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“My sister is texting asking what time I’m going to be there,” Will continued, reading his mind. “I’m sorry, I—”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Patrick said, forcing a smile. “I totally understand.”
Will frowned and screwed up his mouth, then said: “You could…come?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Right. I mean, it’s not fancy or anything. Lasagna at my sister’s house, maybe some wine.”
“I wouldn’t want to intrude. I mean, if it’s just family…”
“That’s kind of an elastic term,” Will said. “Margo, her kid, April, and Jordan. Really more of a free-for-all. You wouldn’t be intruding, honest. You’re more than welcome.” Will paused, clearly calculating whether or not to say what he was about to say. “I just thought you might want a night off from being…you know.” He flapped his hand in the air, like that explained everything.
Patrick did know. But how did this guy know? That no matter how grateful he was for where he’d got to in life, and even though being recognized in the street by little kids who thought he was a real superhero filled up some empty part of him, there were days when he just wanted to go back to being Patrick Carmichael from South Amboy. To walk into a bar unremarked upon. To hold any hand he pleased. To eat lasagna.
“I’d love to,” he said.
* * *
•••••••••
“Late! Again!” Margo yelled as she opened the door. “What’s your excuse this ti—”
“Hi, Mags,” said Will. “I brought a friend, hope you don’t mind. Margo, this is Patrick. Patrick Lake.”
“I know who he is,” Margo hissed, stepping aside to let them both in.
“It’s nice to meet you,” said Patrick. “This is for you.” He held out the bottle of Fleurie he’d picked up on the way, insisting that he could not show up to dinner at Will’s sister’s house empty-handed.
“What kind of guest would that make me,” he’d said, “to show up without a gift?”
“Sir,” Will had said archly, “you’re the gift. Margo and Dylan will be so excited to meet you, it won’t even occur to them that you didn’t bring something.”
But Patrick had insisted, and so, upon returning to Birmingham, they had taken a detour to a wine merchant in the Jewellery Quarter, where Patrick had quizzed Will on what kinds of reds Margo preferred. He didn’t know why it suddenly felt so important that Will’s sister like him, other than he was an actor, so it was in his nature to want everyone to like him.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the bottle and guiding them through to the kitchen, where April and Jordan were setting the table and squabbling over what might be a suitable playlist to put on while they ate.
“Room for one more?” he asked self-consciously, like he might have to audition for a seat at the table. April and Jordan ceased their bickering and stared in stunned unison. Because seeing him at a bookstore or a nightclub, sure—they were both public places of business. But he suspected that showing up to an intimate family dinner was a different matter altogether.
“We’re a little short on chairs,” Margo interrupted. “So you might have to carry in a spare from the living room, Patrick. Put those lovely big arms of yours to good use.”
“Sure thing.” By the time he reached the living room, Patrick heard the kitchen fall almost silent. He could picture their faces, asking Will what the hell was going on in incredulous whispers.
He gave it a full minute before returning to the kitchen, depositing the smallest armchair from the living room at the end of the table, where the lasagna had been laid out next to a large bowl of salad, focaccia, and the wine he had brought.
“You don’t have to sit there,” said Will. “Take mine.”
“No, no,” he said. “I’m the one who showed up last minute, unannounced.”
“Exactly,” said Margo. “That’s how it works.” She poked her head out into the hallway and yelled: “Dylan! Dinner!”
A moment later, Dylan slumped down the stairs and into the kitchen, so engrossed in their phone that they didn’t even notice Patrick until they were sitting across from him, a steaming, bubbling tray of pasta between them.
“Erm. Hi,” they said, face unmoving, before turning to Margo. “Is one of us dying or something?”
Everybody laughed, like they had been given permission to acknowledge how unusual this situation was, and Patrick relaxed into his (comically low) seat.
“Your uncle Will tells me you’re in a band,” he said to Dylan, while Margo hacked into the lasagna with a spatula. “What are you guys called?”
