Patrick blushed. It was so stupid, Emory’s celebration of him.
“Beats doing a Western in the rain,” the extra huffed before continuing down the New York block on their way, perhaps, to an old saloon.
Patrick handed Emory back his glasses. “We really do need to walk the dog first.”
Emory scuffed the sidewalk with his shoe. “Okay,” he said. “But we’re making that a euphemism.”
Patrick kissed Emory in the middle of the street until all of New York fell away.
THIRTY-ONE
“TEN MINUTES TO CURTAIN!”
The frantic banging on dressing room doors up and down the hall caused Patrick to smirk; it was just the jolt of electricity he needed before this performance. He poked his head out of his dressing room just as the stage manager, a rather humorless nonbinary person named Kacey for whom he’d developed a begrudging respect （even though they were immune to Patrick’s innumerable charms）， passed his dressing room. “The house seats I asked for. Did that all work out?”
“Work out how?”
“Are they here,” Patrick implored.
Kacey rang for the box office on their headset. “House seats for Patrick O’Hara. How many. All five?” They covered their microphone. “All five.”
“They’ve arrived?” Kacey nodded, yes. “Okay, that’s good. Good. Thank you. Go.” He gave them a nod to keep moving, not wanting to be responsible for holding the curtain.
“Fall down some stairs,” Kacey said before screaming, “NINE MINUTES. NINE MINUTES, PEOPLE.”
Patrick laughed. It wasn’t exactly “Break a leg,” but since the play was Michael Frayn’s Noises Off and he was playing Garry Lejeune, the play-within-a-play’s leading man, he would indeed be, as part of his blocking, falling down a flight of stairs after slipping on a sardine. A choreographer friend taught him to do it just so, but still after a tech and three dress rehearsals he was feeling sore, especially after the second dress when he twisted left instead of right and his shoulder took the brunt. He stepped back inside his dressing room and sat, then studied himself in the mirror. The mustache was still there. He thought he might shave it after the kids returned home, but he’d grown accustomed to it and it seemed to fit his character. The lighting was good; throughout rehearsals he’d taken goofy selfies and sent them to Greg for the kids. He looked older, but he liked it. He had lived a life and survived it.
On his table sat a program. Westport County Playhouse Presents NOISES OFF. He had nearly given Cassie a small heart attack when he told her to turn down the pilot, but she managed to work it all out. Patrick told her he needed a year, and they compromised: it takes a year to get a show off the ground anyhow, and as long as he made himself available in March to shoot the pilot he could have most of that time for himself. She’d even found him a play in Connecticut, earning her commission and then some. It wasn’t Broadway, but it held some prestige with the New York critics, so it wasn’t such a bad deal; he could see the kids through their first year back home, meeting them most days after school. He was even introduced to Maisie’s friend Audra Brackett, who was—as advertised—a delight. Once his new TV show began production, he’d be six months in LA and six months in New York. For the first time in his life he’d be bi.
Patrick glanced at his photo in the program and at those of his castmates. It made him happy, being part of a team. His solo show in the desert had gone on long after it should have closed. He was excited to show the kids what he did, firsthand. GUP. Their guncle. Onstage. YouTube didn’t stand a chance against the magic of live theater.
Knock, knock, knock.
Taylor, one of the stagehands, stood behind him, reflected in the mirror, looking nervous. “Visitor,” he said. “I told her there was no time, but she insisted.” He stepped back to reveal Clara standing in the doorway, holding a bouquet of roses.
Patrick chuckled. “It’s okay, Taylor. Thank you.” It wasn’t his fault. Someone in his position of low authority would never win an argument with his sister.
“For you,” Clara said, handing him the flowers. She took in her surroundings, seemingly unimpressed.
“It’s not The Tonight Show, Clara. The dressing rooms are small.”
“I’ve never been backstage at a theater,” she said. “It’s kind of exciting.”
Patrick hugged the bouquet. “Thank you for these.” He slipped open the card. Inside was a note. Welcome back, it said, and it was signed, Your biggest fans. “From everyone?” Patrick asked, and Clara indicated that they were. He placed the flowers on his dressing table, stood, and kissed her cheek. It was awkward, but forgiving, and Clara seemed to smile. When he stood back, he adjusted his gaudy powder blue suit, his costume. Clara smoothed the wide lapels. “Oh, hey listen. I’m supposed to do press tomorrow. Do you think you could meet the kids after school?”