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The longer Patrick didn’t text him, the longer he agonized over whether he should be the first one to reach out. As a rule, Will rejected dating etiquette and did his best to keep game-playing to a minimum. If he wanted to contact somebody, he did. If he liked someone, he told them. But this was far enough removed from his usual playbook that he didn’t know. One of the many things he loved about being gay was that both participants were men. And while for some that meant transcribing the stereotypical traits of men and women onto the top and the bottom, that was nonsense he had never trafficked in.
But there was a power differential here, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise. Patrick wasn’t just the usual kind of privileged that came with being white, male, able-bodied, cisgender, and attractive. He was a literal movie star. Money and fame changed things. Didn’t they? Patrick was probably used to having people throwing themselves at him, to having secret hookups with people he never called again. Will didn’t necessarily want to be another notch on what he had no doubt was a very expensive and tastefully designed bedpost.
And so Will didn’t get in touch. For days. He composed and deleted countless messages but stuck to his resolution that Patrick might be rich and famous and one of the most talented kissers he had ever encountered (and that wasn’t to be discounted because it was actually surprising how many men got to their age without ever mastering the basics), but Will would not give one more inch of ground. If the man who could have it all wanted him, then he would have to bloody well make the next move. For the first time in his life, Will Wright decided that he would play hard to get.
Until the following Thursday.
I’m so sorry for going quiet on you, the message from Patrick read. We’ve been shooting crazy hours this week, but that’s no excuse. Can I see you tonight?
Will was finishing up a shift at Gilroy’s when the missive came through. He read it three times, and then handed his phone to April.
“Could you hold this for exactly ten minutes, please?” he asked. “And don’t give it back to me a second before then?”
April shrugged, tucked the device into her back pocket without even looking at it, and returned to scrolling through her own phone. Will took a pen and paper from the front counter and recused himself to the back room, where he proceeded to draft a dozen or so responses to Patrick’s message, each of which articulated some aspect of what he intended to say. At first he thought he would scold Patrick for going dark all week, but then again, so had he. He thought about telling him it was fine, no worries, he understood, but that didn’t feel right either. For a single white-knuckle ride of a moment, he considered not replying at all. That would be one way to retain a shred of mystery after Patrick had rested a warm, heavy hand on Will’s upper thigh in the cinema and felt just how keen he really was.
But he knew himself. “Mysterious” and “aloof” were right up there with “mindful” and “financially stable” in the pantheon of descriptors that applied pretty much exclusively to other people.
You’re right, he typed, once April returned his phone to him. That’s no excuse at all. But I am willing to be the bigger man and forgive you.
It’s more than I deserve, Patrick texted back, thankfully leaning into the bit. Then, seconds later: If you still think I need to be punished, I will understand.
It was clearly meant in jest, but unaccompanied by emoji or emoticon, it was perhaps the most brazen thing he had ever witnessed Patrick do. It also flew in the face of any expectations Will might have had about their potential dynamic, should things get that far—a scenario he might or might not have speculated about in depth all week.
So…Patrick texted again before Will could reply. Tonight?
* * *
* * *
•••••••••
There was something about walking into a fancy hotel and taking the lift straight up to a man’s room that would never not make Will feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. As he knocked on the door of Patrick’s room, he looked down at his oversized shirt and ripped jeans and wished for a moment he had worn hotter clothes, then remembered he didn’t have any. Not in his boy drag, anyway.
“Hi,” said Patrick, opening the door and ushering him inside. He looked as devastatingly handsome as ever, all-American in blue jeans and a white T-shirt.
“You look nice,” said Will. “Like, I don’t know. Bruce Springsteen for Calvin Klein.”
“Thanks,” said Patrick, rubbing the back of his neck. He couldn’t quite look Will in the eye, and for a second Will had the horrid feeling that he was about to be preemptively dumped.
“This place is lush,” he said, casting a glance around the suite.
“Yeah, it’s cool,” said Patrick, as if just noticing his environment for the first time. “I’ve definitely stayed in worse.”
“Living in hotels must lose its shine after a while,” said Will. “I mean, after a week in Gran Canaria, I know I’m desperate to be back in my flat, with my own things.” He paused. “I just realized. You must have an amazing place.” He tried to picture what kind of dwelling Patrick would call home. A Spanish-style villa in Bel-Air or glass-walled mansion on Mulholland Drive, no doubt.
“I just bought a house, actually,” said Patrick. “In Studio City. I’m having it decorated while I’m here. I’m about forty emails deep in a chain with an impeccably stylish, devastatingly expensive interior designer named Asa.”
Will scanned the room furtively for clues as to Patrick’s taste, but there were no strewn belongings, open suitcases, or homey touches. The entire place looked like it was still waiting for somebody to check in.
“When I moved into my flat, I just had Jordan come round and help me paint in exchange for a bottle of wine,” he said. “So…what’s going on?”
“About the other day,” said Patrick. Here we go, thought Will.
“The other day?” He feigned nonchalance.
“The other day,” repeated Patrick. “When we…”
“When we?” Will tilted his head, intentionally obtuse. If you’re going to ditch me, that’s fine, but I’m going to make you say it. It happened. I didn’t imagine it.
