“To Connecticut.”
He sat back down. “Just for that, we’re going to sit here and take our time.”
“No.”
“And I’m going to tell them that it’s your birthday so they’ll come bang on some pots and pans.”
“You can’t make me stay here!”
“Oh, do you have any ride-share apps on your phone?” Patrick waved his phone at her tauntingly. Maisie lunged for it, but he pulled back just in time. She folded her arms in a pout.
“I’ll walk.”
“You can’t walk, you’ll get heatstroke and collapse from thirst.”
Maisie picked up her glass of water and defiantly headed for the door.
“All right. That’s it. NO MORE MR. NICE GAY!” Patrick threw his napkin on the table in disgust. “Sit. Down.”
“Or what?”
The truth was, there weren’t a lot of threats he could make and follow through on. But that didn’t mean he was willing to be pushed around. “You can’t spell nemesis without me, sis. And you do not want to make me your enemy.” He stood up, placed his hands on her shoulders, and guided her back to the table; surprisingly, she didn’t fight him. “Let’s all just take a breath and wait for our food.”
“Did you know a flamingo’s knees are actually it’th ankles?”
“Is that true?” Patrick turned to Grant.
“Yeah,” he said with a surprising authority.
Patrick thought for a moment. “Did you know a duel between three people is called a truel?” It was something he’d learned in a Shakespeare class in college, or thought he had. Memory was a tricky thing. He hoped it was true, as it was surprisingly relevant now. “You kids have it made. You know that? I have all the spoils of success and no natural heirs. All you have to do is be a little bit nice to me and I’ll make sure you’re set for life. That’s all you have to do. And change my diapers when I’m old.”
Grant laughed. “Gross!”
Patrick kissed Grant on top of the head and squeezed him into his side like an emotional support animal. He wasn’t going to tell either one of them, but he had no plans to stick around that long. He never wanted to be the first to leave a party, but, unlike his friend Emory, he didn’t want to be the last to hang around, either. He certainly wouldn’t endure the indignity of diapers. “Yeah, you’re right. We’ll hire someone to do that.”
The waiter arrived with precision timing. He placed the corn pancakes in front of the kids before handing Patrick his granola. “Everyone happy?”
“Happiness is overrated; we’re all just fine enough. Thank you. Cheers.” He lifted his Bloody Mary in a celebratory gesture to thank the waiter again for giving it to him.
“Can I have thyrup, GUP?”
Patrick pushed the syrup toward Grant. He poured the granola over his yogurt and topped it with fresh berries, remembering all the times he’d tortured his mother with smart-ass remarks. To this day he wasn’t clear why. He grew four inches overnight and his bones hurt. Testosterone coursed wildly through his body, wreaking havoc on his skin, which was maddeningly both oily and dry. The acne medication he begged to be on required regular blood tests at the doctor’s office he abhorred and made his lips chap. He loved a boy and didn’t understand yet why, and the boy caught him staring and told the whole school, causing Patrick to feel more isolated than he already had and so desperately, totally alone. He told his mother she was a bad mother. He told her she had no life. When she asked him to clean his room one time he muttered, “Menopause must be hell.” He thought he had whispered under his breath, but it was loud enough for her to hear. He cursed her silently at the dinner table, angry that she could not understand things that he would never allow her to see. But the whole time, he had a mother to curse, to hate, to forgive. He had a mother to stand there and listen, to take these tirades and to forgive him right back.
“I’m sorry, Maisie.” Patrick reached out and put his hand on hers, which was gripping her fork in a tight fist. “For anything I said that upset you. I’m the grown-up and I should know better.”
Maisie didn’t say anything, or even really look up. But he thought he saw her head bob, and you could feel the slightest bit of air escape from this overinflated balloon.
Patrick continued. “Did you notice our waiter’s name? Gale. It was on his name tag. Now, that’s something I like. Men who can pull off women’s names. Give me a male Hillary, or a Bertie. Sandy, even. Give me an Evelyn Waugh. I met an Ashley once on a plane and I almost married him. It might have been a latent Gone with the Wind thing.”