Chapter Text
Rose Apothecary, Wednesday morning
The hammered copper bowl reflected the mid-morning sun in glittery mirror-ball bursts from the back shelf at Rose Apothecary. Squinting, David cupped his hand around the top of his phone screen as he settled onto a stool behind the counter.
"Oh my god. Why did Luke McFarlane post a photo of himself eating spaghetti? He looks like he's in one of those gluttony contests. He should go into hiding. Permanently."
Patrick busied himself snapping a replacement cylinder of receipt paper to keep his smirk from announcing the first tease of the day. "That reminds me — did Alexis take down that picture of your intimate moment with the mozzarella sticks at the café?"
Over almost a year of pining after his gorgeous, unattainable business partner, Patrick's teasing had progressed from fond to downright flirty. This morning David had arrived too early for Patrick's favorite tactic: merchandise relocation. There was nothing more satisfying than David's huffs and flails as he spotted micellar water next to the strawberries or hand towels atop the candles. Nettling David was addictive, as vital to Patrick's morning routine as his English breakfast tea, his check of the American League East standings. As vital as his frisson of excitement as David burst through the door juggling a coffee cup, bag of pastries, and mysterious black bag, grumbling that he would have gotten to work early if Alexis hadn't stolen his eucalyptus serum and Twyla hadn't mixed up the hazelnut and caramel syrups.
"Alexis is a menace," David responded automatically, his eyes still locked on his screen. "Wait, what picture?" Patrick was rewarded with upshot eyebrows and slightly parted lips. Not as satisfying as a full body undulation, but it would have to do.
Before Patrick could respond, a jangle of the doorbell signaled the arrival of a customer. David laid down his phone and rose to greet a well-dressed woman gripping what looked like a designer bag — insignia, tassel, bright gold clasp. It was always best to let David handle that type.
"Good morning. Can I help you find anything?" David asked in his most convincingly cordial customer service voice.
Fifteen minutes later, David rang up an oversized bag of toners, moisturizers, and (upsold) eye creams. "This supplier uses hibiscus fibers in her moisturizer, so you won't need a separate product to exfoliate," he said as he handed her the receipt.
"Thank you!" Patrick called to the customer from across the room while replacing the products David had sold. "We hope to see you again soon!"
Patrick's pro forma send-off was superfluous. The woman, like all their customers, would come back because David had made her think that she was getting inside information, being let in on a trade secret.
David's charms were good for business, but not for Patrick's ability to focus on his work. How was he supposed to line up the labels and update the inventory when all he could think about was the way David said "moisturizer," the little flair of his wrist when he ripped off the receipt — Stop! Pay attention to what you're doing. Patrick vowed yet again to move past his infatuation with an out-of-his league, disinterested co-worker. But how?
As David resumed his lounging and scrolling, Patrick put the final bottle into place and returned to his spot beside the register. "Good job moving so many lotions and potions. That sale alone should cover the cost of the velvet painting you wanted. You decided on the dogs playing poker, right?"
"Uh huh," David said without looking up.
Patrick shook his head in disappointment at yet again being denied the satisfaction of seeing his zinger land. Damn that phone. Was this the new normal? David's eyes locked on a screen, no pout, no roll of his eyes or twist of his lips?
"You know, smartphones are actually intended to rewire our brains. They addict us to that instant hit of dopamine." Patrick scanned the room for inspiration. Eying the jar of twig pencils on the counter (would they ever sell another one?), he said, "I think we should lay these out so customers can play tic-tac-toe while we're ringing them up."
"Mkay." David grimaced at the screen.
Patrick withdrew four sticks from the jar and laid them in a crisscross pattern on the counter. "We can use these black and white ones as markers." He tipped over the display of lip balms, sending them skittering across the counter.
David jerked to attention as Patrick began gathering the vanilla mint and black licorice lip balms. "What are you doing? I spent ten minutes getting all those labels to face outward." His gaze shifted to the arrangement of pencils. "And what is that? Some kind of rune?"
"Yes, David. It's definitely a rune. It's the sacred symbol for when your phone hijacks your brain. Phones are like heroin that way," Patrick said.
"Heroin? It's more likely to be meth around here." David batted Patrick's hands away and replaced the pencils and lip balms in their containers. "I'll re-arrange those later." He placed his phone face down and moved behind Patrick, the drag of his fingers along Patrick's waist sending a delicious shiver. At least once a day (twice yesterday, not that Patrick actually counted), David's hands grazed over Patrick's arm or back like this as he moved past. Don't make something out of nothing, Brewer. It was just one of David's habits, like fidgeting with his rings or pulling at his sweater.
Reaching for a cloth from underneath the counter, David said, "That was a one-off eBay crisis. I'm in a bidding war with my arch enemy 82e-i-e-i-o over a D and G 2015 cervelt sweater I've wanted for two years. But it's not a big deal. I can check on it after work. Or in the morning." As he wiped the dust-free countertop, his phone buzzed.
"I wonder if e-i-e-i-o just outbid you," Patrick said. "Or did the Camila Cabello music video finally drop? You said there's been a lot of buzz about that. But, sure, you can check after work. Or in the morning."
A few seconds later David threw down the cloth, sliding his phone off the counter and out of sight. "I have to visit the facilities. Back in a minute." He walked around the counter and past the row of bagged teas, his left arm curiously stiff by his side.
"Impressive. Off-screen for 12.6 seconds. A new David Rose record." Patrick continued, a note of triumph in his voice, "See? You're a total slave to your notifications."
David whirled to face him. "You're one to talk. How many times a day do you check ball numbers or watch a video about toilet wiring?"
"Toilets aren't wired; they're plumbed. And ball numbers? You mean like measurements or — ?" Patrick quirked his head in faux bewilderment, struggling to keep himself in check. He couldn't allow his face free rein when he was with David or he would look like a goofy, mooning teenager.
"Oh my god. Sportsball tallies. You check your phone every 15 seconds during a major sporting situation. It's like you're on heroin."
"Oh, that's not a big thing. I can just check SportsCenter when I get home."
"Uh huh. Didn't you say there was a 'really big game' between ducks and stockings this afternoon?" Urgent restroom visit forgotten, David returned to the counter, wafting a delicious spicy sweet scent as he stood next to Patrick. How did David always smell so good? Did he reapply fragrance throughout the day? Or did he have some genetic gift that made him smell as fresh at 6 p.m. as he did the first thing in the morning?
"Or is it crows and shoes?" David said. "Something about deciding the finalists for the big award?"
"Big award?" Patrick repeated. "Crows and — oh, yeah, the Jays and the White Sox in the playoffs." As Patrick mentally catalogued "crows and shoes" for future use, his phone pinged. At a corresponding buzz from David's phone, Patrick raised his eyebrows in a silent challenge. David met his eyes, the hint of a game on smile on his lips.
Patrick held his gaze for as long as he dared before glancing back at his phone. "Uh, I'll just clear this notification." Tacitly admitting defeat, he clicked through to the updated score before turning his phone face down. "Damn. We're down five to three in the fifth."
David snatched his phone from the counter with a huff. After a couple of taps, he said, "Thanks a lot. I'm now like the 40 millionth person to know the name of Oprah's new puppy. And as we've just seen, you're no better than me in resisting the siren call of your phone."
"I never said I'm better than you." Patrick paused a beat. "In any way."
"Of course you didn't say it. So that's one way you actually are better than me. But you're wrong about my so-called addiction. I've stayed off my phone for hours and hours. Days and days, even. Once Alexis tried the wrong passcode too many times and I was locked out for 12 hours. And last year when my eyes got sunburned, I didn't look at my phone for like a week."
"I don't mean when you didn't have a choice. How long have you been voluntarily off the internet?" Patrick said. "According to Alexis, you were checking MySpace as they wheeled you out of your tonsillectomy."
"Disinterested bystanders would dispute that account." David laid down his phone and put his hands on his hips in a cocky, provocative stance.
Patrick wrested his eyes from David. It would be rude and unprofessional to stare at his business partner's jeans, the magnificently tight, shiny ones made out of — satin? No, the material was thicker than that. Was there some kind of coating or — He reached for a pencil from the rattan holder and began drawing a series of hash marks on the notepad near the register. What had they been talking about? Oh, yeah, David's phone obsession. "I bet you couldn't stay off your phone for a full 24 hours," Patrick said. "But I understand if you can't summon the willpower," Patrick said. "I won't think any less of you."
David gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Twenty-four hours? Piece of cake. But you have to do it too, Mister Deluded-Into-Thinking-He's-Self-Disciplined."
Patrick chuckled. "That's quite a nickname."
"When?" David insisted. "Not today, obviously. Selena Gomez is doing a live from her yoga pavilion in 10 minutes."
"Ah. That's why we have so few customers this morning."
"I know. We should have just taken the morning off. How about this weekend? And how?"
"Lock them in the safe?" Patrick asked. "Give each other our phones?"
"We both have keys to the safe. And no matter where I hide it, Alexis will find your phone and install spyware or order herself 17 floppy hats from your Amazon account."
"Hmmm." Patrick said. "What if we spent the day together? That way we could monitor each other." He continued, his heart racing, his tone nonchalant, "Or maybe a weekend." How did that half-formed, audacious idea somehow escape from Patrick's fantasy out into their conversation? But a bros weekend wasn't so crazy, was it? Friends did that, and he and David had been friends for close to a year, right?
"Ray has been trying to rent out this cabin that's in the middle of nowhere. He offered me free rentals to manage the basic upkeep." Patrick focused intently on the paper, his pencil making staccato scritches. "It's really nice. Two bedrooms, a fireplace. It even has an espresso machine. And the price is right."
As a bonus, spending swaths of time with David might cure Patrick of his fixation. Familiarity breeds contempt, his mother used to say on rainy days as she shooed his cousins out after hours of fort building and pretend warfare. David might leave hair in the sink, use all the hot water, stack dishes on the counter instead of loading them in the dishwasher.
"Stop torturing that poor pencil." David waved a hand in the direction of Patrick's doodling. "A cabin in the woods? With no way to call for help if we're mauled by a bear?"
Drawing in a fortifying breath, Patrick set down the pencil and turned toward David, his shoulders straight, his spine rigid. A power pose might not increase confidence, but perhaps it could obscure a lack of confidence. "The cabin has a landline." He continued, his voice ratcheting up with each word, "We could leave after we close on Saturday and return on Monday."
It was increasingly hard to ignore the tightness that had gripped Patrick's chest the second he had proposed spending a weekend together. He slowed his breathing and relaxed his grip, but the tension had to go somewhere. He began abstractedly tossing the pencil back and forth between his hands.
"Oh my god. What's going on with you?" David grabbed the pencil, replacing it with a kneaded artist's eraser from a bowl on the counter. "A weekend with my own room," he said wistfully. "It's tempting. Is there a TV?"
"Nope." Patrick massaged the eraser between his thumb and fingers. Turning back to the notepad, he began lazily erasing the hashmarks he had drawn earlier.
"What would we do, then? Chop wood, skin rabbits?" David asked.
"Read, walk, play cards. Talk." Patrick's erasing took on a jittery, insistent quality. What had he been thinking? Why would David voluntarily spend a deviceless weekend alone in a cabin with him?
"Sounds medieval," David said. "What are the stakes here? What do we get?"
"A sense of self-satisfaction. Knowing we're in control of our own behavior."
"Be serious." David held out his hand for the eraser.
Great. Now David was annoyed and it was all Patrick's fault. Chill, Brewer.
"Sorry," Patrick said. "Just a bit antsy today." He stepped back from the counter and glanced toward the front window, crossing his fingers that Roland would skip his daily visit to buy tea or foot lotion or a box of berries. The last thing this situation needed was Roland's crude needling of "Dave."
No Roland. Yet.
"So, what do I get when I win this bet?" David asked. "Because there is zero chance you can keep yourself from sneaking out to check on the Owls versus the Pigs or whatever."
Patrick drummed his fingers on the countertop as he considered possible incentives. What would have the highest potential return on investment for David?
Bingo. "I'll use my own money to buy the espresso machine from the cabin. I don't think it's ever been used. Assuming you like it."
"Oh, I'll like it. What do you get?"
The question took Patrick by surprise. A weekend with David was the reward. "Hmm. What do I get?" he repeated. To spend more time with you. "You have to watch the World Series with me from start to finish. I mean actually watch it — no phones allowed."
David's magnificent eyebrows knit in confusion. "So, if I win, I get an espresso machine. If you win, you just watch sporting events you were already going to watch?"
I get to watch with you. "I've always wanted to be a play-by-play announcer. But hey, learning about a 4-6-3 and a ground rule double may be too mentally challenging for you. You could also open the store every day for a couple of weeks."
"A couple of weeks? Hard pass. Maybe a few days. Spread out over a year. Or two. But about this international balling situation. How many is a series?"
"Best of seven."
"Seven? Oh my god, that's like 40 hours. Will there be snacks at these athletic ordeals — I mean performances — I won't have to attend?"
"It's not much of a game without hot dogs and popcorn. Pizza and burgers to mix it up. And a box or two of that s'mores candy you like."
David's eyes lifted at the word s'mores. "Fine. But it's a moot point since I'm going to win."
Patrick stifled a whoop. "Okay, let me check the reservation calendar."
After a few taps on his phone, he said, "It's available, from now until eternity, apparently." He scrolled down the webpage. "Listen to this: 'Wanderlust Lodge is a luxury paradise retreat with authentic accommodations' — so real beds, not just holograms — 'and surprises of delight around every corner. The lofty yet cocoonesque bedrooms are private and serene, whimsical yet thoughtful, poised with impressive forest views. Tumble'" — Patrick's lips twitched in amusement — "'into the contemplative, consoliative' — is that a real word? — 'main living space from the elegant kitchen, which'" — he skimmed the text — "blah blah blah."
Reaching for Patrick's phone, David said, "You made that up." He scanned the listing. "Oh my god. 'Traverse outside to the back patio to find reflective living space near the babbling water feature, playfully dancing down the stones near the perdurable fire pit. Meander merrily down the enchanting footpath to an Edenesque idyll of indigenous birds and plants' — squirrels and spruce trees. How exotic." He shook his head. "I wonder if Ray is bitteresque that he didn't pursue a career in creative writing," he said as he swiped through the photos. "But it does look nice, despite the Misery overtones."
"Is Misery the one about the psychopathic fan? I promise not to bring my sledgehammer."
"Very funny. So we can't even look at our phones the entire time?" David asked.
"We should lock them in the car. It's a lot easier to exert self-control when you don't have to exert self-control."
"What if we want to climb a mountain? Or take a boat on the lake? We won't have weather radar. Do we just cross our fingers and hope we don't get struck by lightning or drown in a hurricane?" David pumped his arms in emphasis. "A stick could slice through your foot and I couldn't call for you to be airlifted out. You could lose your leg. You could die!"
"I'm enjoying the drama here, but how would a stick slice through my shoe? And why am I the one getting hurt?" Relieved that David had slid so easily from negotiating to catastrophizing, Patrick clicked open a weather app. "Cool and sunny Saturday, scattered showers Sunday and Monday. If it makes you feel better, I'll bring my weather radio." He laid down his phone and looked up at David. "It's all theoretical. Your wanting to hike up a mountain is about as likely as an inland hurricane."
"I resent that. Just yesterday I hiked all the way to Stevie's apartment."
"You walked — I'd say 'sauntered' — from my car, 200 meters from her door."
David waved away the remark as he settled back onto the stool. "My endurance is legendary. I can walk, I mean hike, miles and miles. I just don't want to. And there are other dangers we need to research. I bet there's something on YouTube about how to escape serial killers who break into your cabin in the woods."
"Killers? Plural?" Amused as always by David's extravagance, Patrick said, "It's going to be a busy weekend: drowning, electrocution, amputation, murder." He put a hand on David's shoulder to soften the tease. It was a simple enough gesture, something Patrick had done many times before, so why did his stomach swoop at the contact?
David's lips stretched into a hint of a smile as he cocked his head in the direction of Patrick's hand. "Now you're just making fun of me."
"I would never." Patrick gave David's shoulder a squeeze before removing his hand. As if in response, David spun toward Patrick, his knees grazing Patrick's leg. Was it Patrick's imagination that these moments of casual contact felt decidedly less casual today?
"Murder victims don't drink espresso. But yeah, I wouldn't mind a weekend away from my family," David said.
"I think you'll be glad I dragged you into this. As the saying goes, change is hard until it's easy."
"I'm adding 'no annoying aphorisms' to the contract for this weekend. Otherwise I'll injure my eyes by rolling them so much."
"Ah, so you're a contract lawyer now."
David stood to pull a notepad from underneath the counter. Standing so close that his arm brushed against Patrick's, he took a twig pencil from its holder and wrote Solemn and Binding Contract at the top of the page. Underneath, he listed No phones or screens, Aphorisms strictly prohibited, and DR to control thermostat. "If I leave climate control up to you, I'll have frostbite. You have some kind of internal furnace." After a moment's reflection, he added, except in emergencies, as defined by DR to the first item. "What else?"
Patrick angled the pad toward him. "No rules about meals and snacks? No prohibition against outdoor activities?"
"Mother Oprah says to trust the process." David shoved the pencil back into its holder with a grimace. "These are very annoying — we should just get rid of them. I bet we can sell them all to Ray for 75 percent off. You know how he loves a bargain. But we should mark them up first."
"That's illegal, you know."
"Who's going to arrest us?"
"Probably no one. But the guilt will weigh on your conscience."
"You mean your conscience. Because mine is well defended against anything to do with twig pencils."
Patrick gave the list a final glance. "I'll try with the aphorisms. But you know what they say: It's easier to prevent bad habits than to break them."
"Another annoying aphorism. It's like you're addicted to them," David said. "But I guess you can't help yourself. You're like the scorpion who stung the frog."
"Fables are in, quotations are out? If so, the one about the city mouse and the country mouse comes to mind."
"Sending you to the cabin alone comes to mind."
"See?" Patrick allowed a giddy smile to spread across his face. His anticipation of the weekend to come cast a glittery sheen on the morning. "We could spend an entire weekend just chatting like this." His phone buzzed. "We're in." He swiped off the notification and tapped the screen. "Yes! A grand slam! Up 7 to 5 in the sixth."
David patted his phone, his expression wistful. "I'm going to miss you, my sweet. But I suppose our separation is for the best. To misquote a wise person, you have to have bad experiences to appreciate the good ones."
"You can quote, but I can't?" Patrick asked. "What wise person? Socrates?"
"Beyoncé."