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Patrick doesn’t particularly care for Christmas.
Well, no, that isn’t true. He likes it in that it means he has a whole week off from his job, and he’s grateful for anything that gets him away from that godforsaken ad agency and his boss that requests far too much coffee for his own good. He likes that it means more people are available to hang out, and he has more friends to join him for a pint at the bar around the corner from his tiny Seattle apartment. And he even likes the occasional gift exchange, if he’s buying for someone he really cares about.
Overall, though? Christmas exhausts Patrick. All the expectations—to decorate, to spread extra cheer, to watch the movies and listen to the songs and not tell little children who pass him in bus stations about the lie that is Santa Claus—are so draining. He just doesn’t feel the same joy he felt when he was a little kid, with his family and friends around to make it all magical. It feels different now. More commercialized, more exhausting. Cheaper. Though maybe that’s the ten years in Seattle in him talking.
But he doesn’t want to be a grinch, for Sam’s sake. He knows that she still pumps Christmas music as soon as November rolls around and that she goes out of her way to find the most perfect present for everyone she loves. She calls him on the first of December and blasts “Deck The Halls” through the receiver, and he’s pretty worried that his little Nokia cell phone will explode from the sheer volume of the song. But as over the top as she is, he thinks it’s sweet, really. He likes that she’s maintained that one thing from her childhood—that she never traded in stockings and Santa like she traded in high-top sneakers for ballet flats as she got older. Christmas feels like her, and that’s why, every year, he drags his ass back to Pittsburgh. He might not want to be there, around all the memories. But for Sam, he’ll do anything: and so every year, he comes home.
And it’s not so bad, being home. He still likes the house, and his relationship with his dad and Sam’s mom has evolved enough that they can drink a couple of beers together in the living room and then they leave him alone when he decides he’s had enough togetherness for one night. And Sam, of course, is amazing to be around. The visits aren’t really his thing, but he can handle a few days in Pittsburgh before taking the train back to his one-bedroom in Georgetown, near the coffee shops and the bars he loves.
What he can’t handle, he discovers suddenly on his first afternoon in town, is running into Brad in the frozen foods aisle of the grocery store.
Shit, Patrick thinks frantically.
He dives back around the corner of the aisle as soon as he spots Brad’s familiar build and brown hair standing with one of the freezer doors wide open, contemplating between frozen carrots or spinach or whatever the hell he was shopping for. Somewhere in the back of Patrick’s mind he’s vaguely aware of how ridiculous he must look, flying out of the aisle in his winter coat and scarf, and the Seattleite he’s been for the past ten years is deeply ashamed of his own cowardice. But standing here in the grocery store where he spent so many late nights in high school on food runs with Sam and Charlie, nervously wondering if Brad would come by like he’d said he might, he isn’t that Seattleite. He’s the scrawny, outcast teenager from high school, too scared to face his own demons.
And right now he’s praying that this particular demon won’t make a left when he gets to the end of this aisle.
Patrick thinks about just up and running, dropping his basket right there in front of the yogurt and taking off out the front door. But he promised Sam’s mom those frozen chicken wings, and damn it, he will not fail her just because of this jackass.
He busies himself in front of the sour creams, pretending to eye them as if the fate of his whole adult holiday party rests on the brand he decides to select. He steals little glances to the right of him every ten seconds, waiting to see if Brad emerges from the frozen foods aisle. When he does, bag of green beans in hand, Patrick ducks his head down and wills Brad to look anywhere but in his direction.
After several moments without hearing his name, Patrick looks up to see Brad down at the other end of the store, stepping up to the cashier. He exhales, watching Brad’s figure as he pays.
Patrick’s gut twists. He isn’t sure if he’s relieved or disappointed that Brad didn’t notice him at all.
And he hates—hates—that Brad somehow looks just as handsome as he did ten years ago, when Patrick used to steal any moment possible to press their bodies together and tease kisses from his lips. Salt in the motherfucking wound.
Patrick waits until Brad is completely out of the store before heading back down the frozen foods aisle to finish his shopping.
This, Patrick reminds himself ruefully, is why I only visit once a year.
***
“Patrick! Patrick!”
Sam has never been known for being particularly quiet.
He’s been hiding in his old room ever since he got home from the store—dropped off the grocery bag of chicken wings and bananas and shrimp cocktail sauce in the kitchen and then hurried upstairs before he could get pulled into any more holiday preparations. His old bedroom is familiar, but it’s strange, too. The room has all his old furniture: the bed beneath the window, the tall bookcase tucked into the corner. But all his old posters, his knicknacks, his clothes are gone. They went with him to Seattle, some of them, or they went in the trash. He can feel some of the memories here, but they’re blurred. They aren’t sharp and in focus anymore. The room somehow feels both different and the same all at once.
Sort of how he feels when he’s home in Pittsburgh, he thinks idly. Different but the same.
Sam, however, feels just the same to him as always.
“I’m up here, you loud freak!” he yells, because if he doesn’t, he knows she’ll come looking for him and then complain that he’d been hiding.
Patrick hears loud footsteps run up the stairs, and a second later, his door bursts open and a small flurry of limbs jumps on top of him. “Patrick!”
“Ow, your elbow! Your elbow!” He jabs her in the side, and she laughs.
“I missed you, you big weirdo,” she says affectionately, rolling off him and flopping onto the mattress.
Patrick runs his hand through his hair, perpetually a mess thanks to the length he keeps it. “But I’m back here in Satan’s Asshole, just like I promised.”
“You’re disgusting.” She laughs. “Pittsburgh isn’t that bad.”
“Oh, sure, in the summer. But now it’s eight degrees outside and my boots are covered in salt stains.”
“Seattle has turned you into a wimp.”
“Touche,” Patrick says with a smile, touching his finger to the side of his nose.
He’ll tease her all he can, but at the end of the day, he’s happy to see her. Somehow, his life is always a little bit better when Sam is around.
“So guess who I saw at the gas station when I was pulling into town?” Sam says, pulling herself up into a half-seated position and leaning back against his headboard.
“Bigfoot?”
“Brad.”
A rock lands in his stomach. “Oh yeah?” he asks, trying to keep his voice nonchalant. Trying to pretend he hadn’t just hidden in a dairy aisle to avoid the guy. He sits up, shifting a little to face her.
“Yeah. I guess he’s back in town for the holidays, too.” Her eyes sweep over his face, and he commands his muscles not to give him away. “Does that bother you?”
Patrick shrugs. “Should it?”
“Well, I mean…” Sam’s fingers find a loose thread on his comforter and tug at it idly. “You guys didn’t exactly leave things on good terms.”
“What about a fistfight in the school cafeteria could possibly be seen as being not on good terms?”
She shoves his shoulder. “Stop being an idiot for a second.”
“Fine.” Patrick sighs. “I saw him at the grocery store this afternoon.”
“What?!” Sam sits straight upright. “Did you talk to him?”
“No, he didn’t see me. What would I say to him? That stuff was ten years ago.”
“Damn.” Sam reaches for him, rubbing his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
His first instinct is to shoot some snappy reply back at her—some quip, something to make light of the situation and pull them out of this serious hole they seem to have fallen into. But he sees the look of concern in her eyes, and he softens a little.
“I’ll be okay,” he says. He gives her a half-smile. “Besides, what are the chances I’ll run into him again?”
Sam breathes out a laugh. “You know you just tempted fate in a big way, right?”
“It’s fine,” Patrick says, flopping back onto the bed. “I’ll just stay inside til New Year’s.”
“Good luck using that excuse when your dad needs you to shovel the driveway.”
***
“No, come on,” Patrick complains, winding a scarf around his neck as he follows Sam down the driveway to her car. It’s two days after Christmas, all the presents unwrapped and the carols sung, and someone called Sam to tell her about some college party happening that night, across town. Even though they’re closer now to thirty than they are to twenty, she’s still insisting on going. And she refuses to go alone. “Don’t make me do this. Don’t ruin what very little goodwill I have for being here this time of year with a college party.”
“It’s going to be fine,” Sam says, pulling open the passenger side door. “You’re twenty-eight now, Patrick. Did you forget that? No one’s going to be shoulder-checking you into lockers or whispering behind your back.”
He stops in front of her. “But you’re making my life so hard.”
“Oh, I know.” She pulls an exaggerated pout. “But so many of our old friends will be there! I’m not letting you spend your whole time home cooped up in the house.”
“But I love the house. And the house loves me. And me leaving to go to another house for a party is really just me cheating on our house, so—”
“Get in the car,” Sam says, “you ridiculous idiot.”
Patrick sighs, long and overdramatic. “Yes dear.”
He makes sure to flop as poutily into the car as possible, though. If he’s going to go to this stupid college party, he’s sure as hell going to make his objections widely known.
The ride over is a non-event. Sam slides in one of the mix CDs she made a few weeks before, and the two reminisce about the past—about tape decks, the old family truck, riding around with their arms spread over their heads.
“We were such kids,” Sam says with a rueful laugh.
“Nah,” Patrick says. He shakes his head, just a little. “We were feeling everything for the first time.”
When they turn onto the street where the party is being held, Sam slows the car and they crawl past all the other vehicles parked along the edges of the road, trying to find a spot. They have to go past the actual party house, lights blazing, and are almost on another block entirely before they find a place to pull in. It’s a few minutes’ walk back, and by the time they reach the house, Patrick’s boots are snow-covered and likely getting even more stained. He makes a mental note to complain about that to Sam when they’ve both made it home that night and use it as one more reason to never go out and socialize in this city again.
“Wow,” Patrick says as they step inside the front door, taking in the room.
“Seriously,” Sam agrees.
There are bodies packed into the modest two-storey house. The music is loud and everyone has a bottle or a cup in hand as they push past each other and yell as they recognize friends. Some are dancing, and there’s a couple making out, draped over the banister on the staircase in the front hall. The whole house is still decorated for Christmas, garlands and lights draped over every doorway. It’s been a long time since Patrick has been to a party like this one.
“Can anyone here actually legally drink?” Patrick comments, following Sam through the crush of bodies.
Sam laughs. “What, you feel like an old man?” She has to yell back in his direction for him to hear her.
“Positively ancient,” he confirms loudly.
“Come on, there are lots of people here our age. Look, there’s that guy from our history class, remember?”
Patrick eyes a guy with an unfortunate premature balding situation going on leaning against the fireplace and hitting on a girl who has to be barely twenty. “Well-spotted. How wonderful! That’s the sort of company I want to keep.”
“Hey, Nothing!” some muscular dude in a way-too-tight t-shirt calls as they pass, raising his beer in their direction.
Patrick rolls his eyes. “Oh, good, that’s back.”
“Sorry,” Sam says, wincing.
“I thought you said we were all more evolved now that we’re older.”
“Well, clearly that’s only some of us,” she says bitterly. Then her face lights up. “Hey! Hey, Bob!”
Sam bounces away to tackle hug Bob, who looks far too grown up for his own good in his pleated khakis and green woolen sweater. Patrick tosses a wave in his direction and scans around the room, hoping to find one of their other friends. Sam had promised Charlie and Alice would show up at some point, and people like that are exactly who Patrick needs to see right about now.
Instead, his eyes land on Brad for the second time in four days.
And this time, Brad’s eyes are staring squarely back at him.
“Shit,” Patrick mutters.
Sam pulls back from Bob and turns back to look at him. “Pat? You okay?” Her eyeline follows his, and she sighs. “Oh crap, Patrick, I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was coming.”
“Excellent,” Patrick says. His voice is tight.
“Look, if you want, you can take my car—”
Patrick barely hears her. He’s too focused on the girl that materializes out of the crowd and slides an arm around Brad’s waist, leaning into his side and tipping her head up to say something. Her dress is short and she presses one hand against his chest, winding her fingers around his dark red tie. Brad leans down to reply, eyes briefly flicking away from Patrick’s.
He feels a burn in his chest. Stupid, handsome Brad. Here they are, ten years later, and he’s still standing off to the side, watching girls hang off Brad’s arm.
How pathetic does that make him?
“No,” he says loudly to Sam. “It’s okay.”
She raises her eyebrows, surprised. “You’re going to stay?”
“Yep. I’m going to stay,” Patrick says firmly. After all, if Brad is going to stay and enjoy himself with his little friend, like hell is Patrick going to run off like a coward again. Brad might be stuck in the past, but Patrick isn’t. He’s a different person now.
And this different Patrick needs a fucking drink.
“Beer?” He says to Sam, and then looks over to Bob. “Beer? I’ll get us some beer.”
“Yeah?” Sam asks.
“Oh, hell yeah,” Patrick says. “Let’s party, bitches.”
***
Patrick really fucking likes whiskey.
“I fucking love whiskey!” he yells into Charlie’s ear, slinging an arm around his old friend’s shoulder. Charlie arrived an hour into Patrick’s mission to drink the party dry, and Patrick tackled him with a hug big enough to knock the guy over. Patrick has seen Charlie here and there over the years—when he used to come home on school breaks, when Charlie took a road trip with some college friends and came through Seattle, when Mary Elizabeth got married a year ago. The two of them aren’t call-every-day kind of friends, but that doesn’t seem to matter much to either of them. Patrick still remembers all too well how close they used to be and how Charlie was by his side through every important moment of his senior year. They may not talk every day, but Patrick will cherish few people as much as he cherishes Charlie.
Which is why getting drunk with Charlie, Patrick decides, is the best thing about coming home to Pittsburgh.
“I know you do!” Charlie yells back, patting him on the side and pointing to his glass of whiskey. “You really love it tonight.”
“It’s just so fucking great, you know? It’s warm and it makes your legs tingle and everyone looks so pretty tonight. You look really pretty tonight, Charlie. Does your girlfriend know that? We should send her a picture! Where’s my phone, shit, it’s got a camera now, it’s amazing…”
Charlie’s hand comes gently down on Patrick’s hand and pulls it away from the pockets he’s frantically patting, searching for his Nokia. “It’s okay, Patrick. I’ll make sure I tell her,” he says with a smile.
“Good! Because she should know, Charlie-boy. She should know what a fucking catch she got when she met you,” Patrick says, waving his hands around. He’s becoming more insistent. “She should fucking cherish that!”
“Patrick, are you okay?” Charlie asks, pulling him aside a little, just out of reach of their little reunited gang.
Patrick tips his head back and drains his glass. “Who, me? Charlie, I’m fine! I’m good! I’m so good.”
“Are you?” Charlie is fidgeting. Patrick remembers that Charlie was always a fidgeter. “Because Sam told me that Brad’s here somewhere…”
“I gotta piss.”
“What?”
“I gotta take a leak, Charlie! Hold my drink.” Patrick thrusts the empty glass into Charlie’s hand and twists out of his grip. “There’s probably a bathroom somewhere here, right? It’s a house. Most houses have those.”
Charlie’s eyebrows knit together. “Patrick, I didn’t mean to—”
“I’ll be back! Don’t miss me too much!” He plants a sloppy kiss on Charlie’s cheek and then turns, pushing through the crowd.
It isn’t a lie, Patrick reasons to himself. He really does have to pee—four glasses of whiskey, two shots of tequila, and a couple of beers would do a number on any man’s bladder. It’s a complete coincidence that he decides he needs to relieve himself the exact moment Brad’s name comes up. Charlie wouldn’t want a puddle of piss on his nice new party shoes, would he?
He’s really just being a conscientious friend.
Patrick is tossing those thoughts over in his head as he leans against the upstairs hallway wall next to the bathroom, waiting for his turn. He’ll pee, the conversation will turn to something else, and when he returns, he can keep drinking and partying with his friends and never have to hear Brad’s name again.
“Patrick?”
Patrick blinks, and Brad’s face comes into focus.
“Shit,” he says, surprised.
This is much worse than just hearing Brad’s name.
“Uh…” Brad shifts uncomfortably. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting in line for the bathroom,” Patrick says. Fuck, it shouldn’t be allowed for Brad to still look as good as he did in high school. “Is that a problem?”
Brad’s eyes travel from Patrick’s face. “But there’s… no one in the bathroom.”
“What?” Patrick pushes himself off from the wall and stares at the open bathroom door. “Oh. Well. Excellent. Wait’s over.”
He takes a step towards the door, but Brad steps with him, blocking it. His body crowds in a little closer. Patrick starts to sweat. “How drunk are you right now?”
“How drunk are you?” Patrick says, lifting his chin. A challenge.
Brad runs a hand over his jaw. “Pat, I’m not trying to start something, I swear. I just wanted to see if you were okay.”
A little flash of anger tears through Patrick’s chest, and he latches onto that to tamp down the attraction he’s feeling. “Aren’t you like ten years too late with that?”
“Are we really going to do this now?”
Patrick juts out his jaw. “Unless you get out of my face.”
Brad’s eyes flick down to his lips. It’s just momentary, for half of a second, but Patrick sees. And maybe it’s the alcohol coursing through his system, or the fact that Brad standing in front of him like this feels exactly the same as it did all those years ago, but it makes his stomach jump.
And Patrick can’t stop himself from leaning down and catching Brad’s lips into a searing kiss.
He expects Brad to pull away, he really does. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Patrick is aware that they’re still out in the hallway and that someone could walk by and see them at any moment. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Patrick remembers that Brad has a girl downstairs, waiting for him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Patrick remembers that he hates Brad. That Brad hurt him so much he couldn’t stand it, ten years ago, and he still can’t today.
But that part of Patrick’s mind isn’t running the show right now.
And Brad is kissing him back.
So who is Patrick to argue?
Brad’s hands slide up Patrick’s chest, fingers fisting into the material of his button-down and tugging him forward. The two stumble into the bathroom and Patrick kicks the door shut behind them. He shoves Brad up against the counter and hears him grunt a little, likely from the edge hitting him square in the ass. Patrick just kisses him harder, tongue sliding into his mouth eagerly, groaning and urging him to kiss deeper.
Brad’s hand tangles in Patrick’s hair, tugging gently, and Patrick wants to take him apart right there. Wants to let the buzz of the alcohol and the lust carry him away and take back what used to be his. He feels Brad hard against his thigh, and he grins, shifting his hips just enough to giving Brad some friction to grind against.
“Fuck,” Brad curses softly.
Patrick tugs at his bottom lip and then tips his head down to Brad’s jaw, dragging his teeth against his skin.
“Oh, god.”
“I know,” Patrick breathes.
“Patrick…”
Patrick kisses his way down Brad’s neck. His fingers run along Brad’s shoulders, his sides, and settle at his hips. It’s all so familiar—every muscle, every angle. He hates how much he wants this. He’s aching in his pants and fuck, he wants to be touched. He’s likely lost his mind, lost all sense of reason, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. He slides his hands across Brad’s waistband and toys with the button.
He misses him naked so bad.
“Patrick,” Brad says again. His voice is a little stronger.
Patrick groans against Brad’s neck, nipping lightly at his skin. His skin prickles in anticipation. “Brad, I swear to god—”
“We shouldn’t be doing this.”
He pulls back and stares at Brad in disbelief. In the bathroom mirror out of the corner of his eye, he can see his disheveled hair and the flush across his cheeks. A sinking feeling in his stomach tells him he’s going to be embarrassed by the memory tomorrow. “Are you serious?”
“I just don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Holy shit,” Patrick says, shaking his head. So much for his boner. He chuckles, and it sounds hollow even to him. “Holy shit, I’m such a fucking idiot. For a minute there I actually thought you grew up and stopped being such a goddamn liar.”
“Pat, you’re drunk.”
“Fuck you, you’re drunk. And you’re an ass.”
Brad runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not trying to be an ass. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Yeah, clearly. I saw her out there with you, by the way,” he says, his tone sarcastic. “I’m sure she’d be thrilled to know that you’re off in a bathroom with me right now.”
“You’re being ridiculous right now.” There’s a tension in Brad’s voice now that Patrick doesn’t remember hearing before, and it makes him indignant. Who the hell is Brad to get mad at him?
“Does she know?” Patrick asks, lowering his voice. He steps in closer to Brad again, their faces just inches apart. “Does she know what a fucking queer you are?”
Brad pushes him back just a little. “Fuck, Patrick. Stop it.”
“I guess not,” Patrick says, a mocking smile on his face. “Because then you’d have to admit it to yourself.”
“I’m not doing this anymore, not like this,” Brad says, crossing his arms. “This night’s a fucking mess.”
“Takes one to know one, cupcake.”
“I’m done. Merry fucking Christmas.”
Brad pushes past Patrick, shoulder shoving into him just a little as he tugs open the bathroom door and heads down the hallway. Patrick trails after him, his head spinning—from the booze, from the fight, from the taste of Brad’s skin against his tongue. The fire in his belly is completely gone, and as Brad walks away, he can feel himself crossing over into the booze-fueled part of the night full of shame and sadness. He isn’t sure what all just happened in that bathroom, but he has a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach that he’s going to have some regrets when he wakes up the next morning.
He makes it to the edge of the stairs when Sam appears in front of him.
“Patrick?” She tilts her head as she looks up at him, concern in her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Just dandy,” he says, the humor in his voice long gone by now.
“Brad just stormed past me and told me to take your ass home to bed. Did something happen between you guys?”
Patrick sighs, long and defeated. “I think I’m drunk, Sam.”
She looks him up and down. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“Can you take me home?”
Sam’s eyes soften, and she smiles gently. “All right. Come on, let’s find our coats.”
She wraps an arm around his waist, helping to guide him past people and towards the front door. Their coats are fairly easy for her to find in the hall closet, and Patrick struggles into his with a little help from her with his left arm. The room isn’t spinning quite as much as it was before, but the spinning has been replaced with a headache and a sense of shame. This wasn’t how their night was supposed to go.
As she’s winding his scarf around his neck, he sighs again.
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you mad at me? Was I an idiot?”
“Well, I don’t know.” She breathes out a little laugh. “I lost track of you there for a bit. But no, Patrick. I’m not mad at you.”
He nods, and then thinks for a moment. “Sam?” he asks again.
She ties the ends of the scarf together and then looks up at him. “Yeah, Pat?”
“Don’t ever take me to a party again.”
***
When Patrick wakes up the next day, noon sunshine streaming into his bedroom, he knows two things for certain.
One: his head fucking hurts.
Two: the night before was a disaster.
“Was I a total ass last night?” Patrick asks, gingerly lowering himself into a chair at the kitchen table. It takes him an hour of lying in bed and feeling sorry for himself, replaying the bits and pieces of the night before—flashes of glasses of alcohol and Brad’s face and deep kisses—until he feels strong enough to leave his room and venture downstairs for something to help his hangover.
“I don’t think I’d call you a total ass,” Sam says, taking pity on him and pouring him a glass of water. She sets it in front of him with a bottle of Tylenol, and he reaches for them gratefully. “But ass-adjacent, probably.”
“Great.” Patrick swallows two pills. “In the future, I’m going to blame all this on you, you know.”
“Shocking,” she says with a little smile. Sam sinks into the chair across from him. “So what happened with you and Brad last night?”
Patrick groans and leans forward, resting his head on the table. He figures that sums it up nicely.
“Because he called me this morning.”
He whips his head up, right temple throbbing. “He called you? Why?”
“He wanted to know if you got home safe,” Sam says.
If Patrick’s head wasn’t pounding quite this heavily, he would likely turn that one over in his mind a hundred times. Try to figure out exactly what sort of game Brad was playing at and why he cared, ten years later. Instead, he lays his head back down again.
“Oh. What did you say?”
“I wanted to know how he got my number,” she says. “Bob, it turns out. Unsurprisingly. But then, yeah, I told him you got home fine.”
“Okay,” Patrick says wearily. He’s so tired, and he just wants all of this to be done. Wants to go back to Seattle, where he can meet guys at bars and take them home and leave Brad in his past, where he belongs. He wonders if he can change his return ticket to any day before January first.
“He also said he wants to see you.”
Patrick tips his head sideways, eyeing Sam’s face from his resting spot. “What did you say to that?”
She shakes her head. “Hey, that’s your business, not mine. I told him if he wants to see you then he can arrange that himself. I’m not getting all mixed up in your love life.”
“It’s not my love life.”
“Your old love life, then,” she amends. “I know better than that.”
He sighs. “You’re probably smart.”
Sam tucks one leg up underneath herself. “Are you going to see him?”
Patrick rubs his eyes, wishing he’d just stayed in his warm bed. There were no phone calls from Brad when he was in his bed. He doesn’t know what Brad is up to, but he remembers enough about the night before to know that seeing Brad is a very, very bad idea. He said things, Brad said things. There was kissing. Patrick needs literally no sequel to any of that.
“No,” he says finally. “Last night was more than enough face time with him. I can go another ten years easy without more of that.”
Sam twists her fingers together and looks down. Patrick eyes her warily. He’s known Sam now for half his life, and he knows that look all too well.
“What is it?” he says reluctantly. “What aren’t you saying?”
“It’s just…” Sam shrugs. “He sounded really sincere on the phone.”
“Oh, god.” Patrick rolls his face down onto the table again.
“I’m just saying!”
“Nothing about Brad is sincere,” Patrick says firmly. “And I’m done with that. Okay? I appreciate you taking the phone call and letting him know I’m not dead, or whatever, but that’s it. I don’t want any more Brad while I’m here. I don’t even want to hear the word ‘Brad’. Can we do that? Just wipe him from our collective memories? Please?”
“All right, if that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want,” Patrick confirms. “You know what else I want?”
“Mm?”
“A grilled cheese. I’m so fucking hungover.”
He tips his head up a bit, and Sam grins at him. “You do look like shit,” she says helpfully.
“Take pity on me,” he says, pouting. “Feed me. Heal me.”
Sam shakes her head, but she gets up from the table and heads towards the stove. “I’m never letting you drink whiskey again,” she says, setting the frying pan on one of the burners.
“Fair,” Patrick agrees, lowering his head again. “Extra cheese, please.”
***
A couple more days, and Patrick’s time in Pittsburgh is almost over. He just has New Year’s Eve to get through—with considerably less booze, he promises himself—and then he’s scheduled to head to the airport midday on the first. And New Year’s Eve won’t be so bad, he’s decided. It’ll just be him, Sam, Charlie, Bob, and Alice at his parents’ place, trading stories and watching the ball drop on TV. Much more his style.
It’s this certainty that he’s almost free that sends Patrick out in the afternoon in search of snacks for their get-together. Sam is busy hanging streamers in the living room and scattering party hats and noisemakers around, so he takes her car and drives into town to pick up the things on her list. It should take him twenty minutes, tops, he figures. Plenty of time to get home and showered before people even think about coming over.
He’s three doors down from the grocery store when he sees Brad leaning against a lamp post.
Fuck.
“Are you stalking me or something? You’re everywhere,” Patrick says, trying to keep his tone light and not nearly as annoyed as he feels. “Sam told you I survived the other night, right?”
“She did,” Brad confirms, hands in his pockets. “I’m not stalking, I swear. I was coming out of the barber’s when I saw you park the car.”
Patrick is proud of himself for not noticing Brad’s slightly shorter haircut. In high school, he would have spotted it immediately. Progress.
“Okay, well,” Patrick says, hoping he can keep on moving and not turn this into a thing. “I have to pick some stuff up for Sam.”
“I’m really sorry about the party,” Brad says.
Patrick raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Brad pushes himself upright. “I acted like a dick. Pushing you away like that… I could have at least explained myself better. You were drunk and I felt like I was taking advantage. I didn’t want to do that, but I hurt you instead. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well,” Patrick says, shrugging. He pushes back against the flashes of that night that try to creep into his mind. “From what I hear, I wasn’t much better. I seem to recall being pretty liberal with my words. And I attacked you with my mouth.”
“Don’t worry about it, really.” He offers Patrick a little smile, and Patrick is surprised to find himself returning it. Maybe the party doesn’t need to be the apocalyptic disaster he’s categorized it as in his mind. What was one brief makeout session with your closeted ex? Plenty of people had those. Probably.
“It was a crazy night. We were both pretty drunk, right? Shit happens.”
“Actually, I wasn’t,” Brad tells him. “I don’t drink.”
“At all?” Patrick raises his eyebrows.
Brad exhales, a derisive little laugh leaving his lips. “I don’t handle life well when I drink,” he says. “As I’m sure you remember.”
“Well.” Patrick pauses, the taste of booze on tongue and the words I was so wasted, I don’t even remember what happened last night an all too familiar nightmare. “Good for you. Seriously.”
“I’ve grown up some since high school,” Brad says.
Patrick really doesn’t want to stand here, in the middle of the cold on New Year’s Eve, and hear all about how Brad’s grown since high school. The last thing he needs is salt rubbed in his very old, recently-split-raw-again wound. They made amends for the party, and that’s good enough for Patrick. Much more talk of high school and he’s likely to lose his mind.
“Haven’t we all.” Patrick shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Look, Brad, I need to pick that stuff up. So…”
“Wait, uh…” Brad hesitates. “Do you want to get a soda?” He nods his head towards Kings across the street, and Patrick’s eyes follow. The big red sign looks exactly the same as every time Patrick went to the diner with Sam and Charlie and their other friends in high school.
“That’s awfully public.” Patrick knows his tone is more biting than it should be, but he can’t seem to squash it before the words come out of his mouth.
“We’re twenty-eight now, Patrick. I think I can handle it.”
Patrick blinks at him. He’s seen this confidence in Brad before, but it was always on the football field or in the hallways, joking around with his friends. He’s never had that steady, solid look turned in his direction.
And damn it all, he likes it.
“Fine. One soda,” he says finally.
Relief crosses Brad’s face. “Okay. Okay, awesome,” he says.
Together, they cross the street.
The faded booths and sticky tables inside Kings are exactly the way Patrick remembers them. He remembers grabbing food here with his friends after football games, teasing Sam and splitting fries with Charlie. He remembers Bob hitting on waitresses and Mary Elizabeth carving her name into one of the table legs and Alice slipping cutlery into her purse for some unknown reason.
He has no memories of being at Kings with Brad.
They settle at a booth right in the middle, sitting one across from the other, and it all feels very uncanny valley to Patrick. It feels like they’re back in high school again, spending time together, but they’re in the wrong place. They aren’t tucked away at parties or behind bookshelves in the library. They can see other people and other people can see them, and Patrick is wigging out pretty hard when Brad orders them two Dr. Peppers.
Patrick blinks at him in surprise. “You remembered.”
Brad offers him a smile, coupled with a shrug. “You’re hard to forget.”
Patrick wishes his stomach didn’t leap at those words.
The two of them sit in silence until their sodas come. The waitress who brings them is middle aged with a pretty smile, and Patrick remembers her from growing up. He tips an imaginary hat in her direction and thanks her in an exaggerated southern drawl, and she laughs. When she leaves, Brad is smiling.
“She likes you,” he says.
Patrick shrugs, smiling in spite of himself. “Well, most people can’t help it. I’m incredibly likeable. It’s my curse to bear.”
“Were you this cute back when we went to Mill Grove?”
“Cuter,” Patrick replies, Brad’s words stinging a little. “You just never saw much of me outside of your parents’ basement. I do much better in public settings.”
Brad sighs. “I guess I deserve that, don’t I?”
“A little.” The playful moment is gone, and Brad’s face is serious. Patrick thinks it must match his own.
“Patrick…” Brad fiddles with the paper from his straw, and if Patrick wasn’t so determined to keep his face neutral, he would smile. He knows all too well how fidgety Brad gets when he’s nervous. “Is there even any point in apologizing?”
“What?” Patrick says, taken aback. Those are not the words he expects to hear.
“You made it pretty clear how you feel about me the other night, at the party. Is an apology going to do any good?”
“Well…” Patrick shrugs. “I guess it depends what you’re apologizing for.”
“Should I just write out a list?” Brad offers him another little smile, but Patrick doesn’t feel quite so smiley anymore. Brad shakes his head. “I guess I’m just sorry for treating you like shit, back then.”
Patrick pauses, thinking it over. “Go on.”
“I just wasn’t very good to you, and that sucks.”
Silence hangs in the air between them. Patrick waits for Brad to continue, to elaborate and talk about exactly what he did that sucked so much, but Brad is quiet. The two stare at each other for a long moment.
Finally, Patrick breaks. “Is that it?”
“What?”
“Is that… that’s all you brought me here to say?”
“Well…” Brad shifts in his seat. “That’s the important part, right?”
Patrick bristles. “Seriously?”
“I mean… well, yeah.” Brad looks at him helplessly.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Patrick mumbles. He grabs his jacket and stands, dropping a couple dollars on the table. “That’s the saddest excuse for an apology I’ve ever heard. I shouldn’t have come in here with you.”
“Patrick—”
“Nope.” Patrick shakes his head, taking a step back. “No.”
And he turns and high-tails it out of the diner.
Patrick is fuming as he crosses the snowy parking lot, his boots crunching over the ice. All he wants to do is get as far away from Brad and this whole town as possible. Fuck his return ticket—he’ll eat the expense and buy a new one for today. For as soon as possible. He can’t stay in Pittsburgh any more. Not when it’s this haunted.
He feels his arm wrenched backwards.
“What the fuck—”
And then, lips crash against his own.
Brad kisses him hard, desperate, urgent. His hands hold tight onto Patrick’s arms, as if he can hold him in place and solve everything just like that. Patrick wrenches away from him, wiping his hand across his mouth as he stares at Brad in disbelief.
“What the fuck are you doing?!”
“I’m an idiot!” Brad yells. “Okay? I’m a coward and a jackass and I hate myself but I couldn’t let you walk away after I fucked up back there. I was so nervous, I had no idea what to say.”
Patrick snorts, turning around. He has no intention of staying and hearing more bullshit from the boy that broke him. “I don’t care.” He stalks away, hoping with every footstep that he doesn’t feel Brad’s hands on him again.
“I should have stood up for you that day.”
Patrick freezes.
He can feel those memories in his bones. The fists landing in his gut, the jeers of his classmates. The cold look in Brad’s eyes. Faggot, ringing over and over in his ears. If there’s anything he’d erase from his past, it’s that moment.
But life doesn’t work that way. Instead, it’s scarred over every cell in his body.
“I don’t have an excuse.” Brad doesn’t touch him, doesn’t turn him around. He just speaks, and Patrick stands there, in the middle of the parking lot at Kings, listening. Really listening, for the first time, rather than searching for any word to set himself off again.
“I let my own embarrassment stand in the way of you getting hurt, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. I felt so much shame, and I couldn’t do what I should have that day. I don’t blame you for hating me like you clearly do—I deserve it. You didn’t do anything wrong and I treated you like garbage. That day, and every day before it. Your friend had to rescue you. That should have been my job. You were always, always there for me, and I wasn’t there for you. I will never stop being sorry for that day. For all of it.”
After a long moment, against his better judgment, Patrick slowly turns.
They stare at each other for what feels like an hour. The look on Brad’s face is raw and open, honest in a way Patrick isn’t sure he’s ever seen him. He looks like a scared little kid again, like the day his dad caught them tangled together on the basement couch. Like he knew nothing could ever be more painful than this moment. But this time—this time the pain is Patrick’s. And he can see in Brad’s eyes that Brad knows it’s his own fault.
Finally, Patrick exhales.
“I used to love you, you know?”
“I know,” Brad says quietly, his voice raw. “I used to love you, too. I really meant that when I said it. I was shit at showing it, but I meant it.”
Patrick shrugs. “I was pretty sure you did—at least, at one point.”
“Listen, I’m not asking for anything,” Brad says, all in a rush, as if he’s afraid he’ll lose the moment if he takes too long and won’t get another chance to get it all out. “I’m not trying to get you back or come back into your life or anything like that. I don’t want to disrupt things. I’m pretty sure you’ve got it good out in Seattle. I just needed you to know that I get how fucked up I was back then. That I know how bad I hurt you. You deserved better.” Brad licks his lips. “You deserved so much better than me.”
Patrick’s heart aches.
“And you don’t have to forgive me if you don’t think you can,” Brad adds. “But I needed you to hear that, anyway.”
Brad’s words turn over and over in Patrick’s mind, working their way under his skin, through his veins. He never expected to be standing here, in the middle of his hometown as the light slowly begins to fade, with this person in front of him like this. It finally feels like Brad understands. Like he can see all of those moments, those times when Patrick had to turn away and hide the hurt on his face. Like he sees, finally, how good they could have been if he’d only been able to be bold. If he hadn’t come from a family who made him feel scared to be honest. If everything had been different.
Patrick sees him, really sees Brad for the first time in ten years. And he has no idea what to say.
So he closes the distance between them and wraps Brad in a hug.
Brad tenses beneath him for just a moment, almost as if he was expecting something much more forceful. But then Patrick feels him relax, his muscles melting as he leans into Patrick’s chest. Brad buries his head against Patrick’s shoulder and Patrick lifts his hand to the back of Brad’s head and just holds him. They stand together, holding on for dear life, for far longer than either of them expect. They hold each other like they used to, in private, with the last of the day’s sun falling on their shoulders.
“Thank you,” Patrick whispers finally.
Brad nods, just slightly, against Patrick’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
And Patrick doesn’t feel the need to say anything else at all.
When they finally pull apart, Brad exhales, long and slow as if he’s been holding in that breath for ten years. “You should probably get to the store,” he says.
“Yeah, probably.” Patrick offers him a smile—the most genuine one he’s given him yet. “What about you? Are you spending New Year’s with your girlfriend?” He’d be lying if he said the image of that girl hanging onto Brad’s tie at the party wasn’t burned into his brain.
“My—dude, you mentioned that before. What girlfriend?”
“The one… the girl from the party,” Patrick says, confused. “The one I saw you with.”
Brad shakes his head. “Just someone I knew in high school,” he says. “Someone who hasn’t figured out I’m gay yet.”
Patrick thinks if someone came along and poked him, they’d knock him clear over. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you say that,” he says, a little stunned.
“Like I said. I’ve grown up some since high school.” Brad smiles a little. “Took me way too long, but I was never sure of myself the way you were.”
“I think I was less sure of myself than I let on,” Patrick says.
“Well, either way. It feels good to be myself everywhere instead of just in basements.”
“Wow,” Patrick says slowly, his chest warm. He knows all too well what it’s like to live without hiding. How freeing it is. He feels so glad that Brad does, now, too. “That’s amazing, Brad. Seriously.”
“In some fucked up way, I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Okay, let’s not go that far. We were no teachable moment.” Patrick cracks another smile. He realizes it’s getting a little harder to make out Brad’s eyes in the fading light, and glances down at his watch. “Shit! Shit, I really do have to go. Sam’s going to be pissed.”
“Okay, I won’t keep you,” Brad says, stepping back. “But I’m glad we talked. Really glad.”
“Me too,” Patrick agrees, and he’s a little surprised to find he genuinely means it.
“See you around, Patrick.” Brad doesn’t make a move to step in for a hug or any other contact, and so Patrick doesn’t either. Maybe this conversation, this closure, is the end for them. Maybe it’s all meant to stay in the past.
Brad ducks his head and turns away.
The words are out of Patrick’s mouth before he plans to say them. “You know, Seattle’s really nice.”
Brad pauses, half turning back towards him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. And I have a couch,” Patrick adds. “So. You know. Don’t be a stranger.”
The grin that unfurls across Brad’s face lights up Patrick’s chest. “I won’t,” he says.
“Happy New Year, Brad.”
“You too, Patrick.”
***
After the new year, Patrick finds it’s all fairly simple. The occasional email turns into the occasional phone call, turns into buying more minutes for his cell phone to talk at all hours of the day. Brad can’t get away from work until April, and when he does, Patrick picks him up at the Seattle airport with a cheesy sign and a limo driver’s hat. They go out to the bar down the street that night and hold hands above the table, and Brad plants a kiss on him as they’re walking back to his apartment.
That night, Brad doesn’t sleep on the couch.
And when Patrick wakes up the next morning to Brad stumbling in through the apartment door, balancing two coffees and some pastries from the Starbucks around the corner, Patrick thinks maybe going home to Pittsburgh for Christmas this year isn’t going to be such a chore, after all.