Calling Calling Calling Me

by Natasha Washington

  9

  Post-midterms, Patrick was finally starting to feel like he was getting the hang of this college thing. He knew how to get to school without getting lost, he’d figured out what homework he absolutely had to do and what parts of his boring history textbook he could fake reading, he’d made at least one friend in each of his classes, and he’d even been out for coffee a few times with his creative writing group. These coffee dates inevitably resulted in conversations about hook-ups that made Patrick blush, no writing was ever discussed, and he still couldn’t quite look Artemis in the eye, but he loved them anyway. Taneisha and Artemis—TART for short, they informed him—were comfortable and hilarious and fun.

  On one such coffee date at Ritual Roasters in the Mission, Taneisha leaned in close to Artemis and said confidentially, “We need to find Patrick a boyfriend.”

  Patrick froze with his coffee cup halfway to his lips.

  Artemis looked at him, narrowing her eyes as if assessing his virtues.

  “Totally,” she said. “He’s super-adorable and creative and sweet.”

  “Right?” Taneisha said. “It’s required that we fix him up with someone fabulous.”

  “Hi,” Patrick interrupted. “I’m still here, in case you forgot.”

  Patrick realized then that he’d never told them anything about his romantic history—nonexistent though it was. How did they even—

  “Am I that obvious?” Patrick said.

  “Oh, honey, don’t take this the wrong way, but…” Taneisha said, “Yes.”

  Patrick was abundantly aware of what people thought of him in high school, the slurs they’d tossed his way in hallways when they chose to acknowledge his existence. They’d used words he didn’t even know the meaning of sometimes, but he could tell their tone was anything but complimentary. He’d been beat up and bullied. He knew what it means to be a geeky kid in a conservative suburb of Fresno, to have a high voice and too much baby fat and no interest in sports or girls.

  But here, in San Francisco, where rainbow flags were commonplace and men held hands and kissed in the streets, Patrick still didn’t quite know what people thought. What they assumed. What they knew.

  “Patrick?” Taneisha said, reaching across the table and grasping his free hand. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” Patrick said, his voice rough. “I—sorry.”

  “Hey, don’t be sorry, sweetie,” Artemis said. “We didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. We talk like this – you can ignore us, seriously.”

  “No, no, I—I’m not offended, I’m just not used to…” Patrick was unsure of how to finish. Not used to people knowing I’m gay? Not used to people talking about me having a boyfriend like it might actually be a possibility?

  “You’ll get used to it,” Taneisha said, squeezing his hand. “In the best possible way—you will.”

  I will, Patrick thought. I will I will I will.

  * * *

  When Patrick got a text from Taneisha three days later that read: Hey so I have this friend Eric and he wants to meet you, he thought, Jesus, they work fast.

  Um okay? he texted back.

  Don’t be scared, he is the cutest boy ever, Taneisha texted back. He’s from Ohio and he’s a DANCER.

  Patrick nearly dropped his phone into his bowl of cereal.

  “Whoa, that was almost a disaster,” Freddy observed as he stuffed a piece of bread into the toaster and pressed the lever until it disappeared. “Did your phone tell you something scandalous, Maloney?”

  “N-no,” Patrick said.

  “Now I’m curious,” Mike said. “Let me see.”

  Mike reached for the phone across the table and grabbed it out of Patrick’s hand. Patrick blamed the fact that it was only eight a.m.—his reflexes were slow.

  “Hey!” he said belatedly, but Mike was already skimming through his texts and laughing.

  “Dude, share with the class,” Freddy said, pulling his toast out of the toaster too quickly and nearly burning himself.

  “Patrick is being set up,” Mike said, in far too gleeful of a manner than befit a school teacher, “with a boy from Ohio.”

  “Oooh, what part of Ohio?” Freddy asked. “I hear they’re freaky in Cleveland.”

  “Can I have my phone back, please?” Patrick squeaked. He was pretty sure his face was redder than the strawberry jam Freddy was spreading on his toast.

  “Who’s freaky in Cleveland?” Josh asked, wandering into the kitchen wearing a pair of worn gray sweatpants and a Giants T-shirt that was a bit too small for him.

  God, Patrick wanted to lick him, and that was not even slightly an option.

  “Patrick’s new boyfriend,” Freddy said.

  “Oh my God,” Patrick said. “I haven’t even met him yet.”

  “But Patrick, he’s the cutest boy ever,” Mike said. “And he’s a dancer.”

  Patrick wanted to punch Mike so hard, but Mike was like eight feet tall. Patrick was stronger than he looked—many years of martial arts training and musical theater—but…no.

  “You’re really mean,” Patrick said, and grabbed for his phone, which Mike finally relinquished with a wink.

  “Hey, I’m jealous,” Mike said. “I wish my friends would set me up with hot dancers.”

  “Dude, after that disaster with that Colombian girl—” Freddy started to say.

  “That was not my fault,” Mike cut in. “Seriously, not—”

  Mike and Freddy continued to argue, but Patrick was distracted by Josh: how quiet he was, leaning against the doorjamb and fiddling with his phone. Usually Josh greeted Patrick in the morning with a huge, goofy smile and some cheesy pleasantries.

  Right now, he couldn’t even seem to meet Patrick’s eyes.

  “A dancer, huh?” Josh said, so quiet that only Patrick could hear it.

  Patrick didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say.

  He stared down at his phone for a moment before texting Taneisha: Set it up, I’ll be there.

  * * *

  The second Patrick arrived at Taneisha’s party on Saturday night, she yanked him inside by the fabric of his collared button-up shirt. She looked him up and down, then pulled him close and hissed in his ear, “You couldn’t have worn something tighter?”

  “Why do I feel like you have ulterior motives for inviting me to this party?” Patrick joked.

  “Do you seriously not own anything tighter?” Taneisha asked. “If so, we need to go shopping, baby.”

  “I’m sorry I’m not dressed appropriately for your informal Saturday night back-to-school gathering,” Patrick sassed back. “Next time I’ll make sure to bring my mesh and leather.”

  “Do you own any leather?” Taneisha asked, blinking at him. “Because you would look so hot in leather. You’re all—pale and, like…slender.”

  Patrick didn’t even know what to say to that.

  “Oh, Eric, honey!” Taneisha said, catching a boy by the arm and turning him to face Patrick. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

  “Hey!” Eric said, smiling, and held out his hand for Patrick to shake. His grip was firm and warm. His eyes were very green, his hair a deep auburn, and his ears stuck out in a way that was completely adorable. He was wearing a form-fitting black T-shirt and jeans that outlined the well-muscled curves and angles of his body, and…right. Okay, maybe Patrick could see the virtues of wearing tight clothing.

  He could also see why Taneisha had been so anxious to introduce Eric to Patrick.

  “Hi,” Patrick said. He felt like the world’s most awkward turtle. “Taneisha told me you’re a dancer.”

  Eric nodded, head bobbing enthusiastically. “Yeah! I’ve been dancing since I was six, but I just started classes here. They’re awesome. Intense.”

  “One of my roommates is a dancer,” Patrick said. “Kai—he dances with this new hip-hop company, the Root and the Seeds?”

  Eric’s eyes widened. “Oh, seriously? I’ve heard they’re amazing. So, he gets to tour and stuff?”
>
  “Yeah,” Patrick said.

  Eric grinned at him, wide and genuine, and reached out and touched Patrick’s wrist with one finger.

  “I’m going to go check on…something,” Taneisha said, and disappeared so quickly, Patrick felt dizzy.

  “Hey, so,” Eric said, “can I get you a drink?”

  * * *

  Eric was really good at keeping those drinks coming, and a couple hours later, Patrick was sprawled across him on Taneisha’s couch, staring at the centimeter of liquid remaining in his clear cup and wondering where the rest of it had gone. Had he really drunk that? When? How?

  “You’re cute,” he told Eric, and Eric grinned, which was basically what Eric did—he smiled and acted excited and enthusiastic about everything. For example: He was excited about dancing and excited about music and about Patrick’s writing, when Patrick described it to him, how he wanted to sell his screenplay and make a movie, and then make more movies, and maybe write a television show or a series of books for kids. Eric thought these sounded like great ideas. Then he told Patrick about how he used to perform as a ballroom dancer in his small-town middle school in Ohio, all dressed up in sparkly shirts and shiny shoes. Patrick could imagine it so easily, Eric and his generic pretty partner and their pageant smiles and waltz and rumba.

  Everyone who grew up in small-minded towns figured out a way to survive them.

  Then, if they were really lucky, they escaped.

  It was refreshing how simple Eric was, how straightforward and good-natured and completely willing to have Patrick share his space, no tension or confusing mixed signals involved at all.

  “You’re cute too,” Eric said, his hand stroking Patrick’s arm from wrist to elbow.

  Patrick felt warm everywhere his palm touched, and in…other places he wanted Eric to touch.

  Patrick propped himself up so their shoulders were pressed together and he was level with Eric’s face. Eric’s eyes were this shimmery greenish blue that made Patrick think of the moment he’d crossed the Bay Bridge on that first drive up to look at apartments, the moment he gazed out the window at the ocean and thought: This is what I’ve been waiting for, to live on the edge of the world.

  “I know we kinda just met,” Eric said, “but I want to kiss you. Is that okay?”

  It can’t be this easy, Patrick thought, but then he remembered Josh in that club, leaning into that girl, strangers until they weren’t anymore.

  He remembered what Josh had said that night, swaying into his space, drunk but still so perceptive.

  It’s going to be easier now.

  “Yeah,” Patrick breathed. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

  Eric stared at him for a moment longer before he brought his hand up to cup Patrick’s cheek, then leaned in until their lips touched.

  Patrick had never been kissed, really, by anyone who wasn’t a family member giving him a peck on the cheek, and he had no idea how he was supposed to do this. Eric opened his mouth and pressed in, harder, and Patrick pressed back, his hand curling on Eric’s thigh. He brought his other hand up to Eric’s shoulder, letting it rest there. Eric’s shoulders were so strong. Patrick had a sudden urge to kiss his collarbones, to push the fabric of his thin T-shirt out of the way and see how he tasted.

  Eric hummed against his mouth, tugging Patrick closer, his hand dragging over the back of Patrick’s neck. Patrick shuddered and felt Eric lick at the corner of his mouth. When their tongues touched, it felt like electricity and lightning bolts and music, warmth everywhere, everywhere.

  Eric dragged his fingers along Patrick’s jaw and down his neck, leaving a tingling trail. Patrick tried to focus on that and ignore the invasive thoughts about Josh, his guitar calluses and his stubble, the way his hands would feel on Patrick’s face, his cheek rough along his throat—

  “Hey,” Eric murmured against his lips. “Are you—”

  There was a low whistle followed by, “Get it, Patrick!”

  Eric drew back slightly, but Patrick pulled away so fast, he almost toppled over. Eric was still stroking the thin skin at the base of Patrick’s neck, and his eyes were dark. He licked his lips. Eric looked like he was trying to read Patrick, and Patrick prayed his thoughts didn’t show on his face.

  Then Eric dropped his hand into his lap, and Patrick felt like a douchebag.

  “Hi, Eric,” the same familiar voice said, and Patrick looked up to see Artemis, flickering her fingers in an unsteady wave. She leaned forward and nearly tipped her cup into Patrick’s lap. “Oh, oh, you were busy. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “She totally meant to interrupt,” Patrick heard, and his stomach dropped.

  Josh was standing next to the couch, twisting his plaid scarf in his hands. He was wearing a leather jacket and perfect, perfect jeans, his cheeks pink from the cold. He smirked at Patrick, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “I’m not a cockblocker,” Artemis said, slurring. “I’m a cock—uh, what’s, like, the opposite of cockblocker? Cock enabler? Cock facilitat—”

  Josh winced, then patted Artemis on the shoulder. “I’d quit while you’re ahead. So to speak.”

  Looking at the two of them, Patrick could see their future so clearly—Josh, Artemis, and their two beautiful children, Jillian and Athena, dark-haired and hazel-eyed and blessed with perfect bone structure and perfect pitch. Because she would be perfect for Josh, right? Artemis, goddess girl. Gorgeous, charming, no fucked-up history of being the class punching bag.

  “I just stopped by to drop off something,” Josh said. “I have Isaiah’s car, and I can give you a ride back, Patrick. If you want one, that is. No pressure.”

  Patrick sensed there was pressure, though, and he wasn’t quite sure he understood why. Josh’s face was strangely unreadable, and Patrick was distracted by Eric’s fingertips tracing the back of his hand, brushing along his knuckles.

  “No,” Patrick said. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m okay. I can get back myself.”

  Patrick could see by the way Josh hesitated that he’d expected Patrick to say yes, but this was New Patrick, drawing a line in the sand.

  “I live over in the Mission,” Eric offered. “We can take Muni back together. Castro, right?”

  “Right,” Patrick said.

  “Same stop and everything,” Eric said. “Simple.”

  Simple, Patrick thought, even though this moment felt anything but.

  Josh stuffed his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders. “Okay! Cool, man. I gotta go—I’ll see you later then.”

  Patrick nodded, and Josh’s eyes caught his and held for a second before he turned away, disappearing into the mass of bodies throbbing to the music.

  “So,” Eric said, “that’s one of the roommates.”

  Patrick let his eyes focus on Eric. He attempted nonchalance: “Yeah, one of four. It’s not cheap, living here.”

  Eric’s smile was only the barest of curves this time. “But he’s the one you have a thing for,” he said.

  It was possible Patrick had been underestimating Eric.

  “Uh, well—”

  “It’s okay, Patrick,” Eric said. “We only met today, you know. I don’t—”

  “It’s not gonna happen,” Patrick said. “I mean, with Josh—he’s older, and mostly into girls, I think, and way out of my league—”

  “Oh, whatever,” Eric said, mouth quirking. “How do you know he’s out of your league? That’s stupid. Yeah, he’s hot, but so are you.”

  Patrick laughed. “I’m sorry, but—we were making out, like, five minutes ago, and now it sounds like you’re encouraging me to go after another guy.”

  “Hey, welcome to San Francisco,” Eric said, and oh, there. The real smile had returned. “You’re not in Fresno anymore, man.”

  “And you’re not in Tiny Town, Ohio,” Patrick tossed back.

  “Hell yeah, I’m not,” Eric said. “Thank God.”

  He leaned forward, and for a second Patrick thought he was going to try to ki
ss him again, but instead he grabbed Patrick’s hand.

  “Come on,” Eric said. “Let’s dance.”

  “I don’t really—” Patrick said, but Eric was shaking his head.

  “You do now,” Eric said, and tugged him to his feet.

  Eric dancing with Patrick mostly translated to them goofing around, Patrick bouncing and sliding and moving his hips from side to side while Eric laughed at him and tried to help, his hands anchors at Patrick’s waist, guiding.

  “Wow, so maybe you should stick with that writing thing,” Eric joked.

  “Oh, screw you,” Patrick said, shoving him in the shoulder. “I can learn. I can learn anything if I try hard enough.”

  Eric’s eyes were shining. “I’m sure you can.”

  When Patrick started to complain of fatigue, Eric called him an old man but agreed to ride back with him on Muni to the Castro. It was late and the train took its time coming. They huddled close as the fog seeped and slithered around them, otherworldly and strange. The weather in this city was as mercurial as Mike had described that first day, constantly shifting and transforming the landscape, the air twisting and restless like the people moving through it.

  They got off the train at Church. The Castro was pulsing with its pervasive disco dance soundtrack, men in various stages of undress stumbling in and out of clubs, in and out of each other’s arms.

  “I had a great time tonight,” Eric said.

  “Me too,” Patrick said, and squeezed Eric’s gloved hand.

  Eric opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. He patted Patrick on the shoulder and said, “Good luck.”

  Patrick knew Eric meant with everything: his writing and school and this new-to-him city, but he couldn’t help feeling he meant Josh too.

  Good luck working out that mess.

  “Thanks,” Patrick said. “You too.”

  As he walked backwards and away, Eric lifted his hand to his ear and mouthed, Call me.

  10