“We do!”
Patrick opened one eye and turned his head. “Emory, is it?”
Now Emory laughed. “Yeah.” He held out his hand and Patrick took it, but instead of shaking, they just clasped hands.
“Patrick. But I guess you knew that. Since you came to my house and talk about me and whatnot. What kind of name is Emory?”
“Biblical. Old Testament. In Hebrew it means ‘happy.’”
“Are you . . . ?” Patrick let go of Emory, the sudden intimacy of holding hands overwhelming.
“Jewish? Want to go skinny-dipping and find out?” Emory winked, a second wink; it was both unbearably corny and undeniably sexy. Patrick laughed, this time genuinely. Oh, to be that confident again.
“Are you happy. That’s the better question.”
“Yeah,” Emory said, and then he leaned back in his chair to look up at the stars. “Pretty fucking happy.”
Patrick studied the night sky. Except for one of the Dippers, he didn’t know the summer constellations as well as the winter ones: Orion and Taurus and Gemini. “Well. You’re young,” he said, as if Emory’s happiness would sort itself out to a general state of malaise. “But you’re on TV and that ain’t nothing.” Marlene appeared out of the darkness, hopped on Patrick’s chair, and curled up between his legs.
“Yikes,” Emory said.
“Don’t like dogs?”
“Just scared me, is all. I thought for a second it was a big rat.”
Patrick sat forward and undid Marlene’s bow tie; he waved it at Emory to enter it in evidence. Not a rat.
“What are you doing out here? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Talking to a cute boy, Patrick wanted to say. But he knew the question ran deeper than that. “Plotting my next move.” He did his best to take in the details of Emory’s face without looking directly at him. The thick blond hair that fell in his face when he wasn’t leaning back, his bold nose and strong chin—a profile that belonged on currency. He was clean-shaven, a look not exactly favored by most of young Hollywood these days. And yet his face was not baby-smooth; it seemed he could grow a beard in about an hour if he wanted. The makeup department on his show must have to work overtime to make him seem like a teen.
“What is that, like a comeback?” Emory writhed in his chair to find a comfortable position, but the way he did it took on a sexual air.
“Running for president, world domination, EGOT, Tupperware parties. Take your pick.”
“Ah. The elusive EGOTT, with two T’s.”
Patrick rolled his head to look at Emory, and Emory rolled his head to look at Patrick. They locked eyes. Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, Tony, Tupperware. Patrick wished he were that ambitious.
“Now you just need someone to enjoy it with.” Emory smiled at him.
“Who? You? I’m not calling you a car, so you’re moving in?”
“You could do worse.”
Patrick thought about it. “I could do better.”
Emory laughed it off with a Nah.
“I’m just going to focus on surviving the summer. Then world domination.”
Emory stood up and stretched. His T-shirt rose above the rise of his jeans, exposing a flat, surprisingly hairy stomach. They really must have to shave him between takes. “Swim with me.”
“It’s like three in the morning.”
Emory pulled off his shirt. He was lean, toned, but not intimidatingly ripped. He probably spent all his time doing Bikram yoga instead of lifting weights in a gym. Patrick stared, but didn’t leer. He could either join this kid in his pool, something he wouldn’t have hesitated to do before he had a houseful of family, or call him a ride. He stood up and pulled off his own shirt in one fluid motion.
“Yikes.”
“What?” Patrick asked. This seemed to be his favorite exclamation.
“That was sexy.”
Without even thinking about what he was doing, Patrick reached out and undid the top button of Emory’s button-fly jeans.
“Wow,” Emory said, further impressed. He then looked down at Patrick’s pants as if to say, Your turn. Instead he observed, “Your pants have butterflies.”
Not just my pants, Patrick thought. He turned and took a few steps toward the house, as if he were going inside. Emory stood back, confused. Was this over? Patrick paused for a moment; decision time. A swim would be nice. He was sweaty, after all, from the hard work of hosting （and then the stress of seeing his sister） and the night was still arid and hot. The water would be cleansing ahead of the drubbing he was certain to take from Clara. He was doing a good job; he had been a good uncle. He deserved this. So he turned off the pool light. Darkness. When he turned around, Emory was standing naked, bathed only in moonlight.