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“Right,” said Jordan. “You need to douche.”
“Oh god, shut up.”
“And wear your best underwear. Calvins. None of that H&M shite.”
“You’re deranged, Jordan. He wants to go for a walk, not get in my pants.”
“I’m not deranged, I’m bloody psychic. Do not fuck this up, William,” Jordan insisted. “If you do, I will never forgive you.” And he hung up.
Will texted Patrick back, saying sure, a walk sounded good, and an hour later they met in Pigeon Park. Patrick admired the cathedral, ducked just in time to avoid one of the eponymous birds colliding with his head, and followed Will down the street to Victoria Square, past the nymph-like sculpture lovingly known as the Floozie, then around the corner to where the art museum opened out onto a wishing fountain that looked like something out of La Dolce Vita.
“People love to joke about Birmingham being a dump, but she’s always been good to me,” said Will. “Not to brag, but we have a Dishoom now and everything. Come on. I want to show you something.” He marched on, explaining to Patrick as they went exactly what a Dishoom was.
The Library of Birmingham sat in Centenary Square like an enormous stack of Christmas presents, shining gold in the late-morning sun. “I was here when they did the grand opening,” said Will. “Malala spoke all about the power of words. I cried. Margo called me a wetter and then we got pizza.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Patrick.
“That’s not what I want to show you,” said Will, shooing him inside, up a series of escalators and then into the lift. It pleased him, seeing Patrick taking in the library’s vast interior, the look on his face as they reached the very top of the building.
“This way,” he said, leading him through a narrow door into a small room that felt even smaller on account of the stacked walls, curlicued brass fixtures, and ornate dark wooden paneling. Birds and flowers bloomed and flitted between the neatly shelved volumes and framed printings situated under glass. On the way to meet Patrick, Will had asked himself what he could show him that would, well, not impress him exactly—this was the Midlands, not Malibu—but at least convey how much Will loved this place.
“You’re an actor,” said Will. “I thought you might get a kick out of the Shakespeare library.”
“A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee,” Patrick murmured, rapt as he gazed around the room.
“Come again?”
Patrick turned to him, eyes bright. “I love it,” he said. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“Shakespeare’s First Folio is kept here,” Will said. “Comedies, tragedies, histories. So many boys dressed as girls.”
“Men in dresses?” Patrick pretended to clutch his pearls. “Scandalous.”
Will laughed, then beckoned Patrick out of the room and continued with the tour, taking him out into the secret garden on the library’s roof. There was nobody else up here, and Will fancied he could see Patrick’s back straighten as they walked between trees and bushes all flush with the bounty of spring, errant petals circling on the breeze that was actually quite brisk.
“There’s one more thing I want to show you,” Will shouted to him over the wind, after they had circled the roof and taken in the panoramic view of the city, which, he had to admit, was probably more impressive from street level. Birmingham was the opposite of a Monet; she looked far better in close-up.
The Rainbow Room was on the lowest level of the library, in the children’s section. This, Will explained as they walked around the colorful, classroom-like space, was where he and Faye Runaway would read to kids as part of drag queen story hour.
“How many jobs do you have, exactly?” asked Patrick.
“Just the two. Bookseller, drag artist. A normal amount. I mean, you know. The economy.” Will waved a hand to convey the financial precarity that had been the background noise of his entire adult life. “Necessity is the mother of invention and all that. It’s like how every single air stewardess has a side hustle selling her worn tights on the internet.”
Patrick grimaced. “I have a cousin who works for Delta. I may never be able to go to Thanksgiving dinner ever again.”
“Oh, don’t be such a prude.” Will punched his arm playfully. “We all do what we have to, to get by. You must have had your fair share of demeaning jobs before you got famous.”
“I guess. I’ve been very lucky.”
“I have, too.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Lucky to have figured out what I love to do.”
“We have that in common,” said Patrick, holding the door open for Will as they left the Rainbow Room.
“I’d show you my other place of work, but you’ve already seen the sights of Gilroy’s,” said Will. “The till, the exceptionally charming staff.” He gestured at himself. “The only thing left is the screaming cupboard.”
