Grant laughed. “Gross!”
Patrick kissed Grant on top of the head and squeezed him into his side like an emotional support animal. He wasn’t going to tell either one of them, but he had no plans to stick around that long. He never wanted to be the first to leave a party, but, unlike his friend Emory, he didn’t want to be the last to hang around, either. He certainly wouldn’t endure the indignity of diapers. “Yeah, you’re right. We’ll hire someone to do that.”
The waiter arrived with precision timing. He placed the corn pancakes in front of the kids before handing Patrick his granola. “Everyone happy?”
“Happiness is overrated; we’re all just fine enough. Thank you. Cheers.” He lifted his Bloody Mary in a celebratory gesture to thank the waiter again for giving it to him.
“Can I have thyrup, GUP?”
Patrick pushed the syrup toward Grant. He poured the granola over his yogurt and topped it with fresh berries, remembering all the times he’d tortured his mother with smart-ass remarks. To this day he wasn’t clear why. He grew four inches overnight and his bones hurt. Testosterone coursed wildly through his body, wreaking havoc on his skin, which was maddeningly both oily and dry. The acne medication he begged to be on required regular blood tests at the doctor’s office he abhorred and made his lips chap. He loved a boy and didn’t understand yet why, and the boy caught him staring and told the whole school, causing Patrick to feel more isolated than he already had and so desperately, totally alone. He told his mother she was a bad mother. He told her she had no life. When she asked him to clean his room one time he muttered, “Menopause must be hell.” He thought he had whispered under his breath, but it was loud enough for her to hear. He cursed her silently at the dinner table, angry that she could not understand things that he would never allow her to see. But the whole time, he had a mother to curse, to hate, to forgive. He had a mother to stand there and listen, to take these tirades and to forgive him right back.
“I’m sorry, Maisie.” Patrick reached out and put his hand on hers, which was gripping her fork in a tight fist. “For anything I said that upset you. I’m the grown-up and I should know better.”
Maisie didn’t say anything, or even really look up. But he thought he saw her head bob, and you could feel the slightest bit of air escape from this overinflated balloon.
Patrick continued. “Did you notice our waiter’s name? Gale. It was on his name tag. Now, that’s something I like. Men who can pull off women’s names. Give me a male Hillary, or a Bertie. Sandy, even. Give me an Evelyn Waugh. I met an Ashley once on a plane and I almost married him. It might have been a latent Gone with the Wind thing.”
“Boyth can have girl’th names?”
“Why not? Girls can have boy’s names. Plenty of girls are named Alex or Frankie or Sam. A girl named Charlie?” Patrick put his fingers to his lips and gestured a chef’s kiss. “It’s the Wild West we’re living in.”
Patrick discreetly glanced at Maisie, careful not to make a production out of it. She wasn’t amused, but she also didn’t seem angry anymore. And she was eating. He had been worried a hunger strike might be coming next, so that in itself was a small triumph.
“Is that why you like Emily?”
“I don’t like Emily.” Patrick reached for his phone in his pocket. “Who’s Emily?”
“Emily. From the party. You made us watch him on YouTube.”
“EMORY?!” Patrick was appalled.
“Oh,” Grant said. “I thought his name was Emily.”
Patrick checked his phone for the time. And there it was. Right on his lock screen like an emotional hate crime. An annual calendar reminder from another life.
Everything was suddenly clear.
Patrick dismissed the reminder before tucking his phone in his pocket; one thing at a time. For now, he wanted to put this tension behind them once and for all. “Maisie? You look like your mom this morning.”
She froze midbite and looked up from her plate.
“You do. You really do. I think it’s the way the sun hits you just right.” Patrick smiled and brushed the hair from her face, the way he used to with Sara. “More and more every day.”
The table next to him, a couple in their sixties who reminded him of his parents, got up to leave. The woman, wearing those three-quarter-length pants that flatter exactly no one, handed him a folded napkin with a smile. Her husband, silk golf shirt, palm frond pattern, waved politely. Grant waved back.
Patrick held the napkin, unsure what to do with it. He was terrified it was another stark notification like the one on the phone. Something that should be clear, if he weren’t so distracted and self-absorbed. He held the napkin below the table, away from Grant, and slowly opened it. Inside was a note.
Every parent has these days. You’re very good with them. Your breakfast is on us.
“What does it say?” Maisie asked. She never missed a trick.
Patrick folded the napkin and slipped it in his pocket. You’re very good with them. It was all he could do not to cry. He looked over his shoulder to thank the couple, but they were already passing the windows outside. He watched, hoping to catch their attention, until they were out of sight. Alas, they never turned
