When he woke, he slowly took down the tree while playing Dolly Parton’s “Hard Candy Christmas” on repeat, chiming in with a half-hearted effort to sing. He dropped an ornament and it shattered, making him wish he had access to the same packing material as the Hollywood Foreign Press.
Dolly warbled, “I’ll be fiiiiine and dandy,” her voice plaintive yet hopeful. It matched his mood closely enough. After the eighth time on repeat, he got up and called JED—enough was enough. He set the tree, still upright in its stand, in the garage. Actual Christmas would be here soon enough.
“Chicken’s burning,” John said, motioning toward the grill. When the throuple agreed to join him for dinner, Patrick took a Lyft to the grocery store. At checkout he discovered a box of fruit gummy snack packs, the kind Grant liked, which he added to his cart out of habit. He purchased them anyway and ate three of the packs on the ride home before throwing the rest away.
“Oh,” Patrick said, snapping to attention and turning the drumsticks with tongs. He was thankful for the employment to keep his mind occupied, to keep himself from joining Marlene’s careful search of the yard. The smell of chicken for his guests, the slight burn of the sweet marinade, made him both hungry and nauseous.
“It’s ninety-eight degrees outside, you sure you want to stand so close to the grill?” John sat at the far end of the outdoor table, shooing a fly away from the guacamole. He was dressed reasonably tonight, in shorts and a tank top that said day drinking.
“I like the heat,” Patrick replied. What was it he’d told Clara? It was cleansing.
“Suit yourself, crazy man.”
Patrick wiped the sweat from his forehead and moved the corn to the upper rack away from the flames. “Corn’s almost done. Chicken won’t be much longer. Where’d the boys disappear to?”
“Dwayne went back to get the watermelon salad, and if I know Eduardo he followed to get his weed. Sit down, Patrick.”
Patrick pointed to the chicken in protest, but John pointed with both hands to the chair beside him and his two hands seemed to overrule Patrick’s one. Patrick walked in a daze over to John and did as his neighbor instructed. He pulled back a chair and fell into the seat cushion. He crossed his legs, letting his Greek sandal dangle off one foot. John squeezed a small amount of sunscreen on the tip of his middle finger and stood behind Patrick. “Close your eyes.”
“Oh, no.” Patrick was not falling for whatever trick John had up his sleeve.
“Patrick. Close your goddamn eyes.”
Patrick relented because it was easier than arguing; whatever was going to happen would be over soon enough. He felt John’s hands on his face, massaging lotion into his skin, starting on his forehead and working their way down. John massaged his temples and Patrick relaxed his head back. John’s hands worked their way from the sides of Patrick’s nose, sweeping outward; it felt like someone wiping away tears that had years ago run dry. Patrick couldn’t believe how intimate it was, how his whole body went limp, or how Marlene’s barking melted into the plaintive cries of the mourning doves that took residence on the power lines in the late afternoon.
Coo-OO-oo. Coo-OO-oo.
“You did a good thing this summer.”
Patrick wanted to get lost in the sensation of lotion being massaged into his skin, but thought it impolite to tell John to stop talking. He made a sound, Mmmmm; his lips tickled. He snapped the grill tongs together a few times and they made a satisfying clack.
“I don’t even want to think where those kids would be without you.”
Clack, clack clack.
“Thank you,” Patrick said. “But that’s not the issue so much as . . . now what?”
“I’m of the belief that the answer will reveal itself in due time.”
Patrick dropped the tongs on the table and they made their most satisfying sound yet. “You won’t mind, I hope, if I think that’s bullshit.”
John smiled. “Nope. I won’t mind at all.” He worked his hands through Patrick’s scalp until Patrick tensed reflexively. “You’ve trapped him in here.”
“Who?” Patrick asked.
“The one you lost.”
Joe.
John continued. “That’s not fair to him, that’s not fair to you. You can’t hold on so tight.”
Patrick lowered his shoulders, then the rest of his head, chin to chest, as John moved to the back of his neck.
“Pain doesn’t lift until you feel it.” And as if to prove a point, John found a knot in Patrick’s shoulder and squeezed until a burning heat shot up and down his side. He did that two or three more times, and just as Patrick was about to tell him to stop, he suddenly felt free of something he didn’t even know he was carrying. “See?” John rested his hands on Patrick’s shoulders as Patrick slowly opened his eyes. “I’m also a licensed massage therapist.”
“Minister. Grief counselor. Masseur. Is there anything you’re not good it?” Patrick asked as he stood to turn the chicken. Patrick’s sliding glass door opened and Eduardo and Dwayne reappeared.
“Monogamy,” John answered with a laugh.
Patrick bellowed across the lawn. “MARLENE!”
John jumped, startled. Marlene looked up from the ficus.
“They’re not in there. They went home.” Patrick shook his head. How was he going to explain to a dog when he could barely explain to himself—he’d spent half the afternoon alone in a house wondering how walls could be so quiet. Patrick pulled a bottle of rosé out of the ice bucket and poured himself a glass. He placed his
