”
“For god’s sake, calm down. He knows he’s in Birmingham, not Beverly Hills, I’m sure he’ll find your little hovel quite darling.”
“Says the man who still lives with his mother,” shot back Will.
“Don’t bring Diane into this!”
Will hastily gathered up the magazines that were strewn all over the living room floor, attempting to arrange them on the coffee table in a manner that was both artful and would cover up the ring stains from coffee mugs. Why didn’t he use coasters? Why didn’t he own coasters?
A knock at the door. Will cast a final, desperate look around the room, and opened the front door.
It struck him anew, as it did each time he saw Patrick, just how handsome the man was. The stubble from the day before was gone, and his clean-shaven cheeks seemed to almost shine in the same hallway light that always made Will look sallow. It was getting dark outside, and so Patrick had eschewed his usual cap and shades; he wore a white T-shirt and black khakis.
“Sorry to drop by unannounced,” he said, holding out a case of beers. “I was wondering if you might want to…hang out?”
What a Billy-no-mates, Will thought. Poor guy.
“Sure, come on in.” He pressed himself back against the open door to let Patrick slide past him. He smelled fresh and woody, like he had just showered in a waterfall in the middle of a rainforest.
“Hello, Patrick,” Jordan said from behind him, regally. He slowly rose from the sofa. “What are we having, then?”
“Why don’t I take those into the kitchen,” said Will, but Patrick shook his head.
“That’s cool, I’ll do it,” he said, heading out of the room. “You got glasses?”
“We’re not fancy here!” said Jordan. “Will doesn’t mind raw-dogging it, do you, Will?” This was followed by a wheezy “fuck” after Will elbowed him furiously in the ribs. He recovered quickly, grabbing Will and pulling him closer.
“I don’t say this often,” he whispered, “but I may have been wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Will asked in the same hushed tone. Jordan regarded him with even more condescension than usual.
“He dropped by your place unannounced,” he said slowly. “And look. He carries beers like a bisexual.”
Will snuck a surreptitious glance at the way Patrick was carrying the three bottles back from the kitchen, clutching them from the bottom.
“Is that a thing?” he asked.
“Emma Frost,” Jordan hissed. “The boy’s a big old Emma Frost.” In a louder voice, he announced: “I’m off. Need to go home and make myself presentable for church.”
“Church?” Patrick asked.
“Sunday service,” said Jordan. “It’s a tradition, isn’t it, Will?”
“Oh,” said Patrick. “I didn’t realize—”
“He’s winding you up,” said Will. “That’s just what everyone calls it.”
“Calls what?”
“Getting drunk on a Sunday,” Will explained. “Sunday night is cabaret night. We go most weeks. It’s a laugh.”
“Sounds fun,” said Patrick. “And that’s at…?”
“My bar, remember? The Village,” said Jordan. He pursed his lips, eyes darting in Will’s direction for just a second, then added: “You should totally come, Patrick.”
“Huh? I don’t know about that,” Patrick began, but Jordan cut him off again.
“Like I said, I need to go improve on perfection,” he said. “I’ll take one of these for the road, thanks so much.” He relieved Patrick of one of the beers and blew Will a kiss. “Love you! Mean it!” he called from the doorway, shooting another urgent, not-at-all-subtle look at Will, and then it was just the two of them.
Will and Patrick each took a seat on the settee, sipping their beers side by side in silence while Will inwardly berated himself for not owning more furniture. He felt at once both too close and miles away from his unexpected guest and resolved to spirit an armchair away from Margo’s spare room at the first opportunity.
“It really is a laugh,” said Will. “If you wanted to join us?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Patrick said. “You didn’t see me the last time I was there.”
Will bit his tongue. But I did.
“It was fun,” Patrick added. “Until the whole…you know.”
“Poppers o’clock.”
“Yeah.” Patrick smiled ruefully into his beer, then his expression became more serious. His next words felt carefully chosen. “On second thought, I would like, I think,” he said, “to go back.”
“To the Village?”
“Yes. It was fun. Different, I guess.” Patrick’s eyes were fixed on his bottle, and his thumb restlessly rubbed at the neck like he was trying to free a genie. “That’s not the kind of place I usually go to,” he said, “…anymore.”
The word hung in the air between them, a balloon ready to fly away or pop at any moment.
“Was it once?” Will asked.
“A long time ago.”
“Big fan of cheap drinks and Lady Gaga, were you?”
“Yes,” said Patrick. “I was.” He looked up at Will. “Am.”
I knew it, Will thought, even though he hadn’t, not really. He had suspected. Hoped, even. But you never knew these things until you knew them, and now, as he sat with it, he figured it didn’t make much of a difference. This wasn’t Jordan or Ry or any other gay man Will had met. Patrick Lake being gay didn’t stop him being Patrick Lake. It didn’t mean he necessarily fancied Will just because they had this one basic thing in common. You wouldn’t put a Great Dane and a Chihuahua together just because they were both dogs, would you? If anything, it just lent credence to one of Will’s many theories: Patrick wanted friendship. Community. And that, he could provide.
“Come with me,” he said, standing up. He waved for Patrick to follow him into the next room: his bedroom. “Relax, I’m not going to jump you,” he laughed, maybe a little too loudly. “I just want to show you something.”
Patrick, brows creased either in bafflement or curiosity, trailed him into the bedroom. There were two wardrobes: a mirrored one with sliding doors built into the wall, and a free-standing, decades-old IKEA monstrosity shoved next to the bed. Will walked up to that one and, with a dramatic flourish, threw the doors open.
Patrick peered in at its contents, probably anticipating the dreadful sight of a superfan’s shrine or creepy doll collection, and Will imagined he could see the relief wash over his face, followed by sudden understanding, as he took in the gowns on wooden hangers and, along the bottom of the wardrobe, wigs placed meticulously on polystyrene heads—including a gorgeous red one that Will was exceptionally proud of as it brought out his eyes, and which he thought Patrick might just recognize.
“Grace,” said Patrick in astonishment. “Grace Anatomy. That was you.”
“The very same.” Will dipped into an abbreviated curtsy. “In the flesh.”
Patrick erupted in laughter, and an instantaneous chill shot down Will’s spine, but there was no cruelty or derision in the sound. It was the gasping, gleeful sound of an audience member who had just witnessed an inexplicable magic trick.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Patrick asked him. “All this time!” He reached out and pulled Will into a sideways embrace, still staring at the treasure trove inside the wardrobe. Will tensed instinctively as Patrick casually slipped his arm around his waist, straightening his posture, contracting every muscle in his body, breath frozen in his chest. It was hard not to stand next to a literal superhero without admonishing yourself for not going to the gym more.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d remember me. We spoke for all of ten seconds.”
“And you saved my ass.”
“From a gaggle of drunk gays. Hardly Captain Kismet stuff.”
“Hey, not all heroes wear capes. Some wear…” Patrick craned his neck to examine one of the garments hanging from the back of the wardrobe door. “Kaftans?”
“That’s just for lounging. Only hussies wear kaftans out of the house.”
“Good to know,” said Patrick, continuing his fascinated inspection.
“Another?” Will asked, gesturing with his own beer at the bottle in Patrick’s hand.
“Sure.”
When he returned a minute later, Patrick was perched on the end of the bed, a breastplate in his hands. He turned it this way and that, tilting his head as he did so, as if trying to comprehend the physics of the thing.
“I’m sorry,” he exclaimed when he caught Will watching him in amusement. “This is probably some major faux pas. Touching a queen’s fake boobs. Like going through your underwear or something.”
“At least they’re not wonky this time,” Will said, handing him a second beer.
“Sorry?”
“Never mind.” Will sat down next to him on the bed. “It’s a shame you can’t come out tonight. The drag on a Sunday is usually all kinds of wonderful. And weird. And occasionally grotesque.”
“I wish I could,” said Patrick wistfully. “The closest I get to live drag back home is watching RuPaul’s Drag Race in my apartment with takeout.”
“So you can’t even go to a drag show because you’re not…out?”
“Pretty much.” Patrick shrugged. “Captain Kismet doesn’t go to gay bars, and according to my contract, neither do I.”
“That’s shit.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I know I’m lucky. So lucky. To have this career, these opportunities. I’m not playing the violin, you know?”
“I know,” said Will. “But?”
“Yeah.” Patrick sighed. “But.”
Patrick held up his beer, and Will clinked their bottles together. He’d seen the fiasco with his own eyes last week, the way people forgot how to behave the minute they spotted a celebrity, and figured that Patrick had good reason to steer clear of situations like that. It hadn’t occurred to him that the choice wasn’t entirely his own. As somebody whose living was largely made in gay bars, Will found it hard to wrap his head around the idea that being seen in such a place could affect somebody else’s.
Of course, being seen was one thing. Being recognized, on the other hand…
Patrick took another swig of beer, then noticed the way Will was staring at him askance, head pulled back to take all of him in. “What?”
“Nothing, just…” Will looked him up and down. “Out of interest, what size shoe do you wear?”