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“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.
