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“The what now?”
“A contemplative space that April and I use for decompression purposes. It’s less dramatic than it sounds, don’t worry. I’m not much of a screamer myself. I prefer quiet reflection. You know. Mindfulness and such. I’m actually very chill.”
“You definitely give off a way chill vibe.” Patrick adopted a surfer-esque tone, and Will laughed.
“You just think I’m not chill because you’re from LA,” he said. “I bet everybody there and their dog has Reiki sessions and a prescription for Xanax.”
“I don’t have a dog” was all Patrick said in response. “I travel for work too much.”
“But you would otherwise, right? You seem like such a dog person.”
“I guess I am. What about you? Let me guess. Cats.”
“I am currently focusing a lot of my energy on keeping a peace lily named Cordelia alive. I’m not quite ready to graduate to sapient mammals.”
From there they walked through to the rep theater, then out onto Broad Street, which Patrick remarked looked much improved during daylight. They strolled slowly down Birmingham’s very own walk of fame, the stars commemorating some of the city’s best-loved sons and daughters. Patrick kept his eyes fixed on the ground as they strolled, proudly pointing to a paving stone from time to time when he recognized one of the names underfoot. Ozzy Osbourne. Julie Walters. Joan Armatrading.
“ ‘The Weakness in Me,’ ” he said. “What a song.”
“Right?” Will stopped and grabbed his arm. “Not to mention featured in one of the best Shakespeare adaptations of all time.”
“10 Things I Hate About You!” Patrick practically yelled back, and held up his hand for a high five. He could have been the good-natured jock in a high school movie in that moment, an all-American himbo prom king who gets the girl after learning some valuable lesson or other. Will gamely slapped his palm and then kept on walking.
“We should go see a movie,” said Patrick, catching up with him.
“Now, you mean?”
“Sure.”
“That’s so weird,” said Will. “I have never thought about actors just, like, going to the cinema. Which is entirely stupid, because of course you would. It probably counts as work. I bet all of your cinema tickets are tax-deductible.”
“Plus I really, really like popcorn,” said Patrick.
“I mean, who doesn’t?”
“Do you know where has the best popcorn in the world?” Patrick turned so he was walking backward and facing Will at the same time. “The Chinese Theatre in Hollywood.” He glanced down at his feet, currently obscuring one of the Moody Blues. “It’s on the other walk of fame.”
“Well, we probably can’t compete with that,” said Will, “but I am pretty sure I can hook you up with some popcorn.” He got out his phone to check nearby listings, and they settled on a screening of an action movie with some variety of plane in the title. Or maybe it was a boat. Will supposed they would find out.
Click, click, click.
“What’s that sound?” he asked, looking around. “I hate to sound a hundred years old, but kids who don’t have their phones set to silent drive me insane. I was on a bus the other day, and all I could hear was someone clickity-clacking away on their screen. And then they took a video call. Without headphones. Tell me that’s not serial-killer behavior.”
“It’s not,” said Patrick, smile fading. “Not kids, that is.” Will followed his eye line to where a middle-aged man in all-black denim stood a hundred or so yards away, photographing Patrick from behind a transparent bus shelter. It was such a stupid place to hide that Will almost laughed. Instead, seeing the way Patrick’s entire body language was changing, becoming all closed off, he whipped out his phone again and opened a different app.
“This way,” he said, playing tour guide once again and hurriedly directing Patrick around a corner, where his phone informed him an available electric scooter was sitting idle.
“What’s this?”
“It’s like a Boris bike,” said Will, stepping onto it and scanning his phone across the handlebars.
“That sounds made up,” said Patrick.
“Welcome to England,” said Will. “Now hop on and hold tight. I’ll get us out of here before that pap can catch up.”
Will had never learned to ride a bike. His mom had never been very outdoorsy, and his dad had never been, well, present. But one of his favorite ever birthday presents as a kid had been his scooter. It was a glorious shade of electric blue that Will had been convinced made it go faster somehow, and he’d lost count of the number of times he’d pushed it to the top of a nearby hill and then whooped and hollered all the way down, wind stinging his eyes, feeling for just a second like he was flying.
The public scooters did not go that fast, and they were an ugly shade of orange, but still, Will felt almost the same way as the two of them raced through the city, Patrick laughing in his ear, arms firmly around his waist. Like he was capable of anything. After a while, he felt Patrick carefully remove his arms, and he looked back just for a second to see him, hands outstretched, eyes closed. And if anybody walking through Birmingham city center that day saw a tall, blond blur whizz past and had time to ask themselves, Was that Patrick Lake?, he was already gone.
