A Fluid State

by Rob Browatzke

  §

  Andrew took them to the Duchess after for lunch. It was late enough in the day that the bottomless mimosa crowd would be long gone. Patrick was trying, and succeeding, but being inundated with a restaurant full of drunk brunching gays was hard enough for Andrew some days. Patrick certainly wouldn’t be up to the challenge.

  “I’ve never been here before,” Patrick said. “I’d heard about it, but thought it was closed.”

  “It re-opened,” Andrew said. “And a glorious day it was. Best brunch in the city, but don’t worry, they do a great lunch too.”

  “I’d make a joke about stereotypes and gays and brunch but I’m sure you’ve heard them all.”

  “Can we do it now?” Peter said, putting the nail polish on the table. “Andrew, can you help me?”

  “Do you mind, Patrick?”

  “Why not?” Patrick said. “Better to have a professional help than me.”

  Andrew smiled. “Here, Peter, give me your hand.”

  The waiter came and took their order while Andrew applied a coat of the silver polish. Peter had decided not to go with a glitter one, opting instead for something he could wear with more outfits. Andrew couldn’t help but notice Patrick trying to ignore what was happening while they talked. Baby steps, Andrew thought.

  “Here, now,” Andrew said, “wave that hand like this, and let me do your other.”

  “Can you not do that here please?”

  They all turned their heads, to where a man at the next table was glaring at them. An old, white man. Of course.

  “I beg your pardon?” Andrew said.

  “It’s bad enough you’re letting him dress like that. Do you really need to do that in public?”

  “What did you say?” Patrick said, standing up.

  “Patrick, please.”

  “No. What did you say to my son?”

  The man stood up. He was gray-haired and sneering. His wife, hair pulled tight and face pulled tighter, looked equally unpleasant.

  “It’s how you recruit, hey? Turning them young?”

  Andrew had heard all this before, but it was a new sensation for Patrick. Andrew jumped to his feet as Patrick stepped towards the next table. He put his hand on Patrick’s chest. “Don’t. It’s not worth it.”

  “Dad, please don’t.”

  “Listen to your boyfriend and daughter,” the man said.

  “Why you-”

  “Patrick, please.” Andrew could feel Patrick vibrating under his hand.

  “What’s going on here?” The manager approached, several serving staff behind him. Andrew knew them all.

  “This gentleman here, and I use the term loosely, is being a homophobic asshole,” he said. “Sorry for the disturbance, Jon.”

  “I see.” Jon turned to the other table. “I’ll need to ask you to leave,” Jon said. “We don’t want your kind here.”

  “I see what kind you do want,” the man said. “Irene, come on. Let’s find somewhere else to eat.”

  “I’ve quite lost my appetite,” the wife said, standing up.

  The other tables applauded as the two left. “Thank you, Jon,” Andrew said.

  “Sorry for this,” he said. “You know we don’t allow assholes here.” He turned around and said to their server, “Comp their meals please.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” Andrew said.

  “My pleasure. Please, enjoy your meal. And son, your nails look great.”

  Andrew looked down at Peter, who was sitting there, mouth open, shaking and on the verge of tears. Jon left, shoo’ing the staff back to work. Andrew realized his hand was still on Patrick’s shoulder and that Patrick was standing there, still vibrating.

  “It’s over,” Andrew said, squeezing Patrick’s arm to reassure him.

  (And what an arm!)

  “I... I don’t even have words...”

  “Sit down, Patrick. Let’s not let it ruin our lunch.”

  Patrick sat back down, and took a deep breath. “How did you stay so calm? I wanted to rip him apart.”

  “You wouldn’t have.”

  “Oh, I would have.”

  “Not in front of Peter.”

  Patrick turned to his son, noticing how upset he was. “I’m sorry about that, champ. That man is wrong. There’s nothing wrong with you. Not one damn thing.”

  Peter looked at his dad. “Can I go wash this off?” he asked, looking down at his hands.

  “Oh no,” Patrick said. “You aren’t letting him ruin something you like.”

  “But, Dad...”

  “Peter, listen to me. You want silver nails, you can have silver nails. In fact, let’s all have silver nails.” He brought his arm down on the table. “Andrew, if you don’t mind...?”

  Andrew grinned at him. This man didn’t stop surprising him. “Are you sure?”

  “Hell, yes! And then you better do yours too. We can all have silver nails.”

  Andrew picked up the bottle. Peter was grinning now, and Andrew felt tears welling up in his eyes. He pulled Patrick’s hand closer. The hand was still shaking. “Hold steady, mister. I don’t want to mess up your first polish.”

  “You better not,” Patrick said. Their eyes met across the table. Andrew tried to convey a lot with his eyes. He tried to tell Patrick how incredible a father he was. He tried to tell Patrick how incredible a man he was. He tried to tell Patrick what it meant to someone like Andrew to see a straight man stand up for a son like Peter.

  (You’re falling for him)

  He tried to tell Patrick everything but that.

  PATRICK

  How dare some random son-of-a-bitch say that to his son? If protecting Peter meant silver nail polish, so be it. If protecting Peter meant wearing Ann’s one piece swimsuit, he’d do it (even though he couldn’t figure out where he was supposed to put his junk).

  Look at Peter. He was vibrating. Still. Even after Andrew had finished applying nail polish on all their hands (and the waiter’s). What could Patrick say to make whatever Peter was feeling go away? He wasn’t good with words.

  “There’s no point in letting any of this ruin our lunch,” Andrew said, and Patrick thought, not for the first time, how grateful he was to have met him. Maybe Patrick wouldn’t ever know what Peter was feeling, to dress and look the way he did, but Andrew knew, and it was important for Peter to get that message: that how you dressed didn’t change who you were.

  “May I be excused?” Peter asked, and Patrick nodded.

  “You need to calm down,” Andrew said after Peter left. “Your knuckles are white.”

  “I can’t believe them. Who says shit like that to complete strangers? To a kid?”

  “People do all the time, Patrick. There’s all kinds of bigots out there.”

  “I just want to protect him.”

  “I know. But you also can’t do that with your fists.”

  “Like hell I can’t.”

  “He was scared of you, too,” Andrew said.

  It was like a slap across the face. “What?”

  “I was watching him. He’s a sensitive kid, Patrick. He didn’t want to see his dad clobber someone, no matter how much they deserved it.”

  “It’s how I react. It’s all I have to give him.”

  “Are you kidding me, Patrick? You have so much more. Look at your hands. That silver on your fingers is worth more to him than you going out and beating up every homophobe on the planet.”

  Patrick looked down. Could Andrew be right? He hadn’t thought about it, when he asked him to paint his nails. It was all he could do not to chase that asshole and his bitch wife out the door.

  “Total parenting win,” Andrew said. “You done good.”

  Patrick thought about that as Peter came and sat back down. He sat there, toying with his food.

  “Can I talk to you about what just happened, champ?”

  “Sure,” Peter said without even looking up.

  “Dad got pretty angry there, and that wasn’t cool of me. Fighting i
sn’t the answer, you know.”

  “I know that.”

  “Did it scare you?”

  Peter stared down into his lap. “A little.”

  “Look at me, please,” he said. “I would never hurt you, you know that, right?”

  “I know.”

  “I only got mad like that because I didn’t want him hurting you.”

  “They’re just words.”

  “You’re a wonderful kid, you know that, Peter?”

  “Dad!” Peter blushed.

  “I think we need ice cream,” Andrew said. “There’s a great place down the street that has a sinful Rocky Road. What do you think?”

  “I think ice cream sounds good,” Patrick said, and mouthed “thank you” at Andrew.

  §

  They took their ice creams down into the river valley. The Tulgey stretched through the heart of River City, creating a deep valley filled with trails and parks in the middle of the downtown core. It was a gorgeous summer day and the sun beaming down helped Patrick forget about the douche at the Duchess.

  “Can I go on those swings, Dad?” Peter said, pointing ahead to a swing set in the next clearing.

  “Sure thing, champ.”

  Peter ran on ahead.

  “How was it?” Andrew asked.

  “Sorry?”

  “The Rocky Road.”

  “Oh. I don’t know if I’d say sinful, but it was good. I don’t think I’ve ever said sinful to be honest.”

  “So many firsts today,” Andrew replied, waving a silvered hand.

  “Ha! Enough for one day, I think.” Ahead, a tree branch jutted out. Patrick reached up and grabbed it. He swung back and forth. “Thanks again.”

  Andrew stared at him blankly. Patrick looked down. Swinging had pulled his shirt up, revealing the treasure trail of light blond hair that ran down his abs. He hopped to the ground and pulled it down. It was easy to forget Andrew was gay, but the look on his face was a reminder.

  “What? Sorry. No problem.”

  “You don’t have to spend the day with us,” Patrick said. “We can drive you home and go do something on our own.”

  “I’m having a good time,” Andrew said, then blushed and looked away.

  Andrew was clearly attracted to him. Patrick had known it since their barbecue. It should have bothered Patrick more than it did. He knew he was good looking. He spent a lot of time at the gym making sure he stayed that way. He hadn’t really ever thought about a guy being attracted to him though. He knew lots of guys he knew would have a problem with it, but he also knew Andrew wouldn’t ever cross a line.

  “Me too,” Patrick said, and he really was. He and Christy had had a lot of couple friends, but most of them had fallen away since the divorce. Christy, he knew, had a lot of single girlfriends now, but him? His life was the army and Peter. Andrew was just easy to talk to.

  “Look how much fun he’s having,” Andrew said.

  Peter was propelling himself higher and higher. Patrick felt a twinge of discomfort seeing his son there, skirt billowing in the breeze. And it was a skirt, not a kilt, no matter how much that might have helped Patrick rationalize it. But it was his son, and he loved him.

  “I can get higher than that,” Patrick said, nudging Andrew.

  “Oh? Sounds like a bet.” Andrew took off towards the swing set.

  “Oh really?” Patrick took off after him, passing him easily. He had hopped into the swing next to Peter and was airborne by the time Andrew arrived.

  “Fine,” Andrew said, “you beat me, but I’d kick your ass in heels.”

  Peter laughed. “I’d like to see that!”

  Andrew laughed too. “We can make it happen.”

  “I don’t think so,” Patrick said. There were some lines he just couldn’t cross.

  “Scared?”

  “I’m not doing it because you call me chicken.”

  “We could make it on a bet,” Andrew said.

  “Oh? What terms?”

  “Who can jump farthest off here.”

  “That’s dangerous,” Patrick said, turning to Peter. “Never do it.” He turned back to Andrew. “You’re on.”

  “Peter, can you judge?”

  Peter dragged his feet in the sand to stop his swing and ran ahead.

  “Stay plenty back,” Patrick said. “I don’t want you hurt.”

  “Dad!”

  “Who’s first?” Andrew said.

  “Ladies first,” Patrick said, with a smirk. “Sorry. I didn’t mean-”

  “It’s fine. I know.”

  Andrew began to propel himself higher and higher, legs in, legs out, legs in, legs out. Finally, he rode his swing to its highest part and jumped out. He went flying through the air, hitting the ground and wobbling on his feet.

  “Not a bad dismount,” Patrick hollered. “Eight out of ten. Peter, mark the spot, and clear the way, both of you. I’m going to show you how it’s done.”

  Patrick hadn’t been on a swing in years. How had this even happened? He was a grown man, and he was a soldier, and he was having an amazing time. He pumped himself up, and then went flying forward...

  ...and crashed to the ground with a sudden sharp pain in his ankle.

  “Fuck!”

  “Dad!” Peter and Andrew were right at him. “Are you okay? Is it broken?”

  “Just twisted, I think.” He tried to stand. “A bad twist though. Fuck.”

  “Here, let me help you,” Andrew said, wrapping his arm under Patrick’s armpits and helping him up.

  “Thanks. I think I just need to walk it off.”

  “Don’t be a hero. Lean on me.”

  “I am a hero though,” he said, forcing a pained and noble expression onto his face. “A great big war hero.”

  “Well, war hero, we should get you home.”

  “Probably not a bad idea,” Patrick said. “Here, champ, come help your old man.” He put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Let’s try a few steps.”

  They walked a few paces. It was definitely just a sprain, but he sure didn’t want to put all his weight on it. He paused and looked back. “Damn.”

  “What?” Peter asked.

  “All this, and I didn’t even win.” He grinned at Andrew, who grinned back.

  ANDREW

  He tried super hard not to think about the beautiful man his arm was wrapped around.

  Patrick was injured and Andrew was just helping, and it was completely inappropriate for Andrew to be thinking of this as an opportunity to get his hands on a hot-bodied straight guy. Then again, it was just a little ankle twist, and Patrick wouldn’t ever need to know if the memory of this moment sustained Andrew on a long, lonely night of self-loving.

  (Self-love is super important after all)

  It was the cephalic vein that did it really. It was a word Andrew had looked up when he realized that of all parts on the male body, that one vein, the one that crept down a bulging bicep, is the one that really turned him on. Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew could see Patrick’s, stretching out of the sleeve on the arm wrapped around Peter.

  Andrew had certainly fallen for a straight guy before, and had no intention of doing it again though. Yes, Patrick was hot, and worse, Patrick was a genuinely good guy, but he was also just so straight. The only reason he was hanging out with Andrew at all was for his son, and yes, that was endearing, but no, that didn’t mean anything other than what it was.

  (The arms are sure nice though)

  When they got out of the river valley to where Patrick had parked, Andrew asked, “are you good to drive? Or do you want me to?”

  “If you could, actually, that would be great,” Patrick said. “I just need to get ice on this.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to get it checked out?”

  “No, I just need to keep off it.”

  “I’ll drop you guys off at your place then,” Andrew said, “and just call a car to get home.”

  “Shit. Sorry. I never even thought about that.”
Patrick turned to Peter in the back seat. “Should we order in some pizza tonight? You can show me this show you love so much?”

  In the rear view mirror, Andrew saw Peter light up. “Sounds great! Andrew, do you wanna stay too?”

  “Champ, I bet Andrew has better things to do on a Saturday night.”

  “Actually, no,” Andrew said. “I mean, normally, I’d go to the Torch and have a few, but a Saturday in sounds nice too.”

  “Yay!” Peter said. “Britney and Brittany will be so jealous we got to hang out all day.”

  Andrew smiled. “Now don’t you get me in trouble with them,” he said.

  “I won’t. We should watch Season Eight. Then Dad can see Bob.”

  “He’s your friend?” Patrick asked.

  “Well, we worked together that once. I doubt she’d remember me though. That’s a good choice though, Peter. He’s a she though, remember.”

  “Bob?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what’s his name when he’s dressed up?”

  “Bob.”

  “What? Really?”

  “Yup. Bob the Drag Queen.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “It’ll make sense later,” Andrew said. He turned to Patrick. “We still get meat on one pizza, right?”

  “Damn straight,” Patrick said. “Well...” He grinned.

  “Half straight anyway,” Andrew said, grinning back.

  “Do you mind stopping at a liquor store on the way? If we’re getting pizza, we gotta get beer too.”

  “Me too, Dad?”

  “Sure, champ.”

  “What? Really?”

  “We can grab some root beer for you.”

  “Ha ha ha, very funny, Dad.”

  “Don’t worry, Peter. I like root beer too,” Andrew said.

  “But you’re having the real kind, right?” Peter asked.

  “Damn straight,” he replied, with a wink.

  §

  “Another beer?” Patrick said.

  “Jesus, I don’t know if I need one,” Andrew replied. “How many is that now?”

  “Just five.”

  “I’m a lightweight,” Andrew said with a shrug.

  “Clearly. I’m getting another.”

  “Fine. Grab me one. Can’t have you thinking you can outdrink us gays.”