“What has it been,” Adam asked. “Years?”
“Something like that.” Probably since they walked off of Stage Four on the Disney lot and Patrick never looked back.
“So this is where you went. You’re the talk of the town. The disappearing Patrick O’Hara. Or, were. People eventually forgot about you.” He gave Patrick a slap on the back strong enough to dislodge a hard candy.
“Yeah, well. It’s not like any of you are setting the town ablaze.” It was perhaps a bad choice of words, given the number of fires Southern California had recently endured. But it gave Patrick some solace, the lack of anything from his castmates approaching success. Adam had starred in a movie as a former tennis pro named Tony who came out of retirement to play a last match against a child prodigy with a mean backhand; the film was laughed out of South by Southwest (how it ever got in was anyone’s guess). And that was enviable—a movie. The others had short-lived series on some of the lesser streaming services, none of which warranted two seasons.
“You keeping tabs on me, brother?”
“No, but I still have access to IMDbPro. And my agent tells me.”
“Your agent.”
Patrick lifted his arm and pointed at Cassie as Adam frowned in her direction.
“Great dress. But she brought her kids?”
“They’re mine. Kids and the dress.”
Adam barely had time to react before Daisy Morales and Jennifer Skeen stumbled into Patrick’s sight line with wide-eyed curiosity, like they had just stepped off the bus from whatever small town still sent their most attractive ingenues to Hollywood via public transport. “Um, HELLOOOO,” Patrick bellowed, and when they turned their heads and saw him, they immediately crouched into two-thirds of the classic Charlie’s Angels pose. Patrick wasn’t keeping track of how many drinks he’d had (he wasn’t an amateur, so what was the point?), so was surprised when he opened his mouth and gasped a high-pitched wheeze. Daisy and Jennifer were his other two costars on The People Upstairs. Patrick couldn’t form words, so instead fell in formation as Kate Jackson until the entire party turned around and applauded, and then they broke, hugged, and screamed.
“I hate you for ever leaving,” Jennifer pouted. “LA’s just no fun anymore.”
“Was it ever fun?” Patrick asked.
“Yes, silly. When we were young and famous!”
Daisy leaned her head on Jennifer’s shoulder. “I was on the lot for a meeting the other day and I went by our soundstage and they totally painted over where we signed our names on the back wall! Everything’s been undone. It’s like we were never even there! Come back.”
Patrick wiped a drop of nervous sweat from his forehead. He hadn’t had to be so on in some time. “Well, gee. You do make it sound enticing.”
“Pat-riiiiick,” they whined, stomping their feet. He studied their faces; they looked both older and younger, copies of their former selves plumped with Botox and fillers (although by a very skilled hand).
“Come, come,” he said, eager to move on. “I want to introduce you to my wards.”
They spun around and Patrick pointed at Maisie and Grant.
“Oh . . . my . . . god.” Jennifer covered her mouth, as if her ovaries had taken control of her speech. Patrick felt something akin to pride. If the kids were anything, they were cute—especially in their matching outfits; he could see why they would be the object of maternal desire. “You have a tree!”
What? “Not the tree, the children.”
“Are they yours?” Daisy grabbed him by the shirt collar and pressed herself against him. “I begged you for your sperm and you said no.”
“Well, I didn’t know you wanted it to make babies.”
“What did you think I wanted it for?”
Patrick grasped for an answer. “Decoupage?”
Jennifer laughed. “Ugh. God, I missed you. I missed this. I miss us.”
Patrick introduced Maisie and Grant to his friends. Maisie did this little curtsy thing that she learned on her own; only Patrick caught the side-eye she flashed when she finished. The girls squealed over their outfits and even Adam was impressed with Grant’s loose bow tie.
“I wish I were still that cool,” Adam declared.
“Still? Were you ever?”
“Fuck you. But don’t you just want to give him a scotch, neat?”
“I offered him a martini, but alas.” He pulled Grant, suddenly shy, tight to his side and parted his hair to the side.
“How long have you lived with Patrick?” Jennifer asked.
Grant picked at a branch on the Christmas tree. “Since our mother died.”
“Oh, my god,” Daisy said. “That’s hilarious. You’re hilarious. Where’s the bar?”
She twirled in circles until she spotted the bartender on the patio. Patrick turned to his niece and nephew. “She thought you were kidding. She doesn’t really think that’s hilarious.” He looked up at Cassie standing nearby and made a face. Oops.
It didn’t work the first time, but Patrick was undeterred. He took the cheese knife and banged on his glass hard enough to shatter even Baccarat crystal, which, since it was part of the bartender’s service, this wasn’t. “Everyone. If I may . . .” Patrick bit the inside of his cheek. Lame. He was overcome with nerves. Why? It had been a while since he’d had to do any kind of public speaking, but didn’t he have a performer’s heart? He was looking down at the kid from the new drama on the CW that had tweens aflutter. The nerves came when the kid looked back. Patrick didn’t want anyone telling teenagers, but this guy was actually hotter in person in his thick Tom Ford eyewear and sculpted white tee that gave him a perfect James Dean edge. Was it legal to make eyes at him? Sure. Hollywood has employed twenty-somethings to play teenagers all the way back to the dawn of TV. Ron Howard was already balding when he played Richie Cunningham; that one girl from that nineties show was actually the president of SAG when she was editing a high school yearbook on TV. “Everyone?”
He surveyed the crowd. His costars, other actor friends, that burgeoning pop star whom Patrick had
