Emory.
Patrick opened the door slowly to avoid the squeaking thing it did.
“So, I was in the neighborhood.” Emory flashed this full-tooth smile/eye roll combo that looked not unlike that GIF of young Marlon Brando that everyone sends around. When Patrick said nothing in return, he leaned his head in the doorway and pouted with his lower lip.
Goddammit.
“No one’s ever in this neighborhood, which is precisely why I live here.” Patrick leaned on his door and it swung him flirtatiously closer to his guest. “Want to try that again?”
“It’s Coachella,” Emory offered.
“The music festival? That’s in April.”
“Modernism Week?”
“February, I think.”
“Palm Springs Pride.”
“November.”
“The White Party?”
“I forget what that is, but I’m certain it’s not going on now.”
“Dinah Shore?”
“That’s for lesbians.”
“I could be a lesbian.” His glasses were not unlike Rachel Maddow’s.
“Sure.”
There was nothing left for Emory to do but come clean. “Some friends of mine were renting a house in Palm Desert, so I crashed for a few days. Thought I’d stop by my friend Patrick’s and see if he wanted to go for a swim.”
Patrick considered the situation carefully, weighing the odds of waking anyone against his desire for company, and then stepped out of the way to usher Emory inside. “Kids are asleep.”
“They still here?”
Patrick made a face—Of course—but they had never discussed his custodial arrangement, so Patrick had no reason to hold him at fault. “Drink?”
“Sure, I’m not driving.”
“Then how are you getting back to LA?”
Emory gave it some thought, but not much. “I always find a way.”
It was the thing Patrick missed most about youth, the assumption that everything would just work itself out. That and his back not hurting. He shook his head as Emory stepped inside and then motioned for Emory to follow him to the kitchen.
“Whoa,” Emory said when he saw what was left of Sara’s celebration on the counter. “You guys murdered that cake.”
“Yeah, we did a number.” He put some ice in two glasses; it landed with a nice clink that whet Patrick’s thirst. “You know Wang Chung?”
“Gay Chinese place? Over on Indian Canyon?”
“Not even close.”
“Then, no.”
Patrick glared at his guest skeptically. “When’d you graduate high school?”
Emory attempted a quick calculation in his head. “I don’t know. I took a test.” He scratched his chin. “When was Obama president?”
“Oh, god,” Patrick muttered while pouring two glasses of vodka; it was worse than he thought. He tipped himself a little extra before handing a glass to Emory. “Cheers.”
They tapped glasses without breaking eye contact and then Patrick led him back to the living room.
“Still Christmas, I see.” Emory glanced at the artificial tree. Patrick looked up, surprised, startled to see so much pink tinsel. It had sort of faded into the general décor; he hardly noticed it as out of place anymore. The tree had become a strange heart to the home, the white lights nestled deep in its branches pumping a flattering Pepto Bismol glow to their evenings. It was a salve when things felt unsettled.
“It’s sort of a tie-a-yellow-ribbon thing. Their dad gets back next week. I told them they could leave it up.”
“Yellow ribbon? It’s pink.”
Patrick sipped his vodka, letting it warm his throat. “Iran hostages? Yellow ribbons around old oak trees? Tony Orlando and Dawn?!”
Emory shrugged.
“Wang Chung is a band, by the way.”
“Are you sure? Because it sounds made-up.”
“It was the eighties. Everything sounded made-up.” Patrick rattled off a list of bands in his head: T’Pau, Kajagoogoo . . . Bananarama. “People did a lot of coke.”
Emory stared at him blankly.
Patrick cleared his throat. “Not that I’m old enough to remember.”
His guest kicked off a pair of tennis shoes so white that Patrick wondered if he didn’t clean them with Windex. Emory tucked a bare foot underneath him on the couch, leaning into the corner of the sectional. “So, are you like a dad now?”
It was a loaded question, and Patrick was at a loss for a smart comeback. He allowed himself to get lost in Emory’s face. He didn’t have the facial architecture that normally sent people scrambling; his nose was crooked in that sexy broken way, and his eyes were almost too far apart. It was inviting. It worked on him with an effortless ease, as if he’d practiced for years making his features work in concert, then committing it to memory so he could forget it all and project a certain nonchalance. The way he smiled out of one corner of his mouth was a perfect example. He probably learned all this in an acting class, or worse—a class on auditioning.