Small City Heart

by Erin McLellan

  “Hi, Veronica,” Charlie said, as he nodded and smiled at the rest of the group. Before hearing anyone’s response, he turned to Patrick. “I like your hair like that.”

  Patrick flushed and held back his delighted smile. He’d pulled his hair into a messy bun on the top of his head—it was too humid to have hair on the back of his neck—but little tendrils had snuck out around his face already.

  “Thank you.”

  “You have mustard right . . . well let me just . . .” Charlie reached up and rubbed at a spot on Patrick’s chin. The small touch sent a wave of dizziness through him.

  What the hell? Maybe he was dehydrated.

  Della laughed loudly, and Patrick swung his face toward her. She shook her head. “Oh, you poor thing. They’ve gotten to you already. I warned you.”

  Several people in the group tittered at that, and Patrick suddenly resented the meddling and opinions and audience.

  “Warned him about what?” Charlie asked, good-humored as always.

  “Traps. They’re everywhere,” Della said lightly. She moved her attention to Mom and brought up the Small City Quilt Shop, of all things.

  The blonde woman was watching them with narrowed eyes, and when Charlie steadied himself with a palm on Patrick’s knee, she stood abruptly and walked off.

  “She hates me,” Charlie whispered, with a nod in her direction.

  “She hates everyone,” Mom said with an eye roll.

  “Who is that? She never introduced herself, and I don’t recognize her.”

  “Jennifer Turner. She’s the County Clerk and has lived in Small City for ten years or so. Her husband runs the Tag Agency. He graduated about a decade after me,” Mom said.

  That explained why Patrick didn’t recognize her. And of course she was an elected official. Great.

  Patrick ate his last bite of hotdog with a vengeance, which only made Charlie grin.

  “Want some beer to wash that down?” Charlie asked. “Or maybe ice cream?”

  Patrick was about to say beer, but then his mom said, “It’s homemade ice cream.”

  So he blurted, “Ice cream,” and blushed at his own eagerness.

  Charlie helped him out of his lawn chair, and Patrick offered to get Mom some dessert. She brushed him off with a smile, and he could see the heart-shaped wheels turning in her eyes. She had matchmaking on the brain.

  He wasn’t sure he was immune to it.

  As they marched across the park, Patrick’s skin prickled from Charlie’s close proximity. Memories of their night together were taking up too much of his brainpower and making him useless. They reached the homemade ice cream mecca without Patrick climbing Charlie like a tree, so that was a win.

  “They’re having an ice cream competition,” Charlie said. “And the firehouse entered.”

  “Really?” Patrick grinned, imagining a group of firefighters grocery shopping for ingredients.

  “Really. Though, it’s mostly Ajay. He doesn’t like to let anyone else in the kitchen unless he has to, so we’re all his minions. Needless to say, you have to try his ice cream, and you have to pretend it’s the best one.”

  “Deal.”

  There was a small group of people queued up, but Patrick quickly found himself at the front of the line. He got a scoop of vanilla from Ajay, who gave Charlie a suspicious wink, and a scoop of horchata ice cream from a gaggle of teenage girls.

  The ice cream was so smooth and milky, a perfect treat for a hot day. The vanilla and horchata mingled well together, tingling his taste buds with sweetness and spice. The mixture was almost as good as his mom’s cobbler, but not quite. Charlie watched him eat it as they wandered across the park together.

  “You make ice cream look sexy,” Charlie finally whispered once they were far enough away from listening ears.

  Patrick licked his spoon and grinned. Charlie moaned.

  It was wonderful.

  All that discomfort from earlier—the prickly feeling from being the focus of Della and Timmy’s teasing, the gut punch of Jennifer Turner’s disdain—all of it floated away.

  “Will you come home with me tonight?” Charlie asked. He’d finished his ice cream already—only one scoop for him because evidently the cobbler had been his big dessert cheat of the week.

  “Hmm. Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” Charlie brushed a stray curl off Patrick’s cheek, and Patrick’s blood thrummed.

  “I want to, but it’ll depend on my mom. Don’t want to ditch her.”

  Charlie’s smile softened, and Patrick wanted to pounce on him. “I adore your mom.”

  “She adores you. My walk of shame this morning was a bit awkward, though. Didn’t take much detective work to figure out where I’d been considering the huge hickey you left me.”

  “Oops.” Charlie lightly touched the mark on Patrick’s throat, which had been expertly covered up with makeup. “You only left teeth marks on me.”

  Patrick grinned. “You liked it.”

  “Yep. So, you’re mom. I hope she doesn’t—” Charlie shook his head.

  “What?”

  “Get expectations, I guess. For us.”

  “Yeah, that would be horrible,” Patrick said drily, but Charlie didn’t seem to catch his sarcasm.

  “I don’t want her to think I’ve led you on, or that I used you.”

  “She won’t think those things if they’re not true,” Patrick said, his voice unexpectedly hard and harsh.

  Charlie glanced over, his eyes wide. He opened his mouth, but then a man across the soccer field shouted, “North! Come here, we got a proposition for you.”

  Charlie’s face froze, his expression locking down, so Patrick gestured toward the group of older men. “Lead the way, gorgeous.”

  Something that seemed a bit like wariness flashed through Charlie’s eyes, and Patrick almost stopped him, almost put his hand on Charlie’s arm or grabbed his hand. But before Patrick could act, Charlie was striding forward.

  Patrick caught up with him as they drew near the group of men—a bunch of bland, middle-aged, white guys. Charlie’s body language had Patrick on edge.

  Charlie introduced Patrick around to the men, and it became clear that they were all part of a recreation league slowpitch softball team together, which was almost adorable, until they started talking.

  “So, when are you going to ditch that team of yours and play in the real league?” a man named Kevin asked Charlie.

  Kevin had a comb over. It was distracting.

  “It’s rec. league. There is no ‘real.’ And trust me, the co-ed teams are good.” Charlie turned to Patrick. “The firehouse’s team switched to the co-ed league this year, because, you know, we had women firefighters who wanted to play.”

  “We should scrimmage,” Kevin said. “See which team is better. See how much those ladies are holding you back.”

  “Taylor played softball at Kansas State. She runs circles around our team. We hold her back, and the rest of the women aren’t exactly lightweights.”

  This all seemed like a lot of posturing over rec. league softball. Patrick would have found it almost endearing if it weren’t for the sexism.

  “You’re Greg’s son,” Kevin said, changing the subject abruptly, like he’d only now put the connections together.

  “Yep.” Patrick finished his ice cream and tossed his bowl and spoon into a nearby trashcan.

  “Where do you live again?” Kevin asked. His brow was furrowed and his good humor, however uncomfortable it had been, seemed to have disappeared.

  “Chicago.”

  “Oh. Guns.”

  Patrick had a feeling where this was going, and he wanted no part of it. “I’m sorry?”

  “Gangs and guns. That’s Chicago, right? Probably still better than here for your type, though.” Kevin said that with no real animosity in his voice, just totally matter-of-fact.

  What the fuck?

  Patrick had no idea which part of that statement to touch first. He opened his mouth, ready to
snarl about gun control and state lines and what the hell do you mean by my type, but then Charlie said, “Patrick’s a photographer,” as if that explained everything.

  Patrick stared hard at Charlie, because they were the same type, and he couldn’t believe Charlie had changed the subject like that.

  “I know,” Kevin said. “That’s what I meant. I imagine there’s more artsy-fartsy stuff to do in a big liberal city than in a place like Small City.”

  Static thundered in Patrick’s ears. He had no idea if Kevin had really meant artistic as Patrick’s type, or if it’d been an indirect dig at his sexuality. The whole conversation was tying him in knots.

  Was this the shit Charlie dealt with on the daily? Sexism, misogyny, posturing, and double-talk? Veiled homophobia?

  “Small City has a renowned art gallery right down the road. There are artsy-fartsy liberals here too. I bet I could make do.”

  “But you’re known for your portraits of urbanites. What would you take pictures of here? Wouldn’t you get tired of the Flint Hills landscapes and stuff?” This came from Charlie, and it was like a slap. Charlie even shrugged, his body language screaming golly gosh how ridiculous to imagine Pattie Pearl back in Small City.

  Blood thumped through Patrick and his stomach twisted, like someone had taken a blender to his insides. He was frozen. And hurt.

  Another man, one who’d been silent the whole time stepped out of the group to hand Patrick a beer. He accepted it, slightly startled, and the man, who was a hell of a silver fox, gave Patrick a slow up-and-down that no one but him and Charlie could see.

  Charlie scowled at the man and practically growled. The guy smiled and went back to his position of placidly watching Kevin be insulting.

  The whole exchange pissed Patrick off. Whether it was being hit on or Charlie’s jealousy or Kevin’s stupidity—Patrick didn’t want to be there anymore.

  “Thank you for this,” he said, holding up the beer. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find my mom.”

  Then he turned and walked away.

  Chapter 7

  “You’re fucking that up, kid,” Herman said, cuffing Charlie’s shoulder.

  No one else seemed to get what Herman was referencing. Probably because none of them knew the silver fox was bisexual so they didn’t expect him to have insight into Charlie’s love life, but Charlie understood. Patrick was walking away, and it was because of him.

  “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

  Herman shrugged. “With a pretty boy like that? Who knows? Could be anything.”

  Charlie groaned. “You’re an asshole.”

  “Yep.” Herman gripped the back of Charlie’s neck and walked him a few steps away from the group of men. “He’s getting away.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

  “Your big kitten eyes tell me something different.”

  “He’s going back to Chicago in two days. My kitten eyes are too big for my kitten stomach. They want more than he can give.”

  That was so typical of Charlie—wanting attention and affection from someone who wasn’t able to give it.

  Herman laughed. “If you’re telling me you want more than a screw, then I’d say you’re correct. He left Small City for a reason. I doubt your firefighter muscles are gonna reel him back in.”

  “Jerk.”

  “Slut.”

  Charlie smiled and shook his head. Herman had worked with Charlie’s ex, and he’d missed the guy’s irreverence.

  “I better go,” Charlie said.

  Herman nodded, his brows thundering down suddenly. “Listen, kid. There’s nothing wrong with living in Small City. I know some guys run off to big places and their lives seem huge and exciting. But life is what you make it. There’s nothing shameful in building your life in a place like this.”

  “I know.” Charlie loved Small City. It was his home, but he understood why it didn’t work for everyone. “Thank you.”

  Charlie wasn’t able to catch back up with Patrick until the night was almost over. Some fellow firefighters who were trying to sweet talk the ice cream judging committee waylaid him. And then he couldn’t pin Patrick down as he circulated with Veronica, flitting from group to group.

  Normally, Charlie wouldn’t have been concerned about inserting himself into those conversations. He wasn’t shy and could mingle with the best of them, but the one time he got close, Patrick shot him a frown and he chickened out.

  It wasn’t until the sun had gone down and Patrick was heading to the parking lot with his mom that Charlie decided he’d had enough waiting around.

  “Patrick!” he shouted across the gravel lot. Patrick turned slowly and glared at him as he got closer. “You’re leaving already?” The cookout was still hopping.

  “It’s me. I’ve had about enough reminiscing for the day,” Veronica said, with a strained smile. The tension around her eyes was clear as day, and he was so thankful that Patrick was here for her this weekend.

  “I understand,” Charlie said.

  Veronica’s smile tipped up a little as she glanced between him and Patrick. “Why don’t you stay for a while longer, Patrick? You can catch up with Charlie. He can give you a ride home.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Charlie said, jumping in.

  Patrick swiveled toward Veronica and gaped at her as if she’d betrayed him. She simply smiled serenely back. He seemed to weigh his options for several seconds before his shoulders dropped and a barely-there smile tipped his lips.

  “Okay,” he said to Charlie. “But no funny business.”

  Veronica cackled. “I don’t want to know about your funny business, kiddo.” She kissed Patrick on the cheek. “See you at home. Text me if you’re going to be late. Or, you know, not present at all.”

  Patrick huffed a little, but he was smiling as she pulled out of her parking spot and drove away. Charlie led him over to his pickup and dropped the tailgate so they could sit.

  “Was it a rough night for her?” Charlie asked.

  “It wasn’t easy. I think it’s more the absence of my dad than anything. There were obvious holes in conversations and lots of silences. No one knew how to act about it, and it’s uncomfortable.”

  “That sucks. Are you okay? It can’t be easy for you either.”

  “I’m fine. This whole night was . . .” Patrick blew out a rough breath, his cheeks puffing out.

  “That bad, huh?”

  Patrick shrugged, and Charlie’s stomach dropped.

  “I know I made you mad, and I’m not sure how, but I’m sorry. I hate those douchebags. I wish they hadn’t called us over.”

  Patrick picked at his thumbnail and sighed again. “It made me think that maybe this place couldn’t ever be my home again. Stupid fucking town.”

  A sick feeling settled in Charlie’s stomach. He loved Small City, but he’d never imagined in a million years that Patrick would want to be here.

  “Was that an option?”

  Patrick shot him a wry smile. “Don’t worry. Your reunion hookup isn’t going to turn stalker on you. You’ve made your opinion on us and my place here pretty freaking clear.”

  “I have?” That was news to Charlie.

  His opinion on Patrick was that he wanted to spend as much time with him as possible before he moved back to his exciting, big city life. And Charlie didn’t want to turn into a Needy Nancy in the process, at least outwardly. Inwardly, Charlie was very much longing for love and support and affection from Patrick. To an embarrassing degree.

  “I knew better, you know?” Patrick shook his head and laughed, but it was an ugly laugh. Not at all like the one Charlie had fallen for all those years ago. “I always do this. I let my heart get involved and move way too fast. And then end up unwelcome and alone. You’d think after screwing my boss and fucking over my career in one fell swoop that I would have learned. I need to start making decisions with my freaking head.”

  Hurt shot through Charlie. “Now wait a second. I’m just trying to c
atch up here. I didn’t realize—”

  “Everything today has made me feel shitty,” Patrick said, talking over him. He was on a full-fledged vent now. “Everyone keeps talking about how I don’t fit in here, how I can’t possibly want to stay. How ‘my type,’ whatever the hell that means, would be better off in Chicago. How my art can’t survive here, how there’s nothing worth my time. I thought you were worth my time, Charlie North. And I’d love to be closer to my mom. And some of my best work is Flint Hills photography, for fuck’s sake. There is so much potential here, but it’s not open to me because why? Because I look like a femme-y weirdo. Because I paint my fingernails. Because—”

  “You left,” Charlie said on a gasp, pushing to simply get a word in edgewise.

  Patrick snapped his mouth shut and reeled back like he’d been pushed.

  “You left. That’s why people think you don’t want to be here. Do you know how many people leave Small City and become big-time artists in far away cities? You’re exceptional. People know about you, about your success.”

  “And coming back—that would what? Signal I’m giving up?”

  Charlie grabbed Patrick’s hand, and it settled some the jangling inside his chest. He glanced down at Patrick’s fingernails, which were painted with a subtle glittery pink, and rubbed a thumb over them. “Would it, Patrick? Only you know the answer to that. But I’ve been on the receiving end of a man I care about hating this town, hating how constricting it is, how small. I don’t want that for you.”

  Patrick jumped down off the tailgate, yanking his hand away with another laugh. “You don’t know anything, Charlie.”

  “Yeah, that’s become abundantly clear,” Charlie said, ill-concealed exasperation sneaking into his voice. This whole conversation had gotten out of hand, and he had no idea how to set it back to rights. Or if he should even try.

  A weird hitch caught in Patrick’s throat, and all of Charlie’s reserves crumbled.

  “Come here,” he said softly, and pulled Patrick back toward him. Into his arms. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not saying the right stuff.”