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“And now?”
“It’s different.”
“I thought Grace was like your suit of armor.”
“She is. But even she has her limits.” Will shrugged. “I only started doing drag during the pandemic, you know. I was stuck in my flat for months, nothing to do, all this anxious energy that no amount of running could burn off. I’d always thought that I’d write, given that much free time, or get into painting or something. If only I had the right muse. Turns out, I was she. It was Jordan’s birthday in lockdown, and we threw him a party over Zoom. I knew it was going to be truly one of the most depressing nights of his life if we didn’t do something to make him laugh, so I decided to give him the present of a lifetime.”
“And that was…?”
“A special birthday message from Dolly Parton. Or at least, a close enough approximation.” Will smiled at the memory. “He laughed his absolute arse off at it. I looked so clapped! A twenty-quid wig, some makeup I’d ordered on sale from Superdrug, and chicken cutlets in a chambray shirt. I called myself Dolly Hardon, and Jordan said, ‘Dolly Hardly, more like.’ But that was that. It was the most fun I’d had in, well, maybe ever. I started doing it over Instagram, posting different looks—some truly awful stuff to begin with—and making friends with other queens. And the more I learned, and the better I got, the better I felt. More in control. Like, even when the world outside was going to hell, I was making something beautiful in my tiny bedroom. Creating a strange kind of life from glitter and glue, like a very gay Dr. Frankenstein.”
“I get that,” said Patrick. “When we’re kids, we all love to retreat into a world of make-believe. But grown-ups need the same outlet.”
“It’s very that,” Will said. “But there’s a huge difference between exploring your creativity as a fun COVID hobby and trying to make a living from it.”
“You’re talking to an actor here, baby. I did my fair share of off-off-off-Broadway theater.”
“Right. Where you and a hundred other people exactly like you are all competing for the same gig. That’s what it was like when the bars opened up again. I thought I was pretty good by that point, after Faye helped me fix my busted mug, so I started trying to get work performing. And it was fucking terrifying.”
“Terrifying?”
“Rabbit-in-the-headlights, life-flashing-before-your-eyes terrifying. Because every other queen in this city is an absolute weapon.”
“So you don’t sing live because you’re worried people will compare you to the other girls?”
“It’s not that, exactly. That’s part of it, I suppose. Drag Race definitely made it easier. I mean, your average basic gay who watches that show only wants you to point and twirl while lip-syncing to Ariana in a high pony, so you might as well just give them that and leave the real hard work to the experts. But it’s also. I don’t know. Grace is a fun disguise, and she makes me confident. But when I sing, that’s me, you know? It’s hard to feel like a bad bitch when you’re showing your soft underbelly.”
Patrick tried hard to suppress every piece of advice his old acting teacher had ever given him about how accessing your own vulnerability could only make you stronger as a performer. Will was simply telling him a story. He didn’t need Patrick immediately jumping in with advice and thinking he knew the answer to his problems after knowing him for all of five minutes. Instead he reached out under the table and placed his hand on Will’s knee.
“Well, I think your voice is beautiful,” he said. Then he slid his hand a little further up Will’s thigh and lowered his voice. “Especially when you’re about to—”
“Oh my god, stop.”
“Hey, I’m just appreciating you as a vocalist.”
“Patrick!” Will’s cheeks reddened, and Patrick hardened at the sight.
“And there you went,” he added, smugly. “Saying you weren’t much of a screamer.” His grip on Will’s leg tightened, and even with the music, the sound of Will’s staggered exhalation thrilled him. He was about to suggest they get the hell out of here when an ungodly screech from the PA system announced the beginning of the show. The entire band had taken to the stage without either of them noticing.
Patrick recognized Dylan on bass, standing to the left of the lead singer, a bleached blonde with a guitar slung over her shoulder.
“All right,” she said. “We are Supermarket Sushi.”
Will laughed at the band name, shaking his head as if at some private joke.
“It’s so stupid,” he said when Patrick asked him. “I’ll tell you later.” And then the band began to play.
Will’s eyes shone, and Patrick was confused for a moment, because he wasn’t looking at the stage. He was looking at Margo, who stood stone still, hands clutched so tightly around her glass it might break, her gaze fixed unblinking on the stage, eyes trained so solely and fiercely on her child she didn’t even seem to notice Owen’s hand as it came to rest on her shoulder.
Patrick watched Will as he watched Margo, as she watched Dylan, each unaware they were themselves being observed, and something fell into place for him that he had never realized before, at least not consciously. Love was, fundamentally, an act of perception. I see you. I know you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed and remembered every last thing about you.
He thought it would sting, to find himself on the outside, an occasional chair pulled up to the family table. But then he felt a hand find his, and Will turned those eyes on him.
“You love them so much, don’t you,” Patrick whispered, although he didn’t need to; the music was loud and, as Will had promised, not very good.
“Adore them,” Will said. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re a pair of nightmares. But…I really do. It’s funny, actually. The gays talk about chosen family all the time, and they mean, like, leaving home and finding other people like themselves. But I chose them, too.” He nodded toward Margo and the stage. “And she chose me.”
Patrick squeezed his hand.
