When Chance took his break, Patrick escaped to the patio to take in the cool night air. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, attempting to gather himself a little bit, calm his pounding heart and twisting stomach. He wanted desperately to mentally prepare himself for the second set. It would only get worse, he was sure of it, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave.
“Are you ever going to talk to him?”
“No, Sophia.” Patrick opened his eyes and looked up at her. She wore a silver strapless number that hugged her curves, a big faux-diamond necklace with matching earrings, bracelets, and rings, and her nails were painted killer red. She looked, as always, perfect.
“Why not?”
“You know why.” Patrick sighed and turned to her.
“Then why the hell are you here?”
Patrick considered her for a long moment before he spoke. He swallowed and looked away, up to the stars. “I needed to see him. It’s… I mi—” He shrugged helplessly. “I just do. Look… don’t tell him, okay? Please?”
Sophia scowled. “That’s a shitty thing to ask.”
“It’s not going to do him any good to know I was here. He needs to get over me, Sophia. Move on. Find someone that’s good for him.”
“You’re good for him,” she said, poking a long nail into his shoulder.
Patrick shook his head. “No, I’m not, Sophia. I… I can’t handle being out. I can’t do that to him. And I am, as you’ve seen, a consummate fuck-up. I fucked up one marriage already and hurt the one person I love most in the world. I’ll only keep doing it.”
“Well, hell, darlin’, we all fuck up.”
Patrick snorted. “How long have you and Andy been together?”
Sophia tilted her head. “Sit down with me. These heels are killer.” She waved at the spikes on her feet that had to be a good five inches in height. They took seats on a nearby bench, and then she crossed her legs and looked him over. “Andy and I have been together twenty-four years this June.”
“See? Obviously, you don’t fuck up.”
Sophia threw her head back and laughed. She laughed so hard, she had to hold her stomach. She kept laughing until tears—mascara-free tears, Patrick noted—ran down her face.
Patrick stared at her, mouth hanging open. “What?”
She held up a long manicured finger as she obviously struggled for control. “Oh, darlin’,” she snorted, then wiped tears from her eyes. “I forget what it was like when I was your age.” She shook her head and continued to chuckle for a moment. “Honey, I’ve done so much fucking up over the years that you wouldn’t believe it.” She chuckled again. “I still fuck up all the time. So does Andy. It ain’t about not fucking up. It’s about fixing it after the fact.”
Patrick’s eyebrows scrunched up. “I got divorced, Sophia. That’s certainly not fixing it.”
“Did you love her, darlin’?”
Patrick frowned. “No. I didn’t.”
“Did she love you?”
Patrick shook his head. “No. But….”
“What did you tell your mama when she asked you about this very same thing?”
Patrick dropped his eyes and kicked at a small stone on the ground. “That there wasn’t anything to fix. We didn’t love each other. And we shouldn’t keep each other from being happy because of it.”
“Exactly. Darlin’, the only thing you did wrong was get married in the first place.” She held a hand up when he looked at her. “But. You got a gorgeous little baby out of that, so you shouldn’t regret it. Be glad, instead, that you didn’t waste your entire life trying to make a loveless marriage work.”
Patrick frowned. “That doesn’t change the fact that I can’t be out. I can’t handle it. I’m not you, Sophia. I’m not Chance.” He shook his head in frustration.
“Well, now, that I can understand. I didn’t come out until I was older than you. Even after Andy and I got together.”
Patrick blinked at her. “Really?”
She nodded. “Oh yeah. Andy and I were together for… fuck, let me think.” She screwed up her face and tapped a red nail on her lips. “Four years? Something like that.” She shrugged. “Part of that, I will be fair, was the time. You just weren’t out back then. Fuck, that was… the 80s? Yeah. That was one fucked-up decade.” She shook her head. “In a lot of ways. Start of AIDS, lot of selfishness. And still, most of us in the closet.”
Patrick pursed his lips. “I guess there’s still a lot of that.”
“Yeah. And hell, it’s never going to go away completely.”
Patrick looked up. “You think so?”
Sophia nodded. “I’m afraid so. Women still make less money than men. Groups like the KKK still exist. Sexism, racism… hatred never goes away. It’ll always be there, to some degree. But it’s getting better.” She looked over at him and ran her hand over his hair. “It is getting better. But here’s the thing, something I learned a long time ago. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. They don’t have to live my life. They don’t get to live my life. Only I do.”
Patrick gave a half smile. “That’s what Tutu said.”
Sophia raised her eyebrows. “Tutu?”
“My great aunt. She kinda took over for my grandmother, who died a long time ago.”
“Well, I’d say she’s a smart lady. I think I’d like her.”
Patrick chuckled. “I think she’d like you. That’d be an interesting meeting.” He shook his head and sighed. “I just don’t know that I can handle it, Sophia. You’ve got it. You know who you are. You know what you’re about. Chance… he’s had years to be out, to understand what all that means and how to deal with it. And… his mama doesn’t care.”
“It’s hard not having family to back you up. I can appreciate that. But in the end, it’s not about them. It can’t be.” She patted his leg and stood up. “I’ve gotta get back in. Can’t leave all those sexy men all alone.” She winked at him. “I won’t tell him tonight. But you think about what I’ve said, darlin’. I still say you’re the best for him. And he is for you. You two work together, and that doesn’t happen for everyone. He still loves you.” And with that parting shot, she went inside.
Patrick sat out there for a little longer, letting her words roll around in his head. He realized, as he went back in, that he was starting to wonder if the future had to look so bleak after all. He just wished he could keep thinking like that.
He had no idea how he got through the next week. He did know part of it was looking forward to Wednesday, though he still didn’t know if he was going to go this time. He wanted to, badly. He needed to see Chance again, who’d seemed to turn downright invisible at the studio. But he also knew it would hurt like hell, like it had last time.
Another part of the week was taken up by a healthy dose of Rhys, who’d started to threaten to sleep on the floor every night if Patrick didn’t go eat with him or Angelo and Sebastian or Marcy—who, Patrick knew—would call and report in to Rhys. Life was a lot simpler without his friend on an air mattress, so he made Rhys happy, ate with someone, and didn’t even complain. Because, in the end, he knew they just cared.
The days at work were still hell. He held himself together on set, putting every ounce of his talent as an actor into looking like he was back to normal. Angelo and Sebastian saw through it, but it got him what he needed to make Jack happy, and that was what mattered the most. They didn’t want him to go back to his dressing room between scenes or at lunch, but it was the only way he could keep from losing it like he did that first day. If he could drop the act for short periods, he could better handle putting up the front when he needed to. So they brought him food and coffee, and someone kept him company most times. Even so, the breaks and lunches were still pretty brutal. Chrissy had to fix his makeup a lot. He was grateful she didn’t give him shit over it.
The weekend had been blessed with needing an extra day of shooting. As hard as things were on set, it at least occupied his mind. So he’d managed to spend Saturday
on set as well as the rest of the week. And Sunday, Rhys dragged him to the beach, insisting he needed to get out in the sun. Patrick had agreed but only if Rhys would practice bits of a fighting scene they had coming up. Rhys had countered with lunch and dinner. Finally, Patrick gave in, tired of fighting.
On the way home that night, he’d felt better than he had in two weeks. When he realized it, however, his mood plunged, and he spent the next few miles fighting the urge to cry, getting pissed at himself for wanting to, for letting his guard down. And feeling guilty for feeling better.
Rhys slept on an air mattress on the floor that night. Patrick tried to argue he’d be fine with a shower and sleep. Rhys didn’t believe him—and truthfully, Patrick couldn’t blame him—so Patrick had come back with the fact that Rhys didn’t have clothes and Patrick’s were all too small. Rhys, apparently, had an answer for that too.
Annoyingly, he’d taken to keeping spare clothes in the Z’s tiny trunk.
But when Patrick woke up at two in the morning, unable to sleep, his emotions bottoming out, he was grateful Rhys had insisted. Chance’s face was still fading from his mind when his insides did another of those knot-tying tricks they were so good at. Patrick battled for air again, staring at, but not seeing, the ceiling above him. He turned and looked over at Chance’s picture, which now had a permanent place on the coffee table. Chance’s face, smiling at him from his parents’ beach in Kane’ohe, had been the tiny bit he’d needed to knock him over the edge.
And had it not been for Rhys’s hand on his back and the quiet nonsense comfort sounds Rhys made, he might have spent the rest of the night like that.
“I am such a fucking asshole,” Patrick said through his hands when he calmed down.
“Nah. I mean, yeah, you’re an asshole, but we all are. Most people are much worse than you.”
Patrick chuckled. “Thanks. I think.” He shook his head, scrubbed his hands over his face, and looked over at his friend. “This shit’s gotta be getting old for you. It’s old for me.” He was getting tired of being treated like they were watching him for signs of suicide. But the truth of it was, everything was still too close to the surface, and Patrick knew—as did Rhys, Sebastian, Angelo, Sophia, and Marcy—if he was left to his own devices, he’d sink right back into the same depression he’d been in when Rhys kicked his ass the first time. So he knew he needed it. That knowledge didn’t make it any easier to take.
Rhys shrugged. “The air mattress certainly isn’t the most comfortable place to sleep. But I’ve slept in worse places.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
Rhys nodded. “Yup. Let’s see….” He tilted his head in thought. “I slept on a pool table once. I’ve slept in a bathtub more than once—that sucked, I can tell you. Six three and a standard bathtub do not mix. Um, I’ve spent more time sleeping out on the ground than I care to remember. So, yeah.”
With a sigh, Patrick stood up. “I’m getting water. You want some?”
“Sure.”
Patrick nodded and headed to the kitchen. About halfway there, he paused. “Rhys?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. Again.”
“Just get my water, asshole.”
Chapter 29
Chance sat at his usual table, rubbing his temples. He wanted to be just about anywhere but there that night. The thought of singing for all those people, pretending he was fine, made his stomach turn and the throbbing in his head amplify. But he’d already ditched Sophia once in the last month, and though he knew she wouldn’t give him shit for the lack of a show—she had a DJ on standby for just such a night—Chance liked to think of himself as a professional. And in his opinion, professionals didn’t bug out on a show because they had a headache and a broken heart. He also felt he owed her, after all she’d done. So, he rubbed at his temples, hoping the pain would subside enough to make it no more than uncomfortable when he got into the lights.
Part of his headache wasn’t even there yet. He wasn’t even positive Patrick would be there. He was still half convinced his glimpse of Patrick the week before was his imagination. Sophia had insisted she hadn’t seen him, but Chance wasn’t entirely positive she was being completely honest.
He couldn’t get mad at her, though. She was the head of his Non-Depression Committee. Even after going back to work, she hadn’t let up, either keeping an eye on him herself or making sure Marcy or Sebastian and Angelo did. And he knew it was because she really did care about him.
“Take these, darlin’.”
Chance opened his eyes to see Sophia sitting next to him, holding a couple of what looked like Tylenol and a glass of water. “Thank you.” He took them and downed the water, then closed his eyes and went back to rubbing his temples.
“You gonna be okay? You don’t have to play tonight.”
He shook his head. “I will. Just… need to get rid of this headache.”
“Well, part of your headache’s never going away. I’m here to stay, honey.”
Chance laughed. “Damn. I had hope.”
She smacked his shoulder. “How are you feeling besides that?”
Chance shook his head. “I’m here. That’s… about all I’ll give.”
“Are you sure…?”
He snickered. “I must look like hell for you to say this.”
Sophia snorted. “You do.”
“Thanks. I think.” He opened his eyes again and gave her a weak smile.
She chuckled. “You’re welcome. I’m going to go greet a few people. If you change your mind—”
“I won’t. Get lost.”
She laughed, patted him on the shoulder, and left him alone.
He closed his eyes again and rested his head in his hands for a while, letting his mind wander and the painkiller work. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see Patrick or not.
The last several days at the studio had been difficult, at best. He’d done what he could to stay out of sight, taking any opportunity he could to go somewhere besides the active set. Because when he did see Patrick, all he could do was stare and drink in every detail.
He didn’t like to admit Patrick wasn’t looking that great, but it was true. At one point he’d watched Patrick give his lines and then Jack cut the scene. As soon as he did, Patrick turned and headed straight for his dressing room. The look on his face had Chance staring after him for several stunned moments. He’d looked miserable.
And for the first time since it all happened, Chance started to wonder if his assumptions about Patrick had been true.
He rubbed his face and sat up, looking around. Patrick wasn’t there yet, but the main part of the club was starting to fill up. With a sigh he noticed his headache had started to fade. It was time to get to work.
By the time Wednesday rolled around, Patrick had just about convinced himself not to go. He stayed in his dressing room until he was sure everyone else had left, hoping to avoid Rhys. He’d managed to get Rhys to go home last night, after he’d eaten dinner and proven he wasn’t going to fall apart. It took some convincing, but Rhys finally gave in.
Patrick should have known it wasn’t going to last.
He was sitting in the makeup chair, paging through but not looking at a magazine Chrissy had left behind. He glanced at the clock to see it was going on seven. He frowned, trying to decide if it would be safe to leave, when the door behind him opened.
He sighed, then spun in the seat to consider his friend. “I’m getting better, really. I can feed myself. I can—and do—shower.”
Rhys snorted. “Cold leftover pizza isn’t eating. Yes, you shower, but you still don’t sleep well.”
Patrick frowned, annoyed that Rhys was right. “I’ll eat with you if you go home.”
Rhys laughed. “Whatever, come on. I’m hungry.”
Patrick sighed, noting Rhys hadn’t actually agreed. “I have my car here.”
“Okay, and? You can follow me. I’m not worried. I know that if you don’t, I can always climb your balc
ony and knock until you either let me in or punch me. Either way, you’d have to open the door.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Come on, asshole.”
“I don’t deny it,” Rhys agreed, grinning. Patrick took a swipe, annoyed that he was glad he wasn’t going to be alone after all.
After dropping Patrick’s car at the apartment building, they went to the same steak place as the first night. When they were seated in the same corner booth and the same young waiter, Gabe, showed up, Patrick nearly kicked himself this time. He took a better look at the kid and realized something he hadn’t when they were there before: Gabe looked a lot like a younger version of him.
No wonder Rhys was attracted. Patrick refrained from teasing so much this time.
It was still kind of funny to watch Rhys struggle around the kid. Because Gabe flirted and did just about anything he could to get Rhys’s attention. And Rhys, interestingly enough, seemed to be trying to fight returning the flirting.
Patrick ate his steak and watched for a while but decided to help his friend. When Gabe came back for refills, he glanced at Rhys, then turned back to Gabe. “So, Gabe, do you know my friend here’s on TV?”
Gabe blushed. “Yeah, I know who you guys are. Uh, I didn’t want to say anything, but… uh….”
Patrick grinned. “Want his autograph?”
Gabe’s eyes lit up, and Rhys kicked Patrick under the table. Patrick grinned wider, tugged one of the napkins out, and pushed it toward Rhys. “Can he borrow your pen?”
Rhys glowered at Patrick, but he took the offered pen and signed his name on the napkin, then pushed it to Patrick. Patrick tried to hand it to Gabe, but the kid shook his head.
“Can I have yours too?”
Patrick raised his eyebrows but signed. Then he had a wicked thought. He flipped the napkin over, and before Rhys could react, he wrote out: “He thinks you’re cute too. Call him,” and put Rhys’s phone number at the bottom.
Gabe picked it up and held it gingerly, folding it carefully before tucking it into his apron. “Thank you.” He pretty much floated away.
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