Somewhere along the way, he started thinking maybe he should just tell her he wasn’t really bi. Or he wasn’t going to think about it or he was just going to focus on women or something. He didn’t think he could, not really. He was still in love with Chance and had a feeling that wasn’t going to stop. The CD played almost constantly. His wallpaper on his computer and phone were Chance. His ringtone was one of Chance’s songs. The framed pictures hadn’t moved from the mantel.
And the T-shirt he’d found in the dirty laundry basket that Chance missed when packing was under his pillow where he could pull it out and smell it.
But no matter how many times he told himself to just tell his mother what she wanted to hear, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. And each e-mail, each text, made him feel worse and worse, which he just countered with another bottle of Jameson.
Somewhere around halfway through the next week, the phone rang again. When Patrick read the caller ID, it took him a moment to answer it. “Hello?” His voice, rough from disuse, came out garbled, and he had to clear his throat. “Hello?” he said again.
“What are you doing?” Tutu asked.
Patrick sat up and shook his head to clear it. “Tutu.” He took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the lecture to come. “Uh… I…. Um….”
“If I were to guess, I’d say you’re trying to drink yourself into oblivion. Am I right?”
Patrick blinked at his bare feet, then mumbled, “Yes.”
“Your da was pretty good at that a time or two. Tell me, at least, the baby isn’t there to see it.”
“Em has him.”
“Good. Where’s Chance?”
“Uh… I, um, broke up with him, Tutu.” Patrick could hear the misery in his voice, and it annoyed him, but he couldn’t seem to stop it.
“Why?”
“Because I’m a fuck-up and a mess. He deserves way better than me. He’s out, Tutu. His family knows—they love him. And he shouldn’t have to put up with this.”
Tutu didn’t speak at first, and Patrick rubbed his face, trying to figure out what was coming. “You need to go see him.”
“He doesn’t want to see me. The things I said….” Patrick shook his head. “I don’t blame him. I… I did it on purpose. He…. God, Tutu….” He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I hurt him, badly. I pushed him away.”
“Do you remember what I told you last year? And again at Christmas?”
“About doing what’s right for me?”
“Yes. Patrick, this is your life. Not your mother’s. Not your da’s. Not your brothers’ or sisters’ lives. This is yours. The only one who can live it, the only one who has to live it, is you. You can’t live it for them. The only person in the world besides you that matters is Avery, and that’s only until he’s grown.”
Patrick didn’t say anything for a long moment. “But—”
“No. No buts. Maybe your mama needs to know what it would mean to not have you.”
“Tutu.” Patrick blinked in shock. “I can’t… I can’t do that!”
“You don’t have to do anything. Except live for you. Go see Chance.”
“I….”
“Don’t tell me you can’t, boy.” Tutu’s voice took on the hard edge that used to make him pee himself when he was little. He cringed but, thankfully, held on to his bladder. “Go see him.” And with that she was gone.
The pounding got louder, and Patrick groaned but pulled himself into a sitting position. That’s when he realized it wasn’t in his head. It was on the balcony doors, drowning out the only other sound in the room: the still-playing CD. Patrick squinted at the figure on the other side, scowling. He tried to figure out, at first, if he should call the cops or open the door. He rubbed his eyes and, when they cleared, realized it was Rhys. He crossed the room and unlocked the doors. “Dude, what the fuck are you doing on my balcony?”
“Trying to get you to answer your fuckin’ door.” Rhys stepped inside and closed the balcony door behind him, then turned to survey the room. “Holy fuck, what happened here?”
Patrick looked around and winced. Empty whiskey and beer bottles, paper wrappers for junk food, and mostly full pizza boxes and delivery containers covered pretty much every flat surface—the floor, the kitchen table, the coffee table, and the bar. He was fairly sure there were more bottles in the kitchen—they just couldn’t be seen from there. Uncovered pillows spilled off the couch, along with sheets and a blanket. Chance’s T-shirt poked out from underneath one of the pillows. Patrick’s dirty clothes made a pile on the floor at the foot of the couch, and a few dirty socks actually hung off a lampshade.
Even Patrick’s dorm room in college hadn’t looked this bad.
“I didn’t feel like cleaning up,” he grumbled, crossing the room. The whiskey bottle still on the coffee table had a mouthful in it, which Patrick downed, but of course, it wasn’t enough to do anything. He looked around for another one, but apparently he’d emptied all of them.
“This isn’t not cleaning up, dude. I had a feeling you were moping, but holy shit.” Rhys shook his head, eyes wide.
Patrick scowled. “I am not moping.”
“The fuck you’re not. And when was the last time you bathed?” Rhys’s face screwed up.
Patrick frowned but refused to answer the question. He’d pointedly ignored any mirrors, knowing he didn’t look all that great, but more because he just couldn’t face himself.
“Okay dude, you need to get cleaned up. And get out of here for some real food and fresh air.” He paused and peered at Patrick more closely. “And sunshine, though….” He glanced over his shoulder. “You’re not getting much of that anymore today.”
“What time is it?” Patrick asked before he could stop himself. He glanced at the clock to see a bright green seven mocking him. “What day is it?” he mumbled to himself.
“Wednesday. When was the last time you talked to your son?”
Patrick stared at Rhys for a long minute, and his heart sank. “I don’t know,” he murmured, cheeks reddening.
“Fine, then. Call Avery first. Then get in and get shaved and showered.”
Patrick scowled at the order. “Fuck you.”
“Do it or I swear to God, I will strip, drag you in there, and shave and bathe you myself.”
Patrick glared at Rhys, who glared right back. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.” Rhys kept his hands in his pockets and posture casual, but Patrick knew enough to know Rhys would do it.
“I’m not fucking you,” he blurted out, then looked away.
Rhys actually laughed. “Number one, I wouldn’t fuck you right now if you were the last man on Earth. You smell. And you’re nasty. But, number two, I’m not a complete fucking asshole. You’re grieving. I wouldn’t try that. And three, I don’t love you. Not that way.”
Patrick blinked up at Rhys. “You don’t?”
Rhys shook his head. “No. I don’t. I care about you, yes. But I don’t love you. That doesn’t mean, if you weren’t in this situation, I wouldn’t fuck you. I might. But not right now. However, that’s not the issue right now, and we can talk about that later. You need to get up and get out of this bullshit. So. Are you going to shave and shower, or am I going to do it for you?”
Patrick glared at his friend again, but he wasn’t really pissed. Because Rhys was right, whether Patrick liked it or not. He needed to get out of this… whatever this was. Avery deserved a better father than he’d been. And this wasn’t going to fix anything. He glanced around his apartment and winced again.
“Don’t worry about the apartment right now. You need to clean yourself first.”
Patrick sighed and stood. “Fine. I’ll be back in a little while.”
“Don’t rush. You’ll need the time to get clean.”
Patrick took a swipe at Rhys, who dodged it and laughed. As he started into the bathroom, he realized he felt better than he had in a while.
Once he’d trimmed off the ridiculous
beard he’d started to grow, using the time to steel himself, he picked up the phone and dialed. Emily answered on the second ring. “Uh… is Avery awake?”
“Hi, yourself. I’m happy to hear you call.”
Patrick’s eyebrows went up. “You are?”
“Yes. Did Rhys get in, then?”
“You sent him?”
“No. He called me to ask if I had a key I could overnight him. I told him about the stairs to the balconies, that if he could get through the gate, he could get to you that way.”
“That’s how he got in.” Patrick sighed. “I’d turned off the front-door buzzer.”
Emily snorted. “That sounds like you.” She paused. “Are you okay?”
“No,” he answered honestly. “But Avery shouldn’t be punished for that.”
“He’s been worried. I won’t lie. I told him you were sick, since it’s mostly true. But he’s been pretty happy to have Arnold back, so he’s been doing okay.”
Patrick swallowed, trying not to let the regret overwhelm him. “I’m… glad he’s not too bad. Is he…?”
“Yup. Hang on.”
Patrick listened to the clicks of a phone being passed, then: “Da!”
And just like that, his world righted a tiny bit more. “Hi, Stinker.”
“Hi, Da! Are you okay? Are you still sick? I was worried about you.”
Patrick took a deep breath, and the tears that had been threatening receded for the moment. “I’m getting better, Stinker, ’specially talking to you. Are you having fun with your mom?”
“Yeah, but….” He paused, and Patrick imagined him looking over his shoulder. “I miss Evan at school. And Mama Sara is getting kinda mad with me.”
“Aww, Stinker, I’m sorry.”
“Can I come home soon?”
Patrick swallowed the lump and did his damnedest to push regret back. “Yeah, soon. I just have to take care of a few things first, okay?”
“Okay. Is… is Chance back yet?” Avery asked, and Patrick cursed himself.
“Not yet. He’s really busy, honey.”
“He called me.”
Patrick’s eyebrows shot up. “He did?”
“Yeah. He said he missed me and he was sorry he couldn’t see me. He wouldn’t say when he was coming back.”
“Uh, he probably just doesn’t know yet, Stinker.” Patrick took a deep breath. “Listen, I’ll take care of that stuff soon and bring you back, okay?”
“Okay, Da. I gotta go. Mama says it’s time for a bath. Love you!”
“Love you, Stinker.” Patrick listened to Avery hand the phone back, aching with the realization of how much he missed his son.
“Have you thought about Chance?”
“Every fucking minute of every fucking day,” Patrick answered, looking at the half-empty closet.
Emily sighed. “You know, you really ought to try to talk to him.”
“Em… would you want to talk to me if I’d said those things to you?”
She stayed silent for a moment. “Point. But you need to try. Do you still love him?”
“Fuck yes,” Patrick said without hesitation.
“Then talk to him.” Before Patrick could argue, she added, “Avery goes to bed at eight. Will you call tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Talk to you then.”
Patrick sighed and stared down at his phone, then set it on the bedside table and went to clean up.
He hated to admit it, but he felt about a thousand times better just stepping out of the shower. Most of the headache he had was gone, and he felt like he’d lost about ten pounds in dirt alone. Just being clean helped lift some of the fog from his mind. And he was actually hungry for food for the first time in days.
What it didn’t do was get rid of the rawness inside of him.
He still felt like one of Alana’s blown-glass trinkets that would shatter into a million pieces if touched just the wrong way. And inside, he felt like he’d been scraped out and was still open and bleeding. He had a feeling, though, that wouldn’t go away for a very long time, if ever.
He dried himself off and stepped up to the mirror but pointedly ignored his eyes—he just couldn’t meet them—as he shaved the rest of the stubble off. He brushed his teeth, pulled out clean shorts and a T-shirt, threw another look at the half-empty closet, then snatched up his phone and headed back to the living room.
He stopped dead at the end of the hall. The bottles, wrappers, pizza boxes, and other garbage had disappeared. In their place two large garbage bags stood next to the door. A basket overflowing with dirty sheets and clothes sat near the kitchen. The CD was turned off.
And Chance’s T-shirt, folded neatly, sat on an arm of the couch.
Rhys silenced the television and turned to him. “That’s better.”
“You… cleaned?” Patrick blinked at Rhys for a long moment.
Rhys shrugged. “Not much. Just the garbage and laundry. Uh, you’re out of detergent or I woulda started it. You know, to kick you outta the shower, since you took so long.”
Patrick scowled but knew what Rhys was doing, so he couldn’t really be mad. “You told me to take a while. Something about stinking.”
Rhys snickered. “That I did. Are you going out in that?”
Patrick glanced down at himself, scrunching his eyebrows. “I’m not going out.”
“Yes. You are. Don’t make me wrestle you to the floor and change your clothes for you. Or tie you up and drag you out.” Rhys stared at him in challenge, and Patrick had a sneaking suspicion Rhys would follow through.
“I’m not into getting tied up.”
Rhys snorted. “You just haven’t tried it.”
Patrick rolled his eyes, but the stupid comment reminded him of something he and Chance had talked about—playing around with stuff like that. He closed his eyes and struggled to take a breath, to fight the stab in his chest, to push the thought away. Finally, he opened his eyes. “So… Angelo and Sebastian behind this too?”
Rhys grinned. “And I got a call from some Southern lady named Marcy demanding I try to see you. And then someone else who said his name was ‘Sophia,’ but it sounded very much like a man.”
“He is. Uh, well, sometimes.” Patrick shook his head. “Why did they call you? How…?”
“I don’t know. No idea how they got my number unless Angelo or Sebastian gave it to them. Apparently, they know this Sophia person.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Who is she? Er, he?”
“She’s a drag queen who runs a show bar over off Santa Monica.” Patrick shook his head, grateful for the change of subject.
“Ah, that explains it. Now, go get changed. Put on a half-decent shirt and your nice jeans. I’ll wait.”
Patrick scowled at him again but knew in the deepest part of him Rhys was right. He needed this. With a sigh he went in to change.
“Not here,” Patrick said, panic creeping up on him as they pulled into a parking lot.
“Why not? It’s the closest place with decent food,” Rhys said, glancing over. He put his car in park and looked from the Pablo’s sign to Patrick.
“Just… please?” He struggled to breathe, trying not to show just how he felt.
Rhys held a hand up. “Okay, okay. Where?”
Patrick shook his head. “I don’t know—anywhere else.”
“Okay.” Rhys started the car and took a right back out onto San Fernando Boulevard.
They didn’t speak as he drove, for which Patrick was grateful. He couldn’t think of what to say. There’d been one thing on his mind the last week and a half, and he didn’t think Rhys wanted to hear it. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to talk about it.
Rhys took the turn under the freeway, then a couple others Patrick didn’t pay attention to before they got back on the frontage road, heading south. A moment later, Rhys turned into the parking lot of a steakhouse outside a shopping center. “This work?”
Patrick nodded. “Sure.” He had no idea how much he could eat—the
re was a reason those pizza boxes had been mostly full—but he knew he needed to try. And he was, at least, a little hungry.
If the hostess recognized them, she kept it to herself, another thing Patrick was grateful for. Patrick did note the table she led them to was a larger one in a semiprivate corner, rather than one of the more open tables for two. They slid into the booth, listened to her recite the specials and beers that were on tap, and then she disappeared.
Patrick focused for a moment on the menu, feeling a little awkward now that the initial ass-kicking was over.
“You wanna split an onion?” Rhys asked, not looking up.
“Sure.”
“Cool.” Rhys folded his menu and pushed it aside, then sat back, looking Patrick over. “You still look like shit.”
“Thanks. Some friend you are.”
“I’m a great friend. I almost got arrested for trespassing to get you out of your bullshit.”
Patrick scowled and opened his mouth to reply when the server came by. He looked barely legal, with dimples in his cheeks, deep brown eyes, long dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and almost no fat on his body anywhere. “Good evening and welcome! My name’s Gabe, and I’ll be your server this evening. What can I get you guys to drink?”
Patrick frowned but decided he’d had enough alcohol recently. “Coke.” He tried to ignore the look of approval on Rhys’s face.
Rhys turned his fangirl-smile on Gabe, and Patrick nearly kicked him under the table. “Same. And we’ll split an onion, to start. One check.” He glanced at Patrick.
Patrick sighed when the kid actually looked disappointed. “I’ll get that started for you,” he said, then took off.
Patrick shook his head. “Way to make him think we’re on a date.”
“And disappoint him at the same time.” Rhys’s smile turned wicked. “Seriously, if that kid isn’t jail bait, I’m not an actor.”
“Maybe you’re not.”
Rhys did kick him. “He was cute, but way too young.”
No Sacrifice Page 54