With a modicum of pity, Maisie reached out for Cassie’s hand. “Come. I’ll show you.”
They took a few steps through the living room toward Patrick’s bedroom. “You have a Christmas tree,” Cassie exclaimed.
“We found it in GUP’s garage.”
“It’s pink.” Cassie thought she would focus on the tree’s appearance rather than the fact that it was July.
“I would have preferred blue.” Maisie shrugged. What are you going to do?
“By the way, who’s coming to this party?” Patrick turned around, but Cassie was already gone. “You know what? I’ll be surprised.” He looked down at his nephew. “Seriously, though. Where is the dog’s bow tie?”
Grant looked over each shoulder and then lost interest. “Did you know snails can sleep for three years?”
“Did you know that forty percent of icebergs are penguin piss?”
Grant’s jaw dropped. “Is that true?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?” He mussed Grant’s hair to make it look more stylish. “Would you like a martini?”
“I’m six.”
“Is that a yes?”
The doorbell curtailed their conversation.
* * *
By nine o’clock, the party was in full swing. Patrick was both touched and horrified by the number of people who had made the two-hour drive. More than that, who committed to spending the night in Palm Springs; there was no driving back to Los Angeles after an open bar. He should have had Cassie book a group rate at the Parker. Patrick was loath to admit, but she had done a remarkable job with the guest list. All of his friends and a few of his frenemies, but none of his enemies, and a smattering of up-and-comers who you would want to be seen at any A-list event. It’s like she’d read back issues of Us Weekly to see who was in and who was out, or at the very least the list of people he passively followed on gay Twitter.
“Cassie!” Patrick remarked when he finally caught sight of her in his caftan. “Bravo.” She looked amazing and knew it, so she beamed and gave him a spin. “And this is quite a crowd!” He was legitimately impressed.
“They’re all here for you!” she replied, but her smile was not nearly as radiant as her dress. Patrick raised a stern eyebrow. “Fine. And for the Eagles. They’re playing tomorrow night at Agua Caliente and I bribed them all with tickets. I can’t tell if they’re being ironic, but they think Don Henley is cool.” She steeled herself for Patrick’s wrath; instead he placed his hand gently on her shoulder.
“Well done. And I like that you tell me the truth.”
Guests smiled and waved as Patrick weaved through the crowd, many hugged him tight and declared some version of Where have you been?, each putting their emphasis on a different word in the question. Patrick smiled back and did his best to remember little inside jokes he had with each of them. He whispered something about a vegan ham to Jeremy Dykstra; they had both been to a disastrous Easter brunch at a well-known publicist’s house. He summoned his inner Marlon to yell, “STELLLLA!” at Malina Kuhn, as she had once reenacted in horrific detail her disastrous college production of A Streetcar Named Desire in which Blanche DuBois had a lisp （I have alwayth depended on the kindneth of thtrangers—he would have to get Grant to say that later）。 He stopped to place his hand on Max Crosley’s arm and said, “Why didn’t you tell me?” and when Max said, “What?” Patrick replied, “To bring along my harmonica.” He could never pass up the opportunity to quote Eleanor Parker’s character from The Sound of Music to anyone named Max; in another life Patrick would have made a perfect Baroness.
In truth, it was good to see the house so . . . full. Alive with people. He felt like part of something again, seen. But also strangely like a ghost, invisible. These parties were happening in Los Angeles night after night, week after week, without him. People were happy to see him tonight, sure. They would greet him, then retreat into conversations with themselves, afraid perhaps of becoming trapped in a conversation with the crazy man who left Hollywood. He had to be mad. Why, after all, would anyone leave LA at the height of their success? What was he doing in Palm Springs? Was he part of a cult? Mentally ill? Addicted to sonic therapies and sound baths? Had he found God in Joshua Tree or was he going to ask them for money, for favors, their souls?
It was off-putting.
But Patrick didn’t realize how deep the hole he’d dug for himself in the desert sand had become until he grabbed the hand of Adam Harper; there was instant gravitational pull. He could feel himself, if not quite rescued, buoyed. Like spotting the lights of a distant ocean liner while adrift on a raft at sea, or a diver giving you a hit of oxygen from his tank when yours was running out. It didn’t hurt that Patrick wouldn’t mind a little mouth-to-mouth from his former costar, but Adam, all six-three of him, was hopelessly, tragically straight. “Come here, you big gorilla.”