No Sacrifice

by Grace R. Duncan

  Patrick snorted. “How’d you know, anyway?”

  Rhys shrugged a shoulder. “Good guess. Anyway. We’re back on set in a few days. You gonna be up for it?”

  “Let me guess, Jack called you too?”

  “No. This is me worried about my friend and costar.” Rhys shook his head.

  “Oh. Sorry. I… guess so. Don’t really have a choice, do I? If I wanna keep my role, anyway.”

  Gabe returned with their Cokes, and Patrick gave him a smile that he returned. Gabe was kind of cute, though Patrick didn’t go for dark hair, tan skin, or brown eyes. In the end Patrick just couldn’t care much. Gabe wasn’t Chance, and that was the only person who mattered to Patrick.

  “True,” Rhys said, continuing their discussion. “And I’d much rather you keep it, thank you very much.”

  Patrick raised his eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

  “Oh, come on. I mean, entirely aside from the fact that you’re my friend, you know Jack’s going to push for sex next season again, probably more than the last one. And even if I’m not in love with you, that doesn’t mean I want to do that on screen with a bunch of other people.”

  “Yeah. Uh… what made you change your mind?” Patrick asked, frowning.

  Rhys didn’t answer at first, instead busying himself with his drink. “I realized it during our last scene,” he said finally. “I’ve… never been in love before. I’ve had crushes,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “But never felt what I thought was love—what I thought I felt for you. But while we were there and getting, uh, close?” Patrick nodded. “I realized that… like… I thought you were thinking about him… and I realized that didn’t bother me or, at least, not much. And that made me realize that if it didn’t, how could I love you and not be bothered by you thinking about someone else?”

  Patrick blinked at him. “But… you were bothered by it… before, you know.”

  Rhys nodded. “I was. Seriously jealous. But….” He paused, obviously thinking it through. “But I think part of it was figuring out my sexuality. And you were right at the center of that. You were the first guy I truly reacted to, and we got physical in a lot of interesting ways.” He paused to flash a grin, making Patrick chuckle. “On top of that, you can’t tell me that you didn’t think about me.” Rhys looked up, dark eyes focused intently on Patrick.

  He squirmed a little but eventually nodded. “Yeah. I did. Especially in the beginning when I started reacting.”

  Rhys nodded too. “I thought so. And during and after our, uh, practice? You felt something, didn’t you?”

  Patrick did more than squirm a little this time. He considered Rhys for a long time. If Rhys wasn’t being completely honest, this would only lead him on. But if he wasn’t…. After taking a deep breath, he said, “Yeah, I did.”

  Rhys started tearing up his drink napkin. “That’s what I thought too. So, I told myself that I could win you over.” He chuckled. “Yeah, I know, sounds stupid, but….” Patrick shook his head, but Rhys was still focused on the napkin. “So I did all that… stuff. But when we did the first bigger sex scene together, I started to see that what we’d had during practice… wasn’t there. Though I tried to lie to myself, tell myself it really was.” He blew out a breath. “So, I kept trying. Then the last one, well… I had to admit it wasn’t. And I knew why. You were in love with someone else. And I was… not in love with you. I kept trying to force it, kinda why I was still a bit of an asshole.”

  He looked up at Patrick, who didn’t quite know what to say to that. “I still care. And I’ll be perfectly honest and blunt. If you weren’t already in love, if things were different… I could probably fall. But… they’re not, and you’ve got a shitload of other problems right now. You need a friend. And I can be that.”

  Patrick frowned. “I’m not sure I want a friend.” He held up a hand when Rhys opened his mouth. “But I need one. I… you… I needed the ass-kicking. Yeah, I need to grieve.” He shrugged a shoulder. “That was something Em taught me when we got divorced—about grieving for relationships too. But I have other things I need to focus on, so, yeah, I can grieve, but I have to do it at the right times.”

  “I never thought about it like that, you know. Grieving? It was your Emily who used the word.” He paused and smiled again at Gabe when the onion was delivered, making Patrick roll his eyes. “Thanks.”

  “Can I get you anything else right now?”

  “My friend needs a new napkin,” Patrick said, grinning when Rhys kicked him again.

  Gabe smiled back. “I’ll get you some. I’ll be right back.”

  “Now he doesn’t think we’re on a date anymore,” Rhys muttered.

  Patrick grinned even wider. “Dude, he’s legal or he wouldn’t be serving alcohol.”

  “There’s more to it than just being legal.” Rhys rolled his eyes.

  Patrick’s eyebrows went up. “You’re attracted to him.”

  Rhys scowled. “He’s cute. End of story,” he grumbled. Then his face turned red when Gabe stepped up right then with their napkins.

  “Thanks,” Patrick said, but Gabe was a little busy blinking at Rhys. “Hey, uh, could I get another Coke?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah. Sure.” Gabe hurried away.

  Patrick laughed when Rhys glared at him. “That is so not funny.” Rhys sighed, smiled politely at Gabe when he brought the drink, then focused a little too much on his onion. “Just eat, asshole.”

  Patrick laughed again but dug in, finally having an appetite.

  He’d eaten most of the ten-ounce steak and accompanying french fries, put away just under half of the onion appetizer, and even managed to consume a good third of some kind of brownie meltdown thing. The last of his headache went away with the food, and he even started to feel a little better emotionally.

  “Thank you,” he said as they climbed into Rhys’s red Z.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Rhys said, starting the car.

  Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Yes. Now I get really ugly,” he said, turning the car south onto the Golden State Freeway.

  Patrick frowned. “Ugly?” He looked nervously at the signs, a bad feeling blooming at the direction Rhys was driving.

  “Yup.” Rhys didn’t speak at first, then sighed. “I was made to promise to take you to someone.”

  It took Patrick about half a second to put two and two together. The anxiety that had started to surface over just driving onto Pablo’s parking lot earlier exploded into full-blown panic. “Oh fuck, no.”

  Rhys glanced over. “Yes.”

  “No.” Patrick shook his head harder than necessary.

  “Yes. Look, we can argue, go back and forth over no and yes all you want. But that drag queen of yours was very insistent that she see you. Tonight. She threatened to tie me to a chair and strip or something. It was… weird.” Rhys shook his head. “Anyway, you don’t have to stay. Just go in and see her, okay? Then we’ll go.”

  Patrick frowned, staring out the window, though he didn’t pay a bit of attention to the scenery. Maybe he could avoid seeing Chance altogether. “I’m not staying.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Gratefully, Rhys didn’t try to fill the silence with chatter. Patrick wouldn’t have been able to keep up with it anyway. The steak and french fries that had tasted so good only a short while ago sat in the bottom of his stomach like a lead weight. The one time since Chance moved out that he’d left the apartment for more beer and whiskey, he’d been very careful to make sure Chance wasn’t in the hallway before he stepped out. He just didn’t know if he could handle seeing the man.

  And not touch.

  Or hug.

  Or get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness.

  He shook his head at himself, holding the seat in a death grip. With any luck he could get in, see Sophia, prove to her he wasn’t dead, and get back out without incident.

  When Rhys got off the freeway, the knots in Patrick’s stomach tightened. When he turned onto
Santa Monica, Patrick’s palms started to sweat. And when they pulled into the parking lot and he saw Chance’s Honda in its usual place in the corner of the mostly empty lot, Patrick forgot entirely how to breathe.

  Thankfully, Chance wasn’t there. He was, apparently, already inside. Patrick glanced at the clock on Rhys’s dash and realized Chance’s first set would have started already and he’d probably be closing in on his first break.

  You don’t have to stay, he reminded himself. If Chance was on stage, it’d be even easier to be sure to avoid him.

  Rhys turned off the car and climbed out. Patrick took a deep breath, did his best to get a handle on his internal panic, and got out too. The way Rhys was looking at him irritated Patrick enough to calm him down a little. “I’m not going to fucking fall apart,” he grumbled, even though that was exactly how he felt.

  “Sure you won’t. Come on.”

  They rounded the building, and for the first time ever, Patrick went in the front door of Sophia’s. The Mediterranean atmosphere extended there, including more blue-and-beige tile, a much larger version of the wall fountains to one side, a coat check on the far end, and a counter and register to the left as they stepped in. It was currently empty, and Patrick guessed they didn’t bother on weeknights.

  It felt weird walking into Sophia’s from that side. He’d spent so much time coming in the stage entrance, and it was yet another reminder of something he no longer had.

  That, however, paled in comparison to the stage. The low lights gave way to a single spotlight, focused on a man sitting front and center on a stool at a microphone. Guitar in hand, long blond hair a mess, Chance sang, and Patrick couldn’t have moved for the world in that moment.

  It was worse than a punch to the gut. He knew, knew it was likely he’d see Chance. And yet, as prepared as he’d been, he hadn’t been nearly prepared enough.

  He stood there, transfixed, the vision in front of him taking his internal organs and tying them in knots so complicated he didn’t think they’d ever be undone. He stopped breathing—and one of these times he’d pass out over it—but he couldn’t seem to suck in so much as a molecule of air. His stomach dropped to the floor, his heart crept into his throat, and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to run to Chance or bolt out the door.

  The vision of Chance was the only thing keeping him from choosing the latter, because it was the most appealing option. He couldn’t even pay attention to the song in that moment. A noise built in his head directly proportional to the tangle his stomach and heart were in. The rawness he’d felt earlier seemed to open even wider.

  And yet… he knew he deserved this. To feel this, the mess he had right then.

  He deserved about a thousand times worse.

  Patrick could see the sadness in Chance’s eyes, even from the back of the room, could see the pain behind them as he sang. The blond hair Patrick had buried his face in so many times to inhale Chance’s scent hung limply around the man’s face. The noise in his head faded so he could hear the song, and he recognized it immediately, which just cemented how bad it was for Chance. Patrick could hear in Chance’s voice how much he was hurting.

  Originally belonging to Bill Withers, who’d crooned about a woman, Chance changed the pronouns to “he.” It didn’t take a genius to know who he was referring to when he sang about there being no sunshine when the “he” was gone. The lump in Patrick’s throat expanded.

  Patrick probably would have stood there for the rest of the night if Rhys hadn’t elbowed him and pointed to an empty table. Tucked under the steps to the balcony but still with seats where Patrick could see Chance, it was perfect. Patrick stood indecisively for a moment, trying to figure out if he should just go.

  But now that he’d seen Chance, Patrick couldn’t bring himself to leave. Not yet. As bad as Chance looked, Patrick couldn’t seem to look away, did not want to stop. He knew it was cliché to think it, but it felt like water to a man dying of thirst.

  He missed Chance so much he hurt. And this didn’t ease the ache—only made it worse. But it was a bittersweet kind of misery to see the man and not be able to do anything about it. And he needed that, to remind himself he should be miserable.

  Patrick took a seat, and Rhys went up to the bar for drinks. He’d been sitting for all of about one minute when the chair to his right was filled with six feet of sparkly, sequined, impeccably coiffed drag queen.

  Sophia didn’t speak at first, just peered at him, then shook her head and cupped his cheek in a hand. “Aww, darlin’, I’m so sorry.”

  Patrick looked away from her, feeling guiltier than he’d thought he would. “Uh, I’m… sorry. Sorry I disappeared.”

  “Don’t you worry about that. What on Earth is your mama thinking?” Sophia shook her head.

  Patrick had been trying not to think about his mother. He hadn’t checked his phone—and hadn’t looked at his e-mail either—since he left the apartment with Rhys. He had a feeling he knew what he’d find anyway, and he was tired of hearing and fighting the same thing. He shook his head. “I don’t know, Sophia. She just… she thinks I’m doing it on purpose to hurt her.”

  Sophia growled in the back of her throat and slammed her hand down on the table. “I just… I can’t… If I had—”

  “Don’t, Sophia. Just… it’ll—it’ll be okay.” He nearly choked over the words because, in that moment, he couldn’t imagine how it could be okay in any way. But he just couldn’t take trying to explain it, trying to talk about it.

  “I’m sorry, darlin’. Okay. Hey, you have a drink on me—no, not on me, this time. I’m just buyin’. And you stay put until I come back.”

  Patrick didn’t like the tone of that. But he nodded and forced a smile he knew probably looked a lot more like a grimace than anything. She patted him on the cheek and disappeared.

  A couple of minutes later, Rhys returned with two bottles of beer and set one in front of Patrick. “Keeping it simple. I don’t think you’re interested in more—are you?”

  Patrick shook his head and took a sip from the bottle of Harp Rhys handed him. He had visions of actually getting drunk and walking up to Chance anyway, saying all manner of really bad things—the top of the list including lots of I’m sorry and please. And all for Chance to tell him to get lost. “No, I don’t want more. Thank you.”

  Patrick turned his attention back to the stage as Chance finished one of his usual songs, Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive.” Then he started in on another familiar one, though Patrick hadn’t heard this particular song in nearly a year. Chance had quit singing it when they’d been here together.

  This was another song Chance liked to change the pronouns for. And as he got into it, singing about someone being beautiful and how he’ll never be with them, Patrick blinked in stunned silence.

  I have a confession to make… I used to have a crush on you. Before we started talking.

  Another sucker punch to the gut, it had Patrick reeling. Had Chance been singing about him? Patrick stared at his former partner, trying to make the pieces work in his head, but he couldn’t quite believe it. If that was the case… why was Chance singing that now?

  Maybe he’d seen Patrick come in. Maybe he was letting Patrick know that and was just making it clear how much he hurt. Patrick frowned. That was very possible, though he’d never pegged Chance as vindictive or mean. But Chance was hurting and people did a lot of things when they were.

  When the song ended and Chance announced he was taking a break, Patrick watched as Sophia met him at the end of the stage. She looked over in Patrick’s direction, then turned back and said something to Chance. His former partner didn’t even glance in his direction, which told Patrick enough. Chance had known he was there. Sophia stomped her foot and pointed, then said something else to Chance, who, very emphatically, shook his head.

  Patrick picked up his bottle of Harp and sucked it down. “I, uh, I need to go.”

  “Sure,” Rhys said without hesitation, standing.

&
nbsp; I shouldn’t have stayed. All I did was hurt him. Patrick kept repeating those two things to himself the whole way back to the car. When he slid into the Z’s seat, he laid his head back and closed his eyes. “I shouldn’t have stayed.”

  “I think you needed it. Needed to see him. Have you considered, you know, talking to him?”

  “I was an asshole, Rhys. Class A. He’s never going to talk to me again. And he’s perfectly justified.” And that’s the way it should be.

  Rhys sighed. “I still think you should try.”

  “You and everyone else. Just drop it.”

  “Okay. Okay.”

  They fell silent, and Patrick was grateful Rhys didn’t push any further, just drove in continued quiet. When he pulled up outside Patrick’s building, he threw the car into park and turned, looking Patrick over. “I’m coming over tomorrow—no, don’t argue.” He held a hand up, and Patrick closed his mouth. “Good. Reconnect the buzzer when you get inside. Or I swear, I will climb the fuckin’ balcony again. And if I do, I’m going to be pissed.”

  Patrick scowled. “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to come over.”

  “Look, I was half tempted to sleep on your couch, but I think that’s already full—justifiably so. I’ll be over in the morning. We’re going to Pablo’s for breakfast—shut up—so you can prove to that Southern lady and crazy Brazilian that you’re alive. They’re worried.”

  Patrick glared at Rhys, but he couldn’t maintain any real anger. Because if he let himself admit it, he was glad Rhys was doing it. He sighed. “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Patrick climbed out of the car and stood to watch Rhys pull away, but his friend waved a hand toward the door. So, with a return wave, Patrick went inside.

  The first thing he did was reconnect the buzzer. The second was plug in his phone without looking at it. The third thing he did was turn the CD back on. And the fourth was retrieve his pillow and blanket, then stretch out on the couch, eyes fixed to the picture he’d taken down from the mantel. When he also retrieved Chance’s T-shirt, he finally managed to fall asleep.