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“Good news,” David murmurs, handing Patrick a glass of prosecco. “I found the gay cousins.”
“Really.” Patrick hides his smile behind the glass. “That’s funny; I thought that we were the gay cousins.”
David waves a hand in airy unconcern. “Every family has gay cousins,” he says. “They must be on the bride’s side.” His eyes are sparkling as he leans in close, his free hand sliding easily along Patrick’s shoulders.
“Oh, of course.” Patrick takes a sip, the wine crisp and bright on his tongue. “Okay, where are they?” He glances around the room, scanning the crowd, trying to see who might have caught David’s eye.
“White woman, redhead, a little younger than you, over by the punchbowl,” David says, gently pressing his fingers to Patrick’s chin until he’s looking in the right direction. “Cute dress that she hates; very butch hair.”
Patrick follows David’s instructions, stops, blinks. Blinks again.
“That’s—” He frowns. “Uh, that’s my cousin Margaret.”
“Really,” David says, his voice suddenly interested. “Margaret, huh.” He tilts his head, frowning. “Did I meet her?”
“No, she wasn’t at the wedding,” Patrick says. “She’s a Mountie, she was stationed somewhere in the Yukon and couldn’t get the time off.”
“Huh,” David says. “So not on the bride’s side, then.”
“Yeah, except I’m pretty sure I’d know if Maggie was gay,” Patrick counters.
“Mmm, okay.” David’s voice is light, deliberately noncommittal. “Would you, though?” He tilts his head. “I mean, you didn’t know that you were gay, so—”
“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick says, even as his heart swells with affection. A few years ago, he wouldn’t have been able to joke about this, wouldn’t have been able to see the humor in this moment; that he can laugh about it, here and now, is all down to David Rose and his wonderful, expansive confidence. “You’re not wrong, but trust me, I would know.” He shakes his head, rolling his eyes “She’s my cousin, David. She’s not gay.”
“Sure, fine,” David says. “Just, you might want to tell her girlfriend that?”
“Her—” Patrick looks over at Maggie again, frowning. “That’s her friend Emily.” When he glances over, David’s expression is one part incredulity, one part pity, two parts poorly-concealed laughter.
“Oh, I see,” David says. “Her—friend.” He raises his eyebrows. “Her gal pal, one might say.”
“Listen, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not—” but, fuck, Maggie and Emily are walking right toward them, smiling broadly. “We’ll talk about this later,” he tells David, then turns to accept the gigantic bear hug Maggie gives him.
“Patrick!”
“Jesus, Mags, what are they feeding you up there?” He hugs back, knowing his grip isn’t nearly as strong as hers but unable to resist the competitive urge that’s always been part of their relationship.
“It’s not the food,” Maggie says, ruffling his hair. “It’s the moose.” She pulls back, her hands on Patrick’s shoulders, grinning. “We wrestle them.” She shakes her head. “It’s good to see you, Patrick,” she says, and tugs him back into another enormous hug.
“Hi,” David says, somewhere off to the side. “David Rose, delighted to meet you.”
“Emily Pelletier,” Emily says. “Likewise.”
“Okay, come on, I know they’ve got you off in the wilderness but you don’t have to act like you were raised in a barn,” Patrick says, struggling free of Maggie’s stranglehold. “Maggie, Emily, this is David, my husband,” he says, loving the way those words feel in his mouth, the thrill of joy they give him.
“David!” Maggie beams and pulls David in for a hug of his own, her easy physicality overriding David’s hesitation. “Great to finally meet you!” She pats him on the shoulder as they break apart, the same bluff, hearty gesture that Patrick has always associated with her.
Which is—that’s—Patrick pauses, considering. If David’s right—but no. It’s Maggie. He shakes off the moment, pressing his shoulder gently against David’s. David leans back, easy and unthinking.
“I was so sorry to miss the wedding, but,” Maggie shrugs, “duty calls, apparently.”
“The pictures were lovely,” Emily adds. “Your photographer did a phenomenal job.”
“Didn’t she?” David smiles, straightening the cuffs of his suit. “We really lucked out with her—she’s actually a landscape artist, but she does some photography, and she’s got an amazing eye for composition.” He takes a half step back, sliding his arm around Patrick’s waist, drawing Emily and Maggie towards the little corner they’ve staked out. “So what do you do, Emily?”
“Oh, I—” Emily glances over at Maggie. “I own a bookstore in Portage la Prairie, outside of Winnipeg.” She smiles at David. “I was actually just saying to Maggie that you do a great job with your marketing. Or, uh—” She turns to Patrick, her eyes wide and apologetic. “You two, I mean—I know you both—”
Patrick waves her off. “The social media stuff is all David,” he says, laughing. “And his sister, sometimes.”
“Very occasionally,” David says, pulling his phone out of his pocket and tapping at it. “What’s your Instagram? I’ll follow you with the store’s account.”
“Oh, uh—” Emily hesitates, flushing. “You don’t have to do that, really,” she says. “I mean, really, our social stuff is pretty tragic right now.”
David waves her off. “We have to stick together,” he says. “As—small business owners.” There’s a pause as the two of them trade a long glance, the moment somehow quiet despite the bustle of laughing, talking people around them.
“It’s, uh.” Patrick can see Emily’s throat work as she swallows. “RC Books, all one word.” Maggie reaches out and hooks her fingers into Emily’s hand, squeezing tight.
David types the name into his phone, then bites his lip. “Oh,” he says, “oh, ew, I see what you mean.” He grimaces. “I mean, the space is cute, but these pictures are—”
“Yeah, no, I know,” Emily says, shaking her head and laughing a little. “I need to get a new phone, like, yesterday.”
“Um, yeah,” David says, “but also, I mean, filters are your friend, you know?”
“David, seriously?” Patrick pokes David in the side, ducking away from his distracted attempt at retaliation. “You literally just met her.”
“Listen, I don’t have to know somebody well in order to answer an obvious cry for help,” David says, shoving his phone into Patrick’s hands and turning back to Emily. “Now, look—do you have your phone on you?”
Patrick looks down at David’s phone, still open to Instagram. Rainbow Connection Books, he reads. LGBTQ2S books and media.
“Huh,” he says, closing the app and sliding the phone across the table, nudging it against David’s hand. David takes it without looking and tucks it into his pocket, still deep in his conversation with Emily; Patrick thinks he hears the words ‘brand awareness’ and ‘signature colour palette’. When Patrick looks back at Maggie, she’s chewing on her lip, watching him. “So you two—”
“I—” Maggie glances over at Emily, nodding along seriously as David talks, and smiles. It’s a look Patrick knows well: affection and delight and a fierce, protective joy. He’s felt it hundreds of times, maybe more, his whole face stretched and aching, bubbling over with the force of his love. Seeing it on Maggie’s face is strange and familiar all at once, the sudden revelation of an expression he’s only caught hints of in mirrors, the odd photograph.
God, is this what Patrick looks like whenever he stares at David? No wonder Stevie always makes fun of him.
“Yeah,” Maggie says, still smiling at Emily. “Yeah, we’re—yeah.”
“For, uh—” Patrick tilts his head, not sure how to ask. “I mean, you’ve known each other for a while, right?”
“Since grade nine, yeah,” Maggie says. “But we weren’t—” She takes a breath. “We didn’t start dating until university.” She laughs, wiping at her eyes and shaking her head. “Sorry, I just, uh.” Her grin is rueful, a little apologetic. “Haven’t said that to anyone in the family, yet.”
“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah, I—I get that.” He huffs out a laugh of his own, a raw, ugly sound. “Fuck, do I get that.”
“Which is, like—” Maggie spreads her hands, the gesture tight and frustrated. “It’s so stupid, right? I mean, look at you.” She shakes her head, her cropped curls flying. “I’m just being dumb; obviously it’s going to be fine.”
“It’s not, though,” Patrick says. “It’s not obvious, not before you do it.” He shrugs. “You can know that everything will be okay and still worry.” He thinks about sitting on the couch, leaning against David and letting himself shake, his voice cracking, David, I know my parents are good people, I just— “It’s very personal,” he tells Maggie, the words echoing in his throat, “and you should do it on your own terms.”
It feels weird to be on this side of the conversation, his hand on Maggie’s shoulder, her eyes bright and overwhelmed. There’s an uncomfortable roil in the pit of his stomach, a sudden wild urge to find someone else to handle this, someone more experienced, someone who figured out their sexuality before their thirties. Maybe he could pass it off to David?
...but this is Maggie. As weird as it is, as awkward and unready as he feels, Patrick can’t seriously imagine handing this conversation off to anybody else. Patrick reels Maggie in for another hug, this one even tighter than before.
“Thanks, Patrick,” Maggie says, her voice muffled in his hair. “I—thanks.”
“You know I’ve got your back,” he tells her. “Any time, seriously.” He pats her on the shoulder as they break apart. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Yeah,” Maggie says, swallowing and blinking. “How did you tell them, anyway? Your parents.”
“I, uh.” Patrick laughs, less at the memory and more at the fact that he’s able to laugh about this, now, all of the rough edges softened with time and truth and acceptance. “Would you believe that David’s dad actually told them?”
“He what?” Maggie laughs, bright and startled. “You’re shitting me.”
“No, honestly, he—” There’s a shift in the crowd, though, a steady flow of people setting aside their wine glasses and moving into the ceremony space; Patrick shakes his head. “I’ll tell you after,” he promises. “Or I’ll have David tell you; he does a better job.”
“At what?” David links his arm through Patrick’s, pressing a kiss to his cheek, easy and comfortable. “I mean, I’m sure it’s true, but I like some specificity in my compliments.”
“We’ll catch you later, yeah?” Patrick nods to Maggie and leans against David, letting his head rest on a warm, familiar shoulder.
“Everything okay?” David’s voice is low and intimate, cutting through the noise of the room. “It looked like that got a little intense.”
“I’m—yeah, a little.” Patrick takes a deep breath, letting the smell of David’s cologne soothe him. It’s the personal blend he got Eleanor MacReady to make for him, the one he says is “too elevated for everyday wear, honestly, Patrick, it’s like you haven’t learned anything about personal fragrance.”
“If you need a minute—”
“No,” Patrick says, pulling back and meeting David’s concerned gaze. “No, I’m fine.” He thinks about it, laughs. “You were right, though.”
“Obviously,” David says. “I’m always right.”
“Hmm, always,” Patrick muses. He wraps an arm around David’s waist and steers him towards their seats. “That’s a strong word.”
It’s a lovely wedding. Josh and Ashley seem a little young to be married—she finished university last year, and he’s got a semester to go—but they’re absolutely glowing with happiness, smiling unstoppably every time they look at each other, an easy giddy joy that Patrick remembers: holy crap, look at this amazing person who loves me back.
They keep the ceremony short, heavy on the love and partnership and light on the “obey”. The officiant is an older woman, some relative of Ashley’s, and she tells a beautiful story about a 5-year old Ashley asking why Cinderella had to get married when she could go be a paleontologist.
“Which I always felt was a very fair question, personally,” the minister says, and everybody laughs. “And I’m so happy,” she concludes, “that you’ve found somebody who can support you on your dinosaur journey.” Josh says something to Ashley, too quiet for anyone else to hear, and she tips her head back and laughs, clutching his hands in hers.
Ashley’s best friend reads a poem, and Josh’s sister sings “At Last”, her voice echoing in the hushed space, and then it’s time for the vows. Josh’s voice cracks around the words, “today and always,” and the audience laughs; when it’s her turn, Ashley has to pause to take a deep breath before she can repeat after the minister.
Next to Patrick, David is sniffing aggressively, his jaw set.
“Don’t,” he mutters wetly when Patrick leans against him. “Fuck, don’t look at me, ugh, weddings are the worst.” He accepts the tissue that Patrick offers, though, and wraps an arm around Patrick’s shoulders, pulling him close.
“Love you,” Patrick whispers, and David rests his head against Patrick’s and holds on tight.
And then it’s all over, rings and kisses exchanged, the happy couple escorted out of the room to an upbeat, poppy tune and a round of applause.
They sit for a while, waiting their turn to leave, and Patrick glances around the room, nodding to the people he recognizes and smiling at the ones he doesn’t.
“Look, David,” he whispers, turning his head back to speak directly into David’s ear. “I found the bride’s gay cousins.” David raises an eyebrow and Patrick tips his head towards the boys sitting a few rows back on the other side, holding hands and looking around defiantly as people filter past them. Patrick of all people knows that there’s no one way to look gay, but these two definitely stand out: one of them has pink spikes in his hair and an elaborate necklace, while the other is wearing more eyeliner than Patrick’s seen on a living person since Cabaret wrapped.
“Good job, sweetie,” David says, brushing a kiss to Patrick’s forehead. “I’m very proud.” He must make eye contact with the taller of the two boys, who jabs his partner in the side and hisses something in his ear that makes him whip around, eyes wide, to stare at David and Patrick. Patrick smiles back, lifts his hand in a little half-wave, his heart buzzing with a strange, buoyant emotion he can’t put a name to.
There’s a cocktail hour before the reception proper, the guests wandering around the venue—a beautiful old house, all fading wallpaper and delicate crown molding—with drinks in one hand and plates of appetizers in the other, trying to figure out how to eat without spilling anything.
“I’ll make us a plate,” David says, already turning towards the tables of food with a tactical gleam in his eye. “Get us some drinks?”
“Any preferences? To be clear,” Patrick adds, “I’m pretty sure your options are going to be ‘white’ or ‘red’.” He cranes his neck, trying to get a look at the bar. “There might be a pink in there, actually? But Josh and Ashley aren’t really wine people.” Patrick doesn’t even have to look over at David to know that he’s wrinkling his nose, his mouth shaping the word ‘rosé’ like it’s physically paining him to hear Patrick getting it wrong.
Patrick looks anyway, just like he always does, completely unable to resist watching David get in a snit about something.
“Ugh, you’re insufferable,” David says, scowling. “The rosé, if they have any, and otherwise the white wine, unless—” David waves his hands. “Whatever, you know what I like.” He presses a kiss to Patrick’s cheek, tender and lingering, then turns him around and pushes him firmly towards the bar. “Come on, go, the line’s going to be a mess.”
“Love you too, David,” Patrick says, and leaves before David can muster a response. “Get me some of the little spinach things!”
He winds up in line behind his parents, who hug him as though they weren’t in Schitt’s Creek just last month.
“What table are you at?”
“Uh…”
His mom rolls her eyes at him. “The nametags, silly!”
“The—oh, right!” Patrick pats at his pockets until he finds the two faux-antique keys that David had stashed there upon their arrival at the venue.
(“Well, I can’t hold them, obviously,” David had sniffed. “What if this finish is contagious?”)
“Table eleven,” he says, turning the key until he can see the number on the little paper tag.
“Lucky fellows,” his dad says, holding up their own set of keys. “We’re at table four.” He leans in, his voice low. “With Donald.”
“Clint!” His mom rolls her eyes, poking him in the ribs. “Be nice, it’s a wedding.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll be nice,” Patrick’s dad says, holding up his hands. “I won’t tell him his car is ugly, and I won’t yell at him for being a terrible father and a worse husband, and I definitely won’t call him a—what was it, dear?”
“A good-for-nothing shuckster who couldn’t make a profit selling umbrellas during a rainstorm, I think,” Patrick puts in. “Right, mom?”
“You two,” she says, but she’s laughing. “Well, I’ll behave if he does.”
“Okay, Patrick,” his dad says, his face resolute. “I’ll get the car ready; you pull the fire alarm.” He ducks away from Patrick’s mom before she can poke him in the side again, laughing. “Oh, look, honey,” he adds brightly, “wine!”
“It’s good to see you, Patrick,” his mom says, rolling her eyes and ignoring her husband. “Where’s David?”
“He’s fine.” Patrick gestures towards the buffet. “Scouting out the appetizers.”
“Such teamwork,” she says, her face fond. “You boys still good for breakfast tomorrow morning?”
“Definitely,” Patrick tells her. “We’ll text you when we’re up and packed.”
“Love you, sweetheart.” She hugs him tight, and for a second Patrick’s a kid again, five years old and completely protected in his mother’s arms. “Now go bring your husband a drink,” she says, releasing him. “He’s going to need it, to put up with this crew.”
“Speaking of which, here,” his dad says, turning back from the bar and handing a glass of wine to his mom. “They had a Riesling, but I thought you’d like this better.”
Patrick’s mom takes a sip and nods approvingly. “Well done,” she says. “You can stay.” His dad throws up his arms in exaggerated victory, mugging for an imaginary crowd; she shakes her head. “Have a nice night, honey,” she says to Patrick. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sounds good,” Patrick tells her, and then it’s his turn at the bar.
“What can I get you?” The bartender is a woman, a little younger than him maybe, with short, dark hair and an elaborate tattoo twining up her right shoulder, flowers and leaves and the suggestion of claws lurking in the shadows.
“Did I see a rosé back there?”
“It’s a white zinfandel, so, uh...” She shrugs. “I mean, it’s pink?”
Patrick laughs. “Yeah, I think we’ll pass.” He peers at the bottles. “Two glasses of the pinot gris, then.” She pours them and passes them over with a smile; Patrick drops a few dollars in the tip jar and turns to find his husband.
David has set up camp in the same corner they’d scoped out before: out of the flow of traffic but convenient to the buffet, the bar, and the bathrooms. There’s even a little ledge to hold the overflowing plate of appetizers that David has found for them.
“The rosé was a white zinfandel,” Patrick says, handing over a glass. “So I figured this was better.”
“And you were correct.” David takes a sip of the wine and nods in satisfaction. “Okay, so I got a little of everything, except for the devilled eggs, for obvious reasons.” He makes a face. “Ew.”
“You do know that I actually like devilled eggs, though, right?” Patrick bumps his shoulder against David’s. “And that I wouldn’t have made you eat any?” “Yes, but they would have been on the plate with the rest of the food,” David says. “And the spinach puffs are actually really good; they don’t deserve that treatment.” He looks over the plate. “Oh, and I only got one of the spring rolls, but it was soggy, so you didn’t miss anything.”
“Well then, thanks for sparing me from mediocre spring rolls,” Patrick says, “and for not eating all of the spinach puffs.” They eat for a while in comfortable silence, buffeted by the gentle ebb and flow of the crowd, letting the sounds of happy conversation roll over them. Patrick sees people he hasn’t seen in a few years, second and third cousins, aunts and uncles and old family friends, all of them passing by in a wash of smiles and laughter.
“Hi, sorry,” a voice says, and Patrick blinks his way back to reality. “Can I put this on your table for a moment?” It’s an older woman, early sixties maybe. Her short, curly hair is streaked liberally with gray and she’s holding up a handbag with an apologetic smile.
“Well, it’s not really a table, as such—”
“Of course,” Patrick says, resting a calming hand on David’s hip. “Go right ahead.”
“Thanks,” she says, and begins to dig through the bag. “I know I have one, but they always wind up down at the—ha!” She whips around to brandish a hair tie at the woman behind her. “Gotcha!” The second woman accepts the elastic and begins to braid her hair back, her hands swift and sure; the first woman turns back to David and Patrick. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she says, grinning at them. “That made things much easier.”
“You’re welcome,” David says, “and, uh, good job on the ceremony.” Patrick blinks, but David’s right: it’s Ashley’s aunt, now out of her church robes and dressed in slacks and a slate-blue sweater.
“Oh, thank you, dear,” she says, beaming. “I wanted to keep it short and sweet.” She tilts her head. “You two must be on the groom’s side; Marisa doesn’t have any boys and you’re much too well-dressed to be any of my nephews.”
“Patrick Brewer.” He switches his wine glass to his left hand and holds out the right to shake; her grip is hearty without being aggressive. “Josh’s cousin on, uh—his mom is my dad’s older sister, so, uh, whatever that makes us.” He tips his head, indicating David. “And this is my husband, David Rose.”
“Oh, wonderful!” She shakes David’s hand briskly. “I’m Carla Fiorini—Ashley’s mother’s sister—and this is Denise.” She gestures towards the other woman, now gripping the hair tie in her teeth as she finishes up her long silver braid. “You okay over there?”
“Hi, sorry,” Denise says, tying off the braid. “I always wear my hair down for weddings, and then I spend half the night trying to keep it out of other people’s food, and I remember why I never wear my hair down.” She gives a little half-wave. “Denise Marshall.”
“You do have lovely hair, though,” David says. “The length, the color—it’s very nice.” It is, actually: steel gray and down to her waist, straight as a pin. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re using for conditioner?”
“Oh!” Denise flushes a pleased pink. “It’s actually a little recipe I’ve been tinkering with—”
“Well, we’ve lost them,” Carla says, turning to Patrick with a wry grin. “She can talk about that stuff for hours.” She shrugs. “It all smells nice, at least.”
“Oh, I know,” Patrick says, thinking of the array of products that make up David’s ‘travel’ hair and skincare routine, currently taking up a considerable amount of real estate in their hotel bathroom. “Believe me, I know.” They smile at each other, two strangers united by their bewilderment in the face of cleanser, toner, and the rest.
“And what do—”
“So are you a—sorry,” Patrick says, but Carla waves at him to continue. “I was just going to ask, are you a—is ‘minister’ the right word?”
“It is, and I am,” Carla says, smiling easily. “At a little church back in Sherbrooke; I used to be a lawyer, but I don’t practice any more.” She tips her head towards Denise, still deep in conversation with David; Patrick thinks he hears the word emollient. “Denise taught high school science, but she retired last year.”
“Oh, neat,” Patrick says. “We, uh—we have a store, about an hour east of here, Rose Apothecary. Local products, handcrafts, stuff like that.” He grins, tipping his head over towards David and Denise. “Skincare and haircare, obviously.”
“I mean, it could be worse,” Carla points out. “Back when she was teaching, she’d come home smelling like formaldehyde and practicing her dissection skills on the chicken I bought for dinner.”
“Patrick, there you are!” Maggie says, bumping up to the group. “We got caught in the line for the fucking bathrooms, can you hold our drinks while we get some damn food?” She looks over at Carla, blinking, and flushes. “Shit, I’m sorry—fuck, and you’re a pastor—oh, god damn it—”
“It’s fine, dear,” Carla says, her eyes sparkling. “I’m United Church of Canada, we don’t mind a little strong language. And between us,” she adds, “the line for the ladies is always a fucking shitshow at these things.”
“I recommend using the men’s, personally,” Denise says, breaking away from her conversation with David to lean against Carla’s side. “Especially later in the evening, once everybody’s had a few.” She pokes Carla gently in the side. “Scoot down, dear.”
“Or—” David holds up a finger. “Counterpoint, there’s a free table over there, where we could all put our food down at the same time.” He gestures past Emily, where there is in fact an abandoned table, empty of everything but a single wine glass. “Anyone object to us moving?”
“Oh, good call,” Maggie says, and they begin the process of shuttling their plates and drinks over to their new location.
When everything is settled, Patrick is between David and Emily. She catches his eye and holds up the abandoned wine glass, looking thoughtful.
“Do you think we should do something with this?” She holds it up, swirling the liquid around gently. “They might come back for it; it’s half-full.” She tilts her head, thoughtful. “Or maybe half-empty.”
“I think if it’s wine, it’s half-full,” Patrick tells her. “Here, let’s—” He slides the glass towards the free side of the table, nearest the rest of the room. “We’ll leave it here, see if anybody comes looking.”
“Sounds good,” Emily says, and they share a little grin before relapsing into the awkward silence of near-strangers. David and Denise are deep in conversation again, flipping through photos on David’s phone; across the table, Carla is telling a story that has Maggie wide-eyed and giggling, one hand clapped over her mouth.
“So, uh, your bookshop,” Patrick says. “How did you—I mean, was it a family business, or…” He winces. “Sorry, that’s—I started out in business consulting,” he explains, “before we opened the store, so I’m kind of the numbers guy.”
“No, yeah,” Emily says, laughing, “I definitely couldn’t have gotten started on my own, not in this economy.” She shakes her head. “It belonged to my great-uncle Jack, originally, but I basically grew up there, so when I graduated, he took me on full-time.” Her smile is fiercely proud. “I’ve been managing partner since 2012.”
“And was it always, uh—” Patrick trails off, trying to find a good way to frame his question. “I mean, did you make a lot of changes, when you took over?”
“I mean.” The quirk of Emily’s smile suggests that she knows exactly the question that he’s trying to ask. “He started it in the 1950s, so it was a little less...overt.” Patrick nods, understanding. “But it’s pretty much the same store, same stuff. Just, you know.” She shrugs. “Hopefully a little more modern.”
“That’s great,” Patrick says, trying to imagine it: nearly 70 years of history, family, community, acceptance. “And your great-uncle…”
“Oh, he’s fine,” she says, laughing. “He lives up by Lake Winnipeg with his partner Al and the ugliest cat in the entire world, sends me text messages in all caps about things he reads in the paper.” She smiles. “He was actually the first person in my family to meet Maggie.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Patrick says. “I mean, in terms of safe people—”
“Oh, totally, except, ” Emily breaks off, laughing. “She came up to surprise me one weekend when I was working, and we accidentally set off the alarm, so the first time Uncle Jack met her, we were standing outside the store while the police checked for intruders.” She shakes her head. “And we couldn’t find her sweater or my shoes, so I was standing on her feet and she was wrapped in a blanket.” Patrick can’t help laughing at the mental image, and Emily nods. “Not the best impression, but Jack was great about it—just told us that we should be sure to turn off the alarm before fooling around, next time.”
“He sounds like a great guy,” Patrick says, and Emily’s face goes soft and fond.
“He really is.” She glances over at Maggie, sidelong and affectionate. “We’re going to try to get to visit him and Al in the spring, if Mags can get the time off.”
“If I can what with the what now?” Maggie turns away from her conversation with Carla, leaning against Emily’s shoulder with an easy, instinctive grace.
“Go up to visit great-uncle Jack, next spring,” Emily says, and Maggie nods, her hair bouncing wildly.
“He’s such an amazing old guy,” she says. “Just—Patrick, you remember Ms. Lee? Who lived next door to grandma at the lake house?” Patrick nods, grinning, and gestures to Maggie to continue. “She’s seen, what, three straight generations of the greater Brewer family?”
“Four, now,” Patrick puts in. “Katie and Brian took the kids up last month.”
“Four generations, holy shit,” Maggie says. “Anyway, we would turn up on her porch with absolutely every story you can imagine, and no matter what, her reaction was always the same.” She furrows her brows, adopting the unflappable calm of Ms. Lee, the gently inquisitive tilt of her head. “ ‘That sounds very interesting, dear,’” she says. “‘Why don’t you tell me more?’”
“And then she’d make you a pot of tea and you’d spill your guts,” Patrick says, laughing. “God, I don’t know how she did it.”
“I mean, I cleared out her gutters six years running and planted a literal crapload of carrots, so I feel pretty good about that trade,” Maggie says. “Anyway, Jack reminds me a lot of her—just totally unflappable, zero fucks left to give.”
“Well, old age will do that to you,” Carla says, her voice dry as dust, and they all burst into laughter.
“Excuse me, sorry, I think—” A quiet voice comes from behind David’s shoulder and he steps aside to reveal one of the two boys Patrick noticed earlier, the one with pink streaks in his hair. He’s biting his lip, peering across the table. “Yeah, I think that’s my glass over there, if you could just—thanks,” he says, as Emily scoops up the glass and hands it over. “Sorry, I don’t want to interrupt, I’ll just—”
“Stay a while, dear,” Carla says, setting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Here, we’ll make some space for you,” she adds, and they all obediently scoot down until the boy and—his boyfriend, Patrick assumes—are standing awkwardly at the table. “Now, I’m Carla, Ashley’s aunt, and this is my partner Denise,” she says. “Are you Daniel’s oldest boy? Pace? Mace?” “Jace, yeah,” he says, and bites his lip, looking around the table. “And this is Hunter, my boyfriend.” Hunter’s eyes are enormous behind his eyeliner, but he smiles gamely enough. Next to him, Jace’s shoulders gradually inch down as he realizes that nobody is going to have a problem with the two of them—not at this table, at least.
Patrick is abruptly, fiercely protective of these two boys with their ridiculous fashion choices and their hands tightly clasped under the table. It’s going to be okay, he wants to tell them, despite knowing he can’t possibly promise anything of the kind.
“I’m Patrick,” he says instead, trying to fill the words with a thousand different shades of meaning. “Josh’s cousin.” He nods across the table to David, holding a glass of wine, his rings glinting in the light. “My husband, David.”
“And I’m Maggie, and this is Emily,” Maggie concludes, “but—sorry, I just remembered—David.” David looks at her, blinking. “Patrick was telling me earlier, and I have to ask—did your dad seriously out him to his parents?”
“I—” David grimaces and takes a long sip from his wineglass. “Yes, that is—that is a thing that happened.”
“It all turned out okay,” Patrick says, ostensibly to the table as a whole but really to Jace, who looks more than a little alarmed. “I mean, it was awkward, but it all came out okay.” He looks at David, feels his smile grow helplessly soft. “David made it okay.”
“Spoilers!” Maggie leans across the table to sock him on the shoulder; next to her, Emily rolls her eyes.
“Babe, they’re married,” she says. “I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say that they survived an awkward family interaction.”
“Ugh, it’s about the story,” Maggie says, then turns back to David. “Which apparently you tell better, so,” she spreads her hands, beckoning. “Come on, spill.”
“Well.” David drains his wineglass, looks down at it in dismay, sets it on the table. “The first thing you have to understand is that I fucking hate surprise parties.”
“Oh my god, thank you,” Denise says, throwing up her hands. “I’m so glad to hear somebody else say it.”
“They suck!” David rolls his eyes. “Like, wow, let’s surround me with people when I’m not expecting it and then make me process emotions, that sounds super fun.” He picks up his glass to toast Denise, but realizes again that it’s empty and makes a face.
“Here,” Patrick says, handing David his glass, still half-full. “I’ll get us refills, you tell the story.”
“Thank you,” David says. He presses a kiss to Patrick’s cheek, then turns back to his audience. “So I hate surprise parties, because they’re objectively the worst, but then I found out that Patrick had always wanted one. So, out of the goodness of my heart—”
It’s such a David way to frame the story, Patrick thinks, working his way through the crowd. It could be a story about the sudden shock of hurt in David’s eyes when he’d realized that Patrick hadn’t told his parents the truth about them, about their relationship; it could be a story about how stupid Patrick felt, thirty years old and terrified to come out to his family. It could be sad, or awkward, or embarrassing—it was all of those things, in the moment—but that’s not how David tells it.
The way David tells it, it’s a story about love, about the things they do for the people they love, the ways love has made them brave and gentle and a little silly.
It’s a nice story, the way David tells it.
By the time Patrick makes it through the line to the bar and back, it’s time to head in for dinner; he barely has the chance to hand over a full glass of wine to David before they’re making their way over to table 11.
“Oh, hey,” Maggie says, dropping into a seat, “fancy seeing you here!” She leans across the table, her voice low. “Bets on whether this is the gay cousins table, anybody?”
“Well, Carla and Denise are over there,” Patrick says, tipping his head towards them. “And I don’t know where the kids went.” He shakes his head. “No bet.”
David raises an eyebrow. “And you really think that there are only eight of us here?” He glances around the room, leaning back in his chair, an evaluative gleam in his eye. “Hmmmm.”
“I mean.” Emily’s voice is soft, her mouth quirking in a gentle smile. “What are they saying now, 5 percent?”
“And there’s about two hundred people here, so…” Patrick shrugs. “Eight’s not that far off from ten, David. Statistically speaking—”
“Well, but, like.” Emily frowns. “Are we talking about identity or experience?”
“A very valid point,” David says, pointing at Emily in agreement. “There are plenty of people who have queer sex without necessarily calling themselves queer.”
“Hey, guys!” A hand lands on Patrick’s shoulder, bluff and hearty, and he jumps. “This looks like a fun table!”
“...hi, Mitchell,” Patrick says, turning around in his chair to face his cousin, doing his best to ignore the way David and Maggie are sputtering with laughter. “Good to see you.”
“Same,” Mitchell says, a note of doubt creeping into his voice. “Sorry, uh—did I interrupt something?”
“No, just a story from work,” Patrick says, aiming a gentle warning kick at David’s ankle. “Where’s Robin?”
“Talking to Dad.” Mitchell shrugs. “I think he wants her help with something for the wildlife refuge?”
“Oh, yeah,” Maggie nods, standing up. “He was saying he wanted to pick her brain about policy stuff.” She pulls Mitchell into a hug that quickly turns vicious, the two of them grappling and shoving at each other, half play, half competition, all tradition.
Patrick was always jealous of the two of them, growing up: four years apart, at each other’s throats half the time but still so close. He’d wanted a brother or a sister, craved that built-in companionship, that bone-deep certainty that someone was on his side. Now, though, he looks at the line of Maggie’s spine, the way Emily sits backwards in her chair and busies herself with her phone, and he wonders how certain that really felt, from the inside.
He’ll say something, Patrick decides. Not now, not until Maggie’s had the chance; he was serious, before, about it being a personal thing. But once she starts telling the family—if Mitchell gives her any trouble, he’ll say something, Patrick decides.
“Any idea who else is with us?” Mitchell tips his head towards the empty seats. “Not Tim or Sam; they’re in the wedding party.”
“Katie and Brian, I think,” Maggie says. “And the kids.”
“Aww, sweet,” Mitchell says, dropping into a chair next to Maggie. “Cousins table!”
“A cousins table,” David says with an insinuating twist to his eyebrows. “Well, that should be fun.” He doesn’t really sell it, but fortunately Mitchell is as cheerfully oblivious as always, turning back to Maggie.
“So, Mags, what do you think the Jays—”
“No,” Robin says, emerging out of the crowd to set her hands firmly on her husband’s shoulders. “We are not discussing the fucking Blue Jays at dinner.”
“Not a baseball fan?” Emily makes a commiserating face, but Mitchell shakes his head, laughing.
“No, Robin follows the Nationals,” he says. “Or, no, I’m sorry—les Expos de Montréal.” Patrick doesn’t speak French at all, and he can still tell how bad Mitchell’s accent is without even needing to watch Robin grimace.
“They were the first MLB team in Canada, okay?” Robin sighs dramatically. “And 2004 wasn’t that long ago.” She runs a hand through Mitchell’s hair, then bops him gently on the side of the head. “Plus, they’re a better team than the Jays and you know it.”
“Well, but the Jays—” Patrick starts, only to be cut off by David’s hand over his mouth.
“No.” David wraps his free arm around Patrick’s shoulder and gives the entire table a severe look. “As a guest of this family, I refuse to be subjected to baseball talk over dinner.”
“I mean, I’m pretty sure that marrying this goofus means you’re not a guest any more,” a voice says from behind Maggie, “but I’m in favor of anything that keeps us from talking about the world’s most boring sport.”
“Katie, hello,” David says, his voice a study in relief. “It’s so good to see you.” The two of them only met a handful of days before the wedding, but they get on like a house on fire, bonding over a shared love of fresh bread (Katie bakes; David enjoys eating) and obscure French poetry. Patrick figures it’s only a matter of time until Katie’s promises of homemade preserves overcome David’s innate fear of any town smaller than 2,000 people and she lures them up to her homestead.
“Likewise, David,” she says, dropping her purse on a free chair. “Now, if you want to talk hockey—” She breaks off laughing at the look of dismay on David’s face. “Or maybe not.”
“Mom! Mom!” Katie’s daughter Sophie crashes into her, bouncing up and down. “There’s a whole table of candy.” She’s wearing a gray suit with a vest and a bowtie, her hair braided up into careful loops above a crisp white collar. It’s neat and unremarkable and definitely not a dress.
Sophie looks deliriously happy, although that may be mostly the dessert table. Still, something about the scene settles hotly in Patrick’s chest, like stretching a sore muscle. It’s jealousy, a little, or maybe regret, a dull ache of longing for a confidence he never had—but it’s also tremendously tender, an urge to shelter Sophie and her blithe certainty as much as he possibly can.
Behind Sophie, Patrick sees her brother, Liam, lanky and awkward in a scaled-up version of the same suit. He’s scowling around the room, sullen behind his floppy hair, and maybe it’s just the generalized suspicion of early adolescence, but Patrick catches a hint of that same feeling, of a love almost terrifying in its strength. Patrick tries to make eye contact with Liam, to make him see that he’s not alone in this; Liam meets his eyes for a split second, but then looks away with a muttered, “Hi, Uncle Patrick.” He glances up, eyes flicking to Patrick’s side. “Hi, David.”
“Liam, hello,” David says. His voice is light, easy, gentle without seeming to be, and God, Patrick loves him so much. “Good to see you.”
“Here you all are!” Brian appears behind his family, handing a glass of wine to Katie and resting his hand gently on Sophie’s shoulder. “Is this our table?”
There’s a flurry of activity as they sort out seating; Patrick ends up tucked between David and Emily.
“It’s so nice to see you, Emily,” Katie says from across the table, pouring glasses of water for both of her children. “And so nice of you to keep Maggie company.” She glances over at Maggie, rolling her eyes sympathetically. “Family weddings can be such a pain when you’re single.”
“I—yeah,” Emily says weakly. “They really can.”
“I don’t know, Katie,” Patrick says, pressing his knee against Emily’s under the table. “I had a pretty good time at your wedding.”
“Yeah, well, you were fifteen.” Katie makes a face. “You and Maggie spent the whole night sneaking empty beers off the tables and drinking them behind the hall.”
“That’s disgusting,” David says, his voice warm and appalled. “If you do that tonight, you’re sleeping in the bathtub.”
“Am I, now,” Patrick says, raising an eyebrow. It’s more than a little rich, after all, coming from a man who Patrick has personally seen eat pizza out of a trash can. “Good thing I’m an adult who can get my own drinks.”
“Agreed.” Katie lifts her wine glass, toasting Patrick across the table, then levels a look at Liam. “Don’t go getting any ideas from your uncle Patrick, mister.”
“Mom, ew,” Liam says, in tones of disgust and outrage that only a thirteen year old can manage. “Beer’s gross.”
“So’s wine,” Sophie chirps from where she’s tucked between her parents. “It’s made from grapes, so it should taste like grape juice, but it tastes bad.”
“Just wait until you’re older, sweetie,” Katie says, smiling indulgently from behind her glass. “You’ll change your mind.”
“Or you won’t,” Emily says mildly, taking a sip of her drink. “I mean, I still don’t like wine or beer.” There’s the slightest hint of an edge to her voice, a suggestion of tension at the edges of her mouth; before Patrick can figure out what to say, David’s there.
“Really, though, I think the important thing here is that stealing other people’s drinks is both sad and revolting.” He shakes his head at Patrick in exaggerated despair. “What were you thinking?”
“I—” Patrick pauses, remembering Katie’s wedding, Mitchell’s wedding, a flurry of family events that were fine until they were abruptly too much. He’d be having a great time, laughing and joking with his cousins, and then someone would ask him about his girlfriend and suddenly Patrick would be craning his neck, frantically searching for the nearest exit, swiping a half-full beer off of a table and stumbling out the door to collapse against the wall, trying desperately to make his lungs work correctly.
Maggie would either join him or she’d be outside already, chewing on her nails and kicking off her fancy shoes, her face pale and quietly miserable. They’d split Patrick’s half of a warm, flat beer, both of them pretending to like it, and talk about baseball, hockey, music: anything that wasn’t Patrick’s on-again, off-again relationship with Rachel, Maggie’s stubborn lack of a boyfriend. Sometimes Patrick would have his guitar with him, and they’d pass it back and forth, swapping melodies and chords until the world felt a little more approachable.
“Patrick?” David’s hand is sudden and solid on Patrick’s shoulder, warm even through the fabric of his suit. “You okay?”
“I—yeah.” Patrick shakes his head, looking across the table to meet Maggie’s eyes, seeing his memories reflected in her face. “Just, I don’t know. I was kind of a dumb kid, I guess.”
“Weren’t we all?” Mitchell raises his glass. “To the idiot teenagers we were,” he says, and the rest of the table raises their glasses in a ragged toast.
Afterwards, Patrick catches David watching him, close and concerned; when their eyes meet, David raises his eyebrows in a wordless question.
“I’m fine, really,” Patrick says, squeezing David’s knee under the table. “Just remembering some stuff and, I don’t know. Feeling kind of obvious.”
“Well, hindsight,” David says, shrugging airily, but his hand lands over Patrick’s in a silent reassurance.
The rest of dinner is less fraught, conversation flowing easily: new vendors at Rose Apothecary, Mitchell’s middle school students, the herd of baby goats Katie’s fostering up at the farm. It’s boisterous and familiar, jokes and insults and old stories blending together in a tapestry of voices. David makes the occasional sly comment, always to uproarious laughter, but mostly he’s quiet at Patrick’s side, sipping his wine and pretending to savor his slightly dry chicken.
“—Sorry,” Patrick says, after he and Mitchell get stuck on a particularly long tangent about their high school English teacher. “This is probably incredibly boring for you.”
“I mean, yes,” David says, tilting his head. “But it’s fine.” He raises an eyebrow, his mouth curving into a smirk that’s just shy of lascivious. “You can owe me.”
Knowing David, that’s just as likely to mean an evening of Sandra Bullock movies as it is to mean sexual favors; still, the tone of David’s voice sends a tiny shiver down Patrick’s spine, makes his skin prickle with a sudden rush of heat. They’re in public, surrounded by people Patrick has known his entire life, but for a split second it’s just the two of them, alone together for the first time, everything brand new and exhilarating.
David does this to him, every time: makes Patrick’s life feel fresh and unfamiliar, shakes the snowglobe of Patrick’s history and brings things together in unexpected ways. Patrick tucks a hand under David’s chin and pulls him in for a kiss, chaste but lingering, full of things Patrick doesn’t have the words to say.
When they break apart, David blinks slowly, his eyes a little hazy. “Mmm, what was that for?” His tone is arch but his cheeks are pink and he’s smiling, shy and pleased and real.
“No reason,” Patrick tells him. “Can’t a guy kiss his husband?”
“Um, not at the dinner table, Patrick.” Katie tosses a napkin at them, rolling her eyes. “Aren’t you the one who made that rule, actually?”
“First of all, I’m pretty sure that was Josh,” Patrick says. “And second of all, he made that rule when he caught Mitchell and his girlfriend making out in the kitchen.” He raises an eyebrow at Mitchell, who winces. “And when I say ‘making out’, I mean—”
“Okay, well, I really don’t think we need to—”
“Shh, honey,” Robin says, planting her elbows on the table and leaning forward, her eyes bright and interested. “I want to hear this.”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The DJ’s voice crackles over the sound system and Mitchell swipes a hand over his forehead in exaggerated relief. “The bride and groom would like to invite you all to join them for a dance!”
They all troop obediently onto the dance floor, swaying together as Billie Holiday croons about time going by. David loops his hands over Patrick’s shoulders, trailing a thumb along the side of Patrick’s neck; Patrick settles his hands at David’s waist and tugs him closer.
“This is nice,” David says, his voice warm and soft in Patrick’s ear. “Are you having a good time?” “I—yeah,” Patrick says, thinking. “It’s kind of weird, but it’s good, I think.” He squeezes David’s hip. “It wasn’t like this at our wedding, though.”
“Mmm, you were distracted then.” David leans in, presses an easy kiss to Patrick’s temple. “It’s different, when you’re not the center of things.”
“Yeah.” David gives a tug and Patrick lets himself be pulled close, brushing a closed-mouthed kiss to the side of David’s neck before resting his face against David’s shoulder. “It’s good, though,” Patrick says, the words slightly muffled against the fabric of David’s suit. “It’s—it’s good to be here, with you.”
“Well.” Patrick can feel the familiar curve of David’s smirk against the side of his head. “It’s not like I had any better offers.”
They stay like that, swaying close and comfortable, as the DJ dismisses the happy newlyweds and begins working his way through the rest of the crowd.
When it’s their turn to leave— “Couples married less than three years, take your seats!”—they weave their way across the dance floor and back to their table. It’s just Maggie, now, alone with the detritus of the meal, crumpled napkins and scattered silverware.
“All alone?”
She shrugs. “The kids took off somewhere, I don’t know,” she says. “And Emily went to see about more drinks.”
“An excellent idea,” David says, grabbing his glass and then Patrick’s, holding it up with a questioning expression. “Another?”
“Sure.” Patrick watches him go, then turns to Maggie. Unbidden, unwanted, the question claws its way out of his throat. “It wasn’t all bad, right? Like—” Patrick spreads his hands, helpless. “We weren’t completely miserable, were we?”
“We weren’t,” Maggie agrees, not pretending for a second that she doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “Or, well, I wasn’t, and I don’t think you were.”
“I don’t think I was, either,” Patrick says. “But, like—” He shrugs. “Maybe I was, and I was just too busy pretending to be straight to notice?” It’s a sour cramp in his stomach, the thought of all his good childhood memories being nothing but a charade, a frantic grab at a life he thought he wanted to have.
“No,” Maggie says, thoughtful but sure. “No, I don’t think that’s it.” She frowns, biting her lip just like she always has. “We were happy, Patrick; that’s not a lie. It’s just—” She spreads her hands and sighs. “There was some stuff that sucked, too.”
“Yeah.” Patrick traps a bread crumb under his knuckle, worries it into dust against the tablecloth. “I—did you always know? That you were, uh—” He trails off, not wanting to use the wrong word.
Maggie grins, wide and rueful. “A big old homo? Yeah,” she says, “pretty much.” Her mouth twists wryly. “Fat lot of good it did me, but I knew.”
“Better than I managed,” Patrick reminds her. “God, when I think about how much time I spent, just—” Unhappy without understanding why, knowing something was wrong but unwilling or unable to look directly at what it was, wracked with guilt for everything he felt and everything he didn’t. “Like, what a fucking waste, you know?”
“No shit,” Maggie says. “But, hey,” she adds, reaching out to sock Patrick gently in the shoulder. “We made it out okay, you know?”
“Yeah,” Patrick agrees. “And like you said, it wasn’t all bad.” He shakes his head, memories flooding back. “God, remember Mitchell’s wedding? Where we snuck out to the parking lot and—”
“—played Tori Amos songs for hours? Oh yeah.” Maggie chuckles. “Honestly, and not to shame you, but, like—how did you not figure it out sooner?”
“‘Okay, but she’s a really good songwriter,’” Patrick says, trying to pitch his voice in the whiny, uncertain cadence of adolescence. “‘I just admire her musically.’”
They’re still laughing when David and Emily come back bearing drinks; David’s raised eyebrow and dry, “Having fun, are we?” just set them off even more.
“Whatever, don’t tell us,” Emily says, when neither of them can stop cackling. “Keep your Brewer family secrets.”
“We’re just laughing about Patrick being an oblivious gay teenager playing Tori Amos songs,” Maggie says, shaking her head. “No secrets there.”
Emily snorts with laughter, then shoots Patrick a glance, biting her lip. “Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh, it’s just—”
“No, go ahead,” Patrick says, leaning back into the arm David drapes across the back of his chair. “It’s funny.” And it is, somehow: like this, with his husband’s arm around his shoulders, Patrick feels the sting of embarrassment draining away, leaving—just another story.
“What’s funny?” Mitchell drops into a chair, tugging Robin onto his lap, both of them grinning.
“Uh—”
“Oh, lots of things,” Maggie says, leaning back, eyebrows raised. “Your neighbor’s mailbox, for one.” Mitchell covers his face as Robin cackles with laughter, thumping him on the shoulder.
“Come on, Mags,” he groans. “You promised.”
Maggie shrugs, unrepentant. “Yeah, and you promised to take me to see the Spice Girls movie when I was ten, and we all saw how that turned out.”
“He ditched her at the theater to go flirt with the girl selling popcorn, then forgot to come back to get her,” Patrick clarifies, catching David’s raised eyebrow.
“That was twenty years ago!” Mitchell rolls his eyes. “Am I ever going to hear the end of it?”
“I had to walk home in the rain,” Maggie says. “And everybody knew that Jenny had a crush on Tommy Campbell, anyways.”
Robin shakes her head. “Sorry, hon, I’m on her side,” she says sadly. “That’s a real jerk move. Plus,” she adds, grinning, “the mailbox story is legitimately hilarious.”
“Well, now we’ve got to hear it,” Patrick says. “Come on, Mitchell, spill.”
“Ugh, fine,” Mitch grumbles. “So this new guy moves in across the street, and he’s—”
“—a perfectly nice guy,” Robin cuts in, smirking. “Brings us brownies the day he moves in, always shovels his sidewalk, gives us tomatoes from his garden—”
“Yeah, okay, whatever—”
“It’s not whatever! Those brownies were amazing—”
“The point is, in addition to all of that, this guy liked to play—” Mitchell looks around the table, pausing for effect, “—the tuba.”
Maggie shrugs. “Tuba’s not so bad.”
“Yeah, in a brass band, fine, but on the porch? At daybreak? Every day?”
“It was not every day, you’re being ridiculous—”
“It was! Every day for a week!”
It goes on like that, Robin and Mitchell tag-teaming their way through the tale of Mitchell’s feud with an ultimately harmless next-door neighbor, bickering and teasing and smiling at each other, every beat familiar. It’s easy and intimate, an effortless dance of shared memory and fondness.
It’s the kind of conversation Patrick has with David all the time, actually. Patrick lets his hand fall onto David’s knee, squeezing gently; David presses a kiss to Patrick’s temple, scooting his chair a little closer.
“—so we bought the poor man a new mailbox, obviously,” Robin concludes, “and Mitchell isn’t allowed to drink Red Bull anymore.”
“Probably a good thing, honestly,” Katie says, leaning back in her chair, Sophie curled up in her lap. “That stuff is disgusting.”
“Mmmm, but is it as disgusting as your—” Mitchell makes a face. “Well, I know they were supposed to be cookies, but—”
“Hey, kids,” comes a familiar awful voice. “How’s it hanging?”
“Hi, Uncle Donald,” Katie says, her face going carefully bland. “How’re you doing?”
“Oh, you know,” Donald says, dropping into Sophie’s empty seat. “Work’s hell, Jane’s crazy, the usual.” He turns to Liam, drops a heavy hand on the kid’s shoulder. “What about you, little man? You’re getting old enough; you got a girlfriend yet?”
“Uh—” Liam shrinks back into his seat, awkward and embarrassed in a way that Patrick remembers with visceral, miserable clarity. “No?” “Just playing the field, eh? Good for you,” Donald says, nodding. “Gotta keep ’em on their toes.” Patrick can practically feel the incredulous disgust radiating off of David, and Maggie’s ‘ew’ isn’t exactly quiet. Across the table, Liam is bright red, hiding behind his hair and looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. Patrick feels the anger rising in the back of his throat, sick and sour; he opens his mouth to say something, anything—
“I hope we’ve raised our son to be respectful of any girls he might date,” Brian says. His voice is mild, but perfectly audible.
“Hah, well—”
“Or any boys, for that matter.” The words hit Patrick square in the chest, a sudden release of pressure that feels almost painful, blood rushing into a limb that’s fallen asleep. He sucks in a shaky breath, feels David’s hand squeeze the back of his neck in silent reassurance. Brian leans back in his seat, six foot five and built like the broad side of his own barn, and raises his eyebrows, looking over at Katie. “Wouldn’t you agree, honey?”
“Absolutely,” Katie says, her eyes flinty. “Respect is a key part of any relationship, don’t you think, Donald?”
“I—” Donald looks around the table, taking in the set faces, the narrow stares. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” he says, heaving himself to his feet. “Catch you around, kids.”
“God,” Mitchell sighs, once he’s gone. “What a fucking douche.” He looks over at Sophie, wide-eyed in the safety of her mother’s arms, and winces. “Sorry, Katie.”
“No, it’s fine,” Katie says, running a hand over Sophie’s hair. “That’s exactly what he is.”
“I mean, it’s 2019,” Mitchell says, throwing his hands in the air. “Who even talks that way anymore?”
“Roland Schitt,” Patrick mutters, grimacing. “Among others.” His hands are cold, fingers cramped from being curled into fists; he stretches them out and rubs them against his thighs.
“Ew.” David shudders theatrically. “Why did you have to remind me?”
“Wait, isn’t he the mayor?” Maggie makes a face. “Patrick, is he the guy you told me about, the one who—”
“Yes,” David says, cutting her off. “Whatever disgusting thing you were about to say, I guarantee, Roland Schitt is responsible.” He shakes his head vigorously. “New topic, please!”
“Oh, hey,” Katie says, snapping her fingers and pointing across the table. “Mags, I had a moose question for you.”
“I...okay?” Maggie raises her eyebrows. “I mean, I’m not some kind of moose-spert—”
“Moose-ologist?” Emily suggests.
“Moose-matician!” Mitchell says, chortling.
“—but I’ll do what I can,” Maggie concludes, rolling her eyes.
“Okay, so—” Katie stops, frowning, then turns to Brian. “Can we switch, hon?” There’s a reshuffling of seats that ends with Brian next to Patrick while Katie shows Maggie a series of photos on her phone.
Patrick finds himself clearing his throat, his mouth moving without conscious intent. “Hey, uh. Brian.”
“Yeah?” Brian turns to Patrick and raises an eyebrow.
Patrick’s never really understood Brian, is the thing. He’s a few years older than Katie, which makes him almost a decade older than Patrick; when they met, Patrick was in grade nine and Brian was the weird beardy guy his cousin Katie was marrying. Brian grew up on the same farm where he and Katie live now, and as far as Patrick has ever been able to tell, his interests are farming, farm supplies, farm management, and curling. He’s not a bad guy, and he clearly adores Katie and the kids, but Patrick’s never really felt like they had much in common.
“Uh, just.” Patrick shrugs. “What you said, before, with Donald; it was—” He pauses, searching for the words.
Brian hums, thoughtful. “We worry about it a lot,” he says. “About the kids being isolated, about them not having access to—” He drums his fingers on the table. “People. Things. Perspectives.” He looks across the table to where Sophie and Mitchell are engaged in some kind of elaborate hand-slapping game, Robin and Liam cheering them on. “We want to make sure they have what they need to feel supported, no matter what they—no matter what.”
“Yeah, well.” Patrick’s throat is tight, his eyes dry and aching. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing a pretty good job.”
“Glad to hear it,” Brian says. “Let me know if that ever changes.” He frowns, then turns abruptly to David. “Kate says that you’re selling cheese now,” he says. “You ever thought about branching out into fresh meat?”
“We—no, not really,” David says, mouth creasing in the way that says he’s biting back about a dozen different innuendos. “We looked into it, but there’s a couple of permitting issues, plus the storage space.” He tilts his head, eyebrows knitting inquisitively. “What’s your sales model like?”
Patrick blinks hard, trying to get his head together enough to listen—he’s the numbers guy; this kind of conversation is supposed to be his job—but David just rests a broad and between his shoulders, rubbing slow, soothing circles, gentling the tension Patrick didn’t even realize he was holding.
Patrick sits like that for a while, letting the conversation ebb and flow around him. Once his breathing is more or less back to normal, he stands up, pushing back from the table. David breaks off his conversation with Brian to send him a questioning glance, but Patrick shakes his head.
“Just going to hit the bathroom,” he says, giving David’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be back in a few.”
The bathroom is empty, quiet except for the muted buzz of music and conversation, the irregular tattoo of a dripping tap. Patrick pees, washes his hands, splashes water on his face, chances a look in the mirror. He looks—lost, somehow; unmoored.
There’s a sudden rush of sound and Patrick grabs a paper towel, angling his face away from the doorway as whoever it is comes in. He’s fine, he’s fine, he just needs—
“Oh, hey! Patrick!” Patrick turns, blinking, to see Denise. “Good, now I don’t have to give the lecture about how gender is a construct.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Unless you want to hear it? It’s a good one.”
“Uh, no, thanks.” It comes out cracked and raw, and Denise’s face creases in concern.
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah, I—” Patrick takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, blinks. “Nothing’s wrong; I’m fine.”
“Mmhmm.” Denise leans against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. “Well, one of those things is probably true, at least.” She shrugs. “Look, I’m not going to pry, but I’m here if you need it. After I pee,” she adds, ducking into a stall, leaving Patrick in the echoing quiet of the bathroom.
He walks over to the dripping tap, twists it until the water stops running. There’s a splash of soap on the edge of the sink; Patrick grabs a paper towel and wipes it up, waiting for—
The toilet flushes.
“Now then,” Denise says, striding back over to the sink. “What’s up?”
“Nothing, really,” Patrick says. “My family is—they’ve been great with me, with David.” He hesitates, then adds. “I didn’t, uh. I didn’t come out until...kind of late, but they’ve been really good about it.”
“Family’s tough, though,” Denise says, washing her hands. “Even when it’s good, it’s tough.” She shrugs. “Plus, weddings always stir stuff up.”
“Yeah.” Patrick thinks of Sophie, bright-eyed and inquisitive in the crisp lines of her suit; thinks of David, talking about the farm’s distribution model with Brian; thinks of Maggie and Emily, staying seated while everybody else gets up to dance; thinks of Jace and Hunter and their nervous, defiant affection. “Yeah, that’s—yeah.” That’s exactly how he feels: stirred up, memories and feelings and old aches bubbling to the surface, muddying the water.
“Well, I don’t have any magical cure for family shit,” Denise says, drying her hands. “Or really any particularly good advice.” She leans toward the mirror, fussing with her braid. “But it’s okay to be a little fucked up about this stuff.” Her eyes flick to meet Patrick’s in the mirror, her gaze direct and full of understanding. “Everyone’s a little fucked up about something, you know?” She smiles, small and wry. “Some of us just wear it better.”
“...Thanks,” Patrick says. “I—thanks.”
Denise shrugs. “Hope it helps,” she says. “Now, what do you think our chances will be at the bar?” She hooks her arm through Patrick’s, easy and assured, and they head back to the party together.
“Everything okay?” Everybody has moved around again, but there’s still an empty spot next to David. Patrick drops into it and leans against David, reveling in his warmth, his scent, the solid, familiar weight of his arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “You were gone for a while.”
“Yeah, I ran into Denise,” Patrick says, looking across the dance floor, scanning the other tables until he finds her. “We talked a bit.” She sees him and grins, raising her glass in a silent toast.
“Um, and got me more wine, apparently,” David says, plucking the glass out of Patrick’s hand and taking a long sip. “So sweet of you.”
Across the room, Denise is cracking up, pounding her fist on the table. Patrick rolls his eyes and takes the glass back from David.
“Um, excuse me,” David says, but the rest of his indignant tirade is cut off when the table erupts in whooping, raucous cheers as the bride and groom approach, making their way around the room.
“Thank you, thank you,” Josh says, one arm around Ashley as they step towards the table, grinning a mile wide. “We’ll be here all week.”
“We will not be here all week,” Ashley says, rolling her eyes. “He has class on Tuesday.”
“We will be here until tomorrow afternoon,” Josh agrees, not missing a beat. “Anyway, how’s Team Brewer?”
There’s a cacophony of responses, old jokes and rude comments overlapping; Josh pulls his new bride closer and beams.
“Congratulations, you two,” David says, once the noise dies down. “The ceremony was lovely. Your aunt did a wonderful job,” he adds, speaking directly to Ashley. She flushes, pleased.
“Thank you so much,” she says. “Isn’t she the best?”
“Yeah, she’s—” Patrick hesitates, trying to find the right words, then gives up his head. “She’s great.”
“And I loved the story about Cinderella,” Katie adds from across the table. She glances over to where Sophie’s migrated around the table in order to look at something on Maggie’s phone. “Reminds me of someone else I know.”
“Yeah?” Ashley grins. “Is that you, Sophie? You going to be a paleontologist someday?”
Sophie looks up from the screen, frowning bemusedly. “I mean, maybe,” she says. “But I’d rather study birds.”
“Well, but birds are basically dinosaurs, right?” Ashley drops down into a free seat, dress poofing up around her in a cascade of gauzy white fabric. “Like, they even think that the T-Rex might have had feathers, too.” She raises an eyebrow. “What do you think about that?”
“Well, I saw a video about coelurosaurs, and it said that—” Sophie’s response gets too detailed for Patrick to follow after about three words; a glance around the table shows that he’s not the only one. Josh, standing behind Ashley’s chair, just beams at them all.
“I guess you’re used to this, huh?” Mitchell raises his eyebrows.
“I know so many things about X-Ray spectroscopy,” Josh agrees. “Like, so many. It’s great.” He looks at Ashley and his smile widens. “Marriage is great, you guys.”
Patrick looks over to where David is showing Maggie something on his phone, both of them snickering; looks across the room at Denise and Carla, leaning against each other as they talk, familiar and easy; looks at Jace and Hunter, dancing together, raw-edged and awkward and fierce and perfect.
“It is,” Patrick says, raising his glass in Josh’s direction. “It really is.”