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They were 40 minutes into the two-hour drive to Thornbridge before David finally cracked.
“Okay, seriously, how did you get Roland to let us borrow his truck? Because I asked him last week and he said—and I quote—‘Not a chance in hell.’”
Patrick grinned and shifted into higher gear as he merged onto the highway. “Yeah, he mentioned that when I asked him. Something about you running away with it for three days to live with the Amish?”
David turned sideways in the passenger seat and lifted his sunglasses just to make sure Patrick could see his glare, and really, Patrick should be able to stop grinning like an idiot, but it was just so easy to wind David up.
“I did not run away. I was on my way back to New York and then I happened to run out of gas,” David said, gesticulating outraged circles in the air with his hands, and it was so, well, cute.
Everything about David Rose was kind of cute, Patrick was coming to believe. Except some parts of him that were . . . magnetic? Patrick didn’t have a better word for the parts he thought were magnetic, like David’s thick, expressive eyebrows under those dark eyes; his sensuous lips and elegant hands; the secret stripe of hair on his belly that Patrick had seen the other day when David was stacking boxes and his sweater rode up.
“Ohhh, you were on your way to New York,” Patrick deadpanned. “And you were planning to return the truck when . . .?”
David huffed and crossed his arms, looking pointedly out the window.
Patrick knew better words than magnetic for those things, but they weren’t words he had ever really thought about a man. Well, at least until the past few weeks.
But magnetic was as good a word as any, because Patrick had felt drawn to David from the minute he had walked into Ray’s house almost two months ago, gingerly holding the silly little customer ticket in front of him.
At first Patrick thought he was interested because David had a great business idea—and he did—but maybe it was a sort of magnetism, the way every part of Patrick seemed to shift and realign towards David like the little metal filings under the glass in his elementary school science lab.
David Rose made Patrick pay attention. And over the past few weeks, Patrick had slowly begun to understand why: Magnets attracted.
“Alright, so, I suppose I was running away,” David said, extending his whole neck and jaw to propel the words running away as far away from him as possible, helping them along with an outward flick of his wrist. He pursed his lips and looked out the window at the sunny June countryside flying past. “I don’t expect you to understand, but, for what it’s worth, I’m not going to, you know, flake out on you. With the store. It was just a very bad time for me.”
Patrick remembered how he’d had a panic attack the night he proposed and thought he understood better than David knew. The silence had stretched on a hair too long for him to crack a joke, so Patrick just said, “I know.”
“You don’t know, though,” David said, looking down at his lap to fiddle with his rings. “How do you know I’m not just going to be irresponsible and stupid and fuck this up completely?”
Patrick kind of wanted to hold David’s hand, and it had nothing to do with wanting to touch David as much as possible. Well, mostly. “This store is your dream, David, and you have a solid business model. It’s gonna be great.” David’s scrunched up expression suggested he both loved and hated Patrick’s sincerity.
“And anyway, if you decide you want out, I could probably handle the creative decisions,” Patrick said. David raised a single skeptical eyebrow, and Patrick somehow managed a straight face as he continued. “I mean, I couldn’t pull off your sand and stone aesthetic, but I saw a bunch of Pioneer Woman decor on sale at Walmart the other day and, you know, it’s all about the rustic chic these days.” David looked adorably appalled
“Oh! And I saw these great wall hangings when I was there too. We could do it better, you know? Find local artists to make ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ signs. They’d be a big hit with Jocelyn and her friends,” Patrick nodded sagely. “So see? I don’t need your creative vision at all to make Rose Apothecary a success.”
David folded his lips over a tiny smile and played with his rings some more, and Patrick was pleased he seemed to have understood the unspoken words.
“I don’t know whether I’m more annoyed that you suggested such a monstrosity or the knowledge that it would probably sell,” David said finally.
“I’m sorry, did you just say I had a good idea?” Patrick said, and Jesus, could he stop grinning at David like a demented Cheshire cat?
“You are such a fucking troll, Patrick Brewer,” said David, and his smile was so gorgeous Patrick could barely look at him. “I feel like music. Let’s see if we can find something—do not touch that tape deck, because I know for a fact it’s shitty hair metal power ballads.”
“He’s probably changed the tape since the last time you were in the truck,” Patrick pointed out.
“Doesn’t matter,” David said as he moved the tuner slowly through the static. “It’s all shitty hair metal power ballads.”
Then, because Patrick really was kind of a troll, he hit play on the tape deck anyway, prepared to launch into an over-the-top lip sync performance just to see that smile again, which was absolutely not pathetic at all.
Instead of hair metal, the cab filled with the intro to “Islands in the Stream”, and wait, David was giving him that smile anyway? Without the hair metal? To a country song? David was actually clapping his hands, bouncing in his seat and shimmying his shoulders.
“I didn’t peg you for a country fan, David.”
“I’m not, but take Dolly Parton’s name out of your mouth if you can’t speak of her with respect.” David said with utter seriousness.
Patrick raised his fingers in surrender so that only his thumbs were on the wheel. “Hey, no argument from me.”
David flapped his hand at Patrick, shushing him as he turned the volume up with the other hand. Then, to Patrick’s astonishment, David began to sing along, belting the words out. He was a terrible singer, but his joy was infectious, so Patrick joined in on the second verse. It was a duet, after all.
David’s head whipped around when Patrick started singing and Patrick stopped, feeling wrong-footed. “Sorry, was this more of a solo thing for you?” he asked.
“No,” David said, looking at him oddly. “You just have a nice voice.” Then he shot Patrick a sly look and his crooked little smile. “You threw me for a bit of a change-up there.”
Patrick thanked David awkwardly and had to start singing again, right that instant, because if he didn’t he would probably do something stupid like park the truck right there in the middle of the road and lunge at David tongue-first. It was an urge he was becoming alarmingly familiar with.
Driving down that country road and singing Dolly Parton songs with David had made for probably the happiest morning of Patrick’s life to date, he thought as he took the Thornbridge exit. Which was a depressingly low bar, but Patrick kicked the thought to the back of his mind. He was good at doing that with inconvenient thoughts.
They crawled through downtown Thornbridge looking for the antiques store that held the distressed china hutch David had spotted on CraigsList the day before and declared perfect for their store. They finally found the storefront and parked, groaning as they got out and stretched their legs.
“Well, fuck,” David said, jiggling the very locked front door. “Google said the store opened at 10, but the hours on the door say 10:30.”
“I guess that makes Google a liar,” Patrick said, adjusting his Blue Jays cap. He leaned against the hood of the truck and crossed his arms, settling in to wait. And wait, David was staring at his arms, visible under the pushed-up sleeves of his henley. Did he have some dirt on his forearms or something? Dry skin on his elbows? David had lectured him for 10 solid minutes the other day on the importance of a daily moisturizing routine. Patrick uncrossed his arms and hooked his thumbs in his pockets, and David looked away.
“Soooo, what do we do for the next 30 minutes?” said David, suddenly restless for some unfathomable David reason. A tiny, wild part of Patrick wished he had the nerve to yank David to the side of the building and—he’d been dying to for weeks—kiss him senseless for the next half hour. But he knew what David saw when he looked at Patrick: a boring business major with boring business clothes and gross forearms.
Patrick looked to his right and saw dozens of colorful tents lining the courthouse square. “Hey, looks like they’ve got a farmer’s market over there. Want to see if they have any decent vendors? Come back here when the store opens?”
“An excellent plan, Mr. Brewer,” David said crisply, already walking. Patrick hurried to catch up. His knuckles brushed against David’s and he fought the insane urge to take David’s hand.
Then David’s hand shot out and grabbed Patrick’s, and Patrick didn’t die right then and there, but if he had, he would have gone out happy. But David had taken Patrick’s hand to pull him along faster.
“Ooh, Patrick,” David breathed, and yup, that tone was really doing things for Patrick, and he hoped David wouldn’t look back because he could feel his stupid, traitorous face blushing.
“Patrick, look,” David continued, dragging him forward. “They have a tiny little Pride festival!” he beamed, as if the tents were a basket of bunnies.
Some answer seemed required from Patrick, but god, David was still holding his hand. “Hey look,” he finally managed weakly. “That booth has some handmade wooden bowls and stuff. We’ve been wanting more kitchenware, right?”
David flashed him a surprised smile. “I said that one time, like two weeks ago. I can’t believe you remembered.” That smile was scrambling Patrick’s brain too much for words, so he just shrugged and smiled back.
He wished he had the nerve to squeeze David’s hand, but David seemed to have forgotten they were holding hands at all, and Patrick wanted to keep it that way, wanted to memorize what it felt like to have David’s hand in his for as long as possible.
David stretched his other hand out to Patrick’s face, and holy shit, was David going to cup his jaw? Was he going to kiss Patrick? Was this how it happened?
Instead, David gently pinched Patrick’s flaming cheek with his thumb and forefinger. “You turn so red when I say something nice,” David said softly. “You have got to learn to take a compliment better. Or am I just that mean?”
Patrick cleared his throat. “You’re not—you’re not mean,” he managed, aware of every inch, every buzzing atom between them. And did Patrick imagine it, or did David’s eyes flick down to his lips?
David opened his mouth to say something, but then something fuzzy and rainbow-striped flashed between them. A drag queen in towering heels had dropped a Hawaiian lei over David’s head. David took his hand away from Patrick’s to adjust his lei and Patrick quietly mourned the loss.
“Um, hello, what’s this?” David said, as the queen put a matching one over Patrick’s head. She had a button pinned to her purple sequined dress that said “Thornbridge Pride Welcome Wagon Committee”.
“Now you can say you got lei’d at the Thornbridge Pride Festival!” the drag queen said cheerfully, then tottered off to another group of newcomers.
Patrick looked down at his lei and felt a torrent of anxiety. Could it be as simple as this? Just leave the lei on and people would know, or did allies wear such things? Was he ready to be out? Was he properly gay? What would David say?”
“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to,” said David, again in that soft voice, but this one sounded less affectionate and more disappointed. Patrick realized he’d been frowning at the lei. David went to take off Patrick’s lei, but Patrick surprised himself by grabbing David’s wrists.
“No!” he said. Patrick lowered his voice, made himself let go of David’s wrists. “No, it’s okay. It’s just—“ he made himself laugh and roll his eyes. “It’s just so damn tacky.”
David’s face lit up again with his teasing smile, and god, Patrick could look at him forever. “Um, excuse me, Mr. Live, Laugh, Love, what do you know about tacky?”
“I know a good thing when I see one,” Patrick dared, and David ducked his head, a secretive, pleased look on his face. Another drag queen picked that instant to dive-bomb them, and Patrick could have killed her for interrupting, but it was probably a good thing anyway. His mouth was writing checks his brain and body weren’t ready to cash.
But it was still good though, because David tipped his head back and laughed at Patrick, now absolutely covered in tacky rainbow leis, shaking off the strange intensity that had hummed between them for a few seconds. “Okay, so I’m going to go talk to the wooden bowl lady. Do you want to come with?”
“Nah, I’ll just, you know, look around,” Patrick said. He needed to catch his breath sometimes after being around David too long.
Patrick wandered around to the booths, and was soon given a tote bag filled with pamphlets about domestic violence, a flyer from an Episcopal church that said “We Welcome ALL God’s Children!”, temporary rainbow tattoos, and handfuls of condoms and dental dams. Patrick didn’t think he’d need any of it—more’s the pity with the condoms—but it seemed rude to turn it down, so he kept the bag.
David was still in animated discussion with the wooden bowl lady, so Patrick kept making his way aimlessly through the booths. He acquired two more leis, plus some pamphlets on safety and testing he planned to look at.
He came to a bright orange canopy tent with “Thornbridge PFLAG” emblazoned across the table skirt. He tilted his head at the acronym, wondering what it stood for.
“Parents, Friends and Families of Lesbians and Gays,” said the kind-faced man sitting behind the table, as if Patrick had asked out loud. The man raised one thin shoulder and said, “Most common question we get asked.”
Patrick couldn’t help but stare at him. He was about Patrick’s age, with short hair, a neat blue polo shirt and a wedding ring. His name tag said “Cameron, he/him” and had a tiny rainbow flag sticker on it.
Patrick felt an unexpected surge of longing. Not for Cameron, though he was fairly handsome, but for what Cameron had: he knew who he was, he was brave enough to be out, and he had found someone to share it with. Patrick could literally see himself sitting behind that table, wearing that same polo shirt in another life where he wasn’t so confused and scared.
He dropped his eyes to the table, examining the rows of multi-colored rubber bracelets and meeting flyers.
“You want a bracelet?” Cameron asked, smiling, and Patrick nodded, not wanting to be rude.
“Well, they’re free, so pick whichever one you want.”
Patrick realized the bracelets were different colors for the different kinds of pride flags. He knew the ace flag and the bi flag, but most of the color schemes were alien. He picked up different ones and examined them, looking for the labels on the side (which, mercifully, they had).
Lost in his own thoughts, he jumped a little when Cameron said, “Sorry, we don’t have a huge variety, but if you’re not seeing yours, I bet I can point you to another booth that has it.”
“Oh,” said Patrick. “I . . . um. I don’t know which bracelet is mine. Which one is for me.” His heart was racing. He had finally said out loud that he was different. That he wasn’t straight. He felt as if there were a microphone in front of his face.
Cameron’s face softened. “You don’t have to put a label on yourself,” he said. “The rainbow is for all of us.”
“I actually—I kind of would like a label though,” Patrick admitted. “I like knowing things. It’s . . . It helps. I just haven’t really, you know, thought everything through.” He hooked a hand behind his neck and looked over at David, still deep in conversation across the square.
Cameron nodded thoughtfully and said, “Well, if you want, maybe we can try and figure one out for you?” He patted the empty chair next to him.
Patrick rounded the table and sat down, almost pathetically grateful. He wondered how Cameron could help him figure out his label. Did they have a queer Sorting Hat or something?
It wasn’t a hat, unless Cameron was going to fold the piece of paper he was now holding into one. He tilted the paper at Patrick. It was a . . . gingerbread man? No, a genderbread person, the title helpfully supplied.
The cartoon had a little brain pasted over its head, a big red heart in its middle, and gender symbols over its little ginger junk.
“Now, this isn’t the end-all, be-all, and there’s tons of variations within here, especially if you end up being on the ace spectrum, but this might help you get a better idea,” Cameron said.
“I don’t think I’m asexual,” Patrick said. “I looked into it some, last year. I thought I might be. But I don’t think I am.” And maybe it was because Cameron was a stranger, but it was getting easier by the second to talk about these feelings that had unnerved and shamed him for years.
Cameron guided Patrick through the spectra of biological sex, gender identity and expression, all of which were easy answers for Patrick: male and masculine through and through.
Then Cameron moved down the page. “Okay, this one is for sexual attraction,” he said, tapping a line. Are you sexually attracted to men in general, women in general, neither or both? And if so, how much?
Patrick stared dumbly at the cartoon and felt his entire life coalesce around him. Some Top 40 dance music was playing from a loudspeaker nearby, but Patrick felt like he was listening to it from a mile away. The only thing in the world was Cameron’s patient eyes and his finger on the page.
Patrick thought of Rachel and the three other girls he had slept with. He thought about lost erections and whispered apologies in the dark. He thought about how he had gotten unexpectedly, achingly hard on his second day in the store after watching David bend over a table to reach something.
He thought about how rarely he had masturbated when he was dating Rachel, and how he had never pictured her body when he had. He thought about how he’d masturbated a lot in the past month, thinking of dark eyebrows and flashing silver rings and tight designer jeans bending over a table. He thought about the heart-stopping moment earlier when he’d thought David was about to kiss him.
And too, he thought about all the strange flutters and odd dreams about men he’d felt since he was a teenager, random feelings he’d written off as normal for a hormonal young man.
Patrick looked around to make sure no one else was paying attention. “I . . . uh, I like men. Just men. A lot,” he said finally, so quietly Cameron had to lean in to hear him. It felt like the loudest thing in the world. Patrick was surprised cars didn’t stop in the street and planes didn’t fall from the sky. Why didn’t everyone at the festival stop and stare at him after the thing he’d just said?
“Okay, Cameron said, matching Patrick’s hushed tone. “How about romantic attraction?”
Patrick thought about wanting to hold David’s hand so badly, about staying late and unpacking boxes just so he could be near David and make him laugh by winding him up. He thought about the silly first-crush daydreams he’d rather die than admit, most of which involved a misty future where he and David were married and ran the store.
Patrick had fallen asleep the night before spinning out a fantasy in which he convinced David to host a community Halloween party at the store. The Patrick in his fantasy wore an outrageous costume just to mess with David—he had fallen asleep still trying to decide between inflatable T-Rex and minion—and David wore all black and an understated pair of cat’s ears. The pants were really, really tight.
And David pretended to hate the mess and fuss and kids, but he spent the whole evening secretly scarfing mini-Snickers behind the cash register and having the time of his life making snide comments about people’s costumes with Stevie. Meanwhile Patrick rolled his eyes fondly at his husband and handed out treats.
“Yeah, that too,” he croaked, swiping at his eyes.
Cameron smiled softly at Patrick and put the Genderbread Person sheet away. “Well, I think we have a winner, then.” He picked up a rainbow bracelet that said GAY in big block letters on the side, then placed it in front of Patrick. “How does that one look to you?”
Patrick picked it up tentatively, as if it might grow teeth and bite him. Gay. Was he gay?
“It’s okay if that’s not the right one,” said Cameron, mistaking his silence for disapproval. “It’s okay if there’s not any right one.”
“No, I think it’s—I think it’s right. Gay,” said Patrick, trying the word out. He looked at Cameron and took a deep breath. “I’m . . . gay.” Then, more confidently: “I’m gay.”
And there it was, simple as anything. Cameron beamed at him and Patrick smiled back tremulously.
“Okay, well, don’t make me cry,” said Cameron.
“Sorry,” said Patrick and ducked his head. “Thank you. For, you know, helping me figure it out.”
Cameron grinned and said, “Believe me, this is one of the least messy ways a guy has asked me to help him figure that one out.”
Patrick laughed, then his smile faded as he contemplated the bracelet again. Was he ready to wear it? He didn’t care about what people in Schitt’s Creek would think of him, though he didn’t think it would be a problem anyway.
But he cared very much about what David Rose thought about him, and whether it would mess things up between them. Would David become standoffish if he knew Patrick were gay, trying to discourage any potential interest? Would he want to—to hook up or something? Patrick didn’t want that either.
“Oh my god, Patrick, there you are!” David’s voice rang out and Patrick’s hand instinctively snapped shut on the bracelet.
“Hey! Hey, David,” he said, dropping his hand below the table. He was grateful for the orange tent’s ability to disguise his sudden blush. Cameron had a sympathetic sort of look on his face. “What did you think of that lady’s stuff?”
David hummed. “I really like her servingware, but it’s a little pricey so I’m not sure how much product we’ll be able to move? I told her we’d like to do a limited contract and see how it goes.”
Patrick couldn’t help but smile, proud of how confident David was growing in making business decisions. “Sounds good to me. Did you get her email address so I can send her a contract?”
“Yep, mmhmm.” David fished a business card out of his bag and handed it to Patrick. He took it with the hand that wasn’t hiding a bracelet.
“So do you want to head over to the antique store now?” David seemed to notice Cameron for the first time, and looked suddenly uncertain. “I mean, unless you’re in the middle of a conversation or . . . whatever.”
“Oh! No. Just, you know. Enjoying the shade,” said Patrick. “It’s getting kinda warm.” David looked at Patrick oddly, which wasn’t a shock because Patrick was a terrible liar. Then David looked at Cameron again, and something speculative kindled in his eyes.
“Yeah, I saw the Blue Jays hat and just had to talk to Patrick about the draft,” said Cameron. “Patrick is under the profoundly mistaken impression that the Jays are going to score T.J. Zeuch, but I said no way, we’re gonna get stuck with Justin Dunn.”
Patrick turned to Cameron, honestly shocked. Not by the improv lie, but—“Are you crazy? Dunn turned down the Dodgers in 2013 just so he could stay in New England. He wants the Mets or nothing.”
Cameron twisted his mouth and said, “Hmm, we’ll see. What do you think—David, was it?”
David was still giving Cameron that strange, narrow look. Like he was sizing him up. Like he was competition. Patrick’s heart nearly stopped. He turned back to look at Cameron, and Cameron was looking guilelessly at David, chin propped in his right hand. His wedding-ringed left hand was below the table’s edge.
“Honestly, I don’t know a thing about sports, but Patrick said he’ll teach me about baseball sometime,” said David, waving his hands vaguely in the direction of next week.
Patrick’s eyebrows went up. “You want to learn about baseball?”
David’s face and body were doing a bizarre twisting thing. He examined his cuticles, then rolled his eyes. “Well, I mean, you talk about it, like, all the time, and there are a lot of hot guys in tight pants, so. I would not be opposed.”
David flicked another indecipherable look at Cameron, and Patrick felt something wild and bright fizzing up in his chest, threatening to escape out his ears and eyes and the top of his head, right through his Blue Jays hat.
“So anyway,” David said brightly. “Did you tell your new friend about our store? We own a store together,” he directed at Cameron, and was Patrick imagining it or had David put the slightest emphasis on the word together?
“No, we didn’t get around to it,” said Patrick, and he couldn’t stop smiling if his life depended on it, because the little voice in his head kept singing Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Patrick turned to Cameron, whose eyes were dancing with mischief. “So yeah, we’re opening a store next week over in Schitt’s Creek. It’s called Rose Apothecary and—man, it’s really something. Honestly, David’s the creative genius behind it. I’m just the numbers guy.” He looked admiringly at David, whose expression was an interesting mix of gratified and, what, triumphant?
Cameron smiled and said, “Wow, that really does sound like something. Maybe Sanjay and I can make a weekend of it.” And suddenly his left hand was visible, fiddling with the button on his polo.
“You really should,” said David, and was Patrick still imagining things, or did David’s voice sound much warmer?
Patrick still couldn’t stop smiling. He couldn’t stop smiling and there might be something literally, medically wrong with him—was that a medical condition if you couldn’t stop smiling?
“Well, I’d better run,” Patrick told Cameron as he stood up and scooted around the table again. David was already wandering away, rooting around in his tote bag for his phone, so he didn’t see when Cameron gave Patrick a quick thumbs up and mouthed “Good luck!”
Patrick let himself trail behind and looked at the bracelet again. He could put it on right now, and then David would know without any awkward announcements.
He put it in his pocket. He wasn’t afraid, but he wanted a day or two to sit with this precious knowledge, to wrap his head around it, before he told other people.
He wanted to tell David about it. He wanted to take David on a date and tell him about it. And he was going to.
“Come on, Patrick!” David called over his shoulder. “I think that lady’s opening up now.”
“Wait—wait for me,” said Patrick. He smiled as he pulled up to David. “I’m catching up.”