“Great party.” It took a second for the voice to register. It was Emory.
“Is that you, Chunky Glasses?” What the hell was he still doing here? Patrick had assumed he was halfway back to LA. He approached his pool slowly, hoping he projected a certain nonchalance.
“In the flesh.”
Patrick sat on the edge of the lounge chair next to Emory’s, allowing himself a moment to imagine that flesh; he may be a family man now but he was still a man. “I sit here at night sometimes, to look at the stars. After a while your eyes adjust and you can make out the crest of the mountains.”
“I was doing just that. Until you blinded me with the pool light.” He took a drag on his cigarette before ashing it over the deck.
Patrick had forgotten that people still smoked. “Sorry. I thought for a minute there you might be some sort of bum.”
“You get a lot of them out here—bums? Scaling your private wall?” His smoky voice rumbled from his throat like an old muscle car bearing down. It added to his James Dean charm.
Patrick laughed. “I thought it sounded less conceited than ‘fans.’ You shouldn’t smoke.”
“I don’t.”
“Neither do I.” Patrick reached over, relieved Emory of the cigarette, and placed it to his lips. The paper crackled as he inhaled, or at least he imagined it did; it might have been the little fireworks in his head set off by the idea of his lips being where Emory’s had just been seconds ago. “It’s nice, the stars. They make me feel unimportant. In a good way. Like my problems don’t matter. They’re not problems. I’m not anything. Just insignificant bits of star dust.”
“Is retirement that stressful?” Emory kicked Patrick’s chair playfully and it moved an inch on the concrete, making a lewd scratching sound. “Listen to yourself. Insignificant bits of star dust.” He blew air through his lips in playful disgust.
Patrick smiled. “Did I say I was retired?” He handed the cigarette back to his guest. “I thought you left. How is it you’re the last one here?”
Emory shrugged. “I love to shut a party down. To be there for the very end. Lots of people say it’s polite to leave early. To not overstay your welcome. But I’m amazing. Who would get tired of me? And what greater compliment can you give the host than not wanting his party to be over?”
Patrick thought about this. He had always been a fan of the Irish goodbye; not leaving a party had never occurred to him.
“Plus, I have terrible FOMO. After-parties are the best parties. All the interesting things happen at the end of the night, don’t you think?”
Patrick hoped the bluish light from the pool masked the reddening of his cheeks as it rippled across his face. “Like what?”
“Like getting to talk to some star dust.”
Patrick’s heart raced, although it might have been the nicotine. Was this flirting, or a genuine dig at his age and faded celebrity?
“Actually . . .” Emory waved his iPhone so Patrick could see. “Phone’s dead. I was hoping you could call me a Lyft.” He held himself together for a three-count before bursting into ridiculous laughter, like he’d been baiting Patrick all along.
Patrick laughed, too, if only to be a good sport. He waited for Emory to compose himself, then asked, “Did you have fun tonight?”
Emory removed his glasses and set them on a cocktail table. He rolled his head toward Patrick so that he was looking earnestly his way. Strangely, he looked older without the glasses; there was a fervent zest in his eyes. “Did you?”
Patrick watched as Emory stubbed the cigarette out on his pool deck. He’d have to remember to clean that up tomorrow before the kids asked about it. He picked Emory’s glasses up off the table and tried them on, then flopped his head back against the chair. It felt intimate. He thought the lenses would be fake, but it turned out they were a weak, but real, prescription. Patrick reached back to recline farther in the lounger. He closed his eyes and felt the weight of the frames push against his face. “I did.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Mmmmm.” His lips tickled as they vibrated.
Emory adjusted his chair until it mimicked his host’s and they were equally recumbent. “We talk about you, you know.”
“Who’s we?”
“Us.”
Patrick laughed. He still didn’t know what Emory meant. His friends? New Hollywood? The next generation of TV’s second bananas? Magazine? “Okay.”