Archive of Our Own

“Dad! I can’t find my shoes!”

Patrick resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he handed Bob a beer. “Which ones?” he called back into the hallway.

“The pink ones! With the glitter!”

“Didn’t you wear those to school yesterday? They’re in the hall closet.”

“Daaaaaaaad!” Jessie’s voice rose an octave in the middle of the word. “Those were the purple ones!”

Patrick shrugged and sat down opposite Bob. “I don’t know, I can’t keep them all straight,” he said, more quietly.

“Like father, like daughter,” Bob snickered.

“What, shoes? Kiss my ass, mine don’t have glitter.” Patrick grinned, and kicked his feet up on the coffee table. They had two hours before they had to be at work. (Some kind of popular indie kid concert, Patrick had heard of the band but hadn’t been terribly impressed with their three-chord sound when he listened to the songs on their MySpace. Still, a paycheck was a paycheck, he could run a sound board without liking the music.) When he and Bob worked the same event, they had a standing pre-show tradition that consisted mostly of beer and complaining about their respective lives. “She wants to get a dog," Patrick said, sighing.

"Jessie?" Bob shrugged. "You should do it. Every kid needs a dog."

"Do you really think we have time to take care of a dog, with as many hours as I work?"

"I can take care of it!" Jessie yelled from somewhere in the hallway.

"You can't even keep your room clean, like I asked you," Patrick called back. "Until then, no dog."

"There, Jess, you have a goal. He just promised you a dog if you clean your room," Bob said.

"I did not!" Patrick protested.

"Did so!" Jessie yelled. "I'll clean my room as soon as I get home tomorrow."

Patrick made a rude gesture at Bob. "Thanks a lot, asshole."

"You're welcome." Bob pointed his bottle in Patrick’s direction. “You haven’t answered my earlier question.”

“What question?” When Bob raised an eyebrow, Patrick scowled. “No, I am absolutely not doing speed dating. Fuck off.”

“Dad!” Jessie’s voice was sharp from the living room doorway. “Language!”

“Sorry. Did you find your shoes?”

“Yeah, I found them, but where are my jeans?”

Patrick rubbed the back of his neck. “I think I forgot to fold them. They’re probably still in the dryer.”

“Daaaaaad!” The changing octave was back. “Trina’s mom will be here to pick me up any minute!”

“She’ll be here in an hour, Jess. I’ll fold them right now.”

Jessie flounced off to her bedroom. Patrick stood up and shrugged at Bob again. “Mom duties call. Be right back.”

A year and a half later, Patrick could almost ignore the pang that came with even breathing the words “mom” or “Becca”. When he closed his eyes, he only saw a brief flash of blonde hair and pink fingernails, only heard a whisper of an alto voice. When he did hear it, he could only hear the gentle rasp of her voice at the end, destroyed by chemotherapy that they both knew would never work in the first place. But, if he let himself linger on the thought, he could still almost smell their bedroom, the metallic tang of the drugs that flowed into her catheter from a metal stand next to the bed. She’d refused the hospital at the end, wanted to be comfortable. He could see Jessie standing in the doorway, refusing to come inside, clutching the Elmo doll she’d proclaimed herself too old for two years earlier. He could feel Becca’s hand in his, squeezing lightly with all of the strength she had, and hear her soft voice. “God, Patrick, promise me you’ll be happy. I want you to do whatever it takes to be happy. Promise me.”

Blinking furiously, Patrick slammed the dryer door shut and shoved the last handful of laundry into the basket. He banished Becca’s voice from his head when he walked back to the living room. “No speed dating,” he repeated when he sat down. “I’m not interested.”

“Oh, come on. I’ll even go with you.”

Patrick tried to imagine Bob – long blond hair, lip ring, faded Iron Maiden t-shirt, broad-shouldered build that made him seem to loom over the perpetual parade of skinny emo kids he worked for – enduring a parade of suburban singles with neat outfits purchased at the local mall. “I’d almost agree for the entertainment alone,” Patrick said, “but no. Seriously. Can we drop it?”

Bob fell silent as Jessie walked back out into the living room. She stood behind Patrick’s chair and tapped him on the shoulder. “Dad, do you remember where I left Trina’s Christmas gift? We wrapped it last night, but it’s not in my room and it’s not in the dining room.”

“I put them away in the closet. The candy for Trina’s mom is there, too. Grab that while you’re at it.”

She walked away, and Patrick twisted around briefly to watch her. Her hair was tied back into a messy ponytail – right now, its color tended more towards Patrick’s copper than Becca’s pure blonde, but he knew from experience that would change when the summer came. When the sun was involved, Jessie became a miniature image of her mother, all blonde and blue eyes and heart-shaped face. There was a photo on his bedroom wall, the only photo he’d hung since they moved in – Becca and Jessie were dressed in matching sundresses, and they both were laughing uproariously. He remembered when it was taken; the two of them had gone (“girls day out”) to have photos taken for Becca’s mother’s birthday, and Becca had decided to buy the dresses at the last minute. “It’s so cheesy,” she’d told Patrick that night, still giggling, “but it’s the kind of thing my mom lives for. She’ll probably bust out into tears when she sees them.”

Veronica had, in fact, cried when she saw the pictures. Becca’s hair had already started to fall out by her mother’s birthday.

Patrick turned back to the laundry, and to Bob. Bob leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and put his empty beer bottle on the table in front of him. “Okay, no speed dating, but we have to start getting you out in public, Patrick. Working concerts doesn’t count, especially since you won’t even look at any of the women who hang around at shows.” He gazed at Patrick, who busied himself with the pile of jeans in front of him. “Seriously, dude. I don’t want to be offensive or anything, but it’s been a year and a half. It’s time to stop hiding here at home.”

“I’m not hiding. I have a kid. That takes a lot of time.”

“I know.” Bob sighed and sat back. “Is it Jessie?” he asked softly, after checking over his shoulder to make sure she didn’t appear again. “Do you think she’ll be mad if you start dating again?”

“I don’t know.” Which was a lie. He’d already deflected Jessie twice – “You should get a girlfriend, Dad,” she’d said the first time, in a matter-of-fact voice. The second time, it was “Hey, my friend Marie’s mom is single, you should go on a date with her!” Each time, Patrick had managed to change the subject. “I just don’t want to start dating right now,” he told Bob. “End of story. And why are you so pushy about it, anyway? It’s not like you have a girlfriend right now.”

Bob scowled. Patrick knew it was a low blow – Bob’s ex-girlfriend had left two months before, and it was still a sore subject – but he hoped it would get him off the hook. He finished folding Jessie’s laundry and stood up. “Be right back. What time do we have to be there tonight, anyway?”

“Five-thirty.”

“Good.” Trina and her mother – Dawn, Patrick had to remember that, the woman was doing him enough favors that he should at least remember her name – would be there to pick Jessie up at four-thirty. That would give them plenty of time to get to work. Patrick didn’t often pick up concert jobs during the week; he didn’t like staying out so late when he had to get Jessie to school in the morning. Besides, it was a bitch to find a babysitter that could stay so late during the week, especially since his mother moved out of town and he lost contact with Becca’s parents. But, this show paid obnoxiously well, and Dawn had been kind enough to agree to keep Jessie overnight and make sure she got to school in the morning. Right now, with property taxes on the new house coming due and Christmas gifts to buy, any money was likely to be right.

He delivered the jeans into Jessie’s bedroom, which held a mount of clothing on her bed. “What are you doing?”

She emerged from her closet. “Trying to decide what to wear to school tomorrow.”

“Are you going to put everything away before you leave?”

“If I have time.”

Patrick raised his eyebrows. “Okay, but don’t blame me when you come home and have nothing to wear to school on Thursday. I’m not doing laundry again until Sunday.”

She rolled her eyes, and Patrick expected another octave change, but she simply brandished a hanger that had a green t-shirt hanging from it. “I’m wearing this on Thursday.”

“Why can’t you wear that tomorrow?”

“Because I wore another green shirt today.” He could hear the unspoken “duh” tacked onto the end of that statement. If this was what he had to deal with at eleven, how was he going to survive the teenage years?

“I am only twenty-seven,” he announced to Bob when he returned to the living room, “I am too young to have to worry about fathering a teenager. Right?”

“You know, she’s only five years younger than you guys were when you had her,” Bob pointed out.

Patrick flipped him off. "It'll be easy to make sure she doesn't repeat our mistakes. She won't date until she's forty."

Apparently, speaking the word “date” was a jinx. “You know, you’re right, I need to get back on the wagon, too,” Bob said. “Dating, I mean. So, yeah, speed dating is lame. We should go out to a bar or something one night. There are other ways …”

“Bob! Was I not speaking English? I am not interested in dating right now.”

“Why not? And don’t give me any of that 'I'm not over Becca' bullshit, either. I know you. I knew both of you.”

Patrick sat down and rested his forehead in his hands. “I loved Becca,” he said helplessly. “You know I did.”

“I know. And I also know you two hadn’t touched each other in … years? Seriously, I can’t remember the last time I saw you two kiss each other. I’m not trying to be disrespectful, man, but … I’m pretty sure you’ve been a monk for longer than you’ve been a widower.”

“Why is my sex life so interesting to you?”

“Fuck off, I’m worried about you.”

Patrick looked up. Bob’s eyes were, indeed, full of concern, which made Patrick sigh. “Jesus, Bob. The thing is …” He closed his mouth. Becca was the only person he’d ever told. Which was kind of fucked up, if he thought about it too long. He opened his mouth again, and the words spilled out in an unstoppable roll. “The thing is … I’m not sure I want to date women. No, scratch that, I’m pretty damned sure I don’t want to date women.”

Bob stared at him for a long minute – one of the longest of Patrick’s life, it seemed. “So, wait, you’re …”

“Yeah. Pretty sure.”

“Huh.” Bob was quiet for a minute more. “I never guessed.”

Patrick leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “Becca and I were so young, man. I didn’t know anything about myself back then, and suddenly … we were a family. By the time I started to sort things out in my own head, there was so much at stake.” He closed his eyes. They’d gotten married right after Jessie was born – against the advice of any of their parents, but they were both adamant, they wanted their daughter to have a real family and they were going to take responsibility – but their romantic relationship had never really come back. It had taken three years, though, for Patrick to acknowledge to himself that he was more turned on by the drummer in his friend Bill’s second band than he was by his wife. It had taken two more years for him to stop hating himself for it.

“So …” Bob said slowly. “That’s okay. We work in music. We can find you a boyfriend almost as easily as a girlfriend.”

Patrick wasn’t sure whether to be irritated or insanely grateful for the acceptance. He eventually landed on the latter. “I was serious, I’m not interested in dating right now, period. There’s so much going on …”

“That’s cool. It’s just … okay. You know, whatever.”

“Thanks.” Patrick felt the corner of his mouth quirk upwards.

“Um, Dad?”

Patrick jerked around hard enough to wrench his back. “Ouch. Fuck. Sorry …” She was standing halfway between the doorway and his chair, suitcase clutched in her hand. His heart jumped. “Jess? How long were you standing there?”
She didn’t answer. She just walked over to him, sat down on the arm of his chair and kissed his cheek. “I love you, Dad.”

Patrick felt a lump appear in his throat. He slung his arm around her waist. “I love you too, munchkin.” Suddenly, they heard a horn from the front of the house. “That’s Dawn and Trina,” he said. “You have their gifts, right?”

“Yep!” She jumped up from the chair. “Bye, Dad. Bye, Bob.”

“See ya, short stuff,” Bob said, poking her in the arm as she walked past.

“Be good, Jess. I’ll see you after school tomorrow,” Patrick called to her back as she walked out the front door. When she was gone, he looked at Bob, his heart pounding. “Well, shit.”

“What?”

“She heard. You know, what we were talking about."

“So?”

“So? What the hell, I just admitted that I’m gay. You think she’s not going to be freaked out by that?”

“She didn’t seem freaked out. Kids are surprised by a lot less than we were back when.” Bob stood up. “So what? You like guys. So do a lot of people. Let’s go to work.”

And that, it seemed, was that. Patrick would have been more annoyed that his biggest secret didn’t cause as much external drama as it did internal drama if he wasn’t so damned relieved to have it out.

PowerPoint gave Pete a headache. That was his entire reason for having Minesweeper open on his computer, or at least that would be the story if his boss walked in. Also, it was technically after hours on a Friday, so no one could complain anyway. It meant absolutely nothing that his presentation to AT&T was Monday and he wasn’t nearly ready. Nothing at all. “Who the hell has a gigantic marketing meeting right before Christmas, anyway? AT&T is obviously owned by Satan. That would explain my crappy cell phone reception, if the towers are all in hell."

“What was that?”

Pete looked up and quickly minimized his game. He blew out a breath when he saw Ryan leaning in the doorway. “Jesus. Scare me, why don’t you?”

“Are you talking to yourself again?”

“Best conversation I ever get.” Pete gave Ryan a half-smile - he probably looked tired, he knew. It was because he was tired. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept more than three hours in a night. This presentation was killing him. "Hey, man," he said as Ryan sat down in the chair on the other side of his desk. "I was looking at some real estate sites today. You wanna go look at some houses after Christmas?"

Ryan sighed loudly. "Do we have to?"

"Jesus, you don't have to be like that. You hate our neighbors as much as I do." The man who lived upstairs from Pete and Ryan was an old homophobic bastard, as far as they could tell. He left religious anti-gay literature underneath their door, and called the cops at the first sign of loud noise. The last time had been on Thanksgiving, when they'd been entertaining friends. Pete had suggested retaliating by making a sex tape and slipping it under his door, but Ryan was no fun.

"Yeah, but we can't afford anything good, remember? That condo we liked over on Lakeshore is still out of our price range, even with the collapsing economy."

This was not a new discussion. Pete leaned on his elbows and looked past Ryan. "I still kinda want a house, with an actual yard and stuff."

"Not many of those in the city," Ryan said. "At least, not ones in decent neighborhoods that don't need tens of thousands of dollars in rehab. Besides, who the hell wants to deal with a yard? That would require mowing. And shoveling snow." Ryan shuddered visibly. Pete forgot sometimes that Ryan had only been in Chicago a few years. He'd grown up in Las Vegas, where snow was something you saw on television at Christmas.

"I used to mow our lawn when I was a kid. I could do it again." Pete twirled around in his chair. "I kinda want a dog. Hard to have a dog in a condo."

"You could walk a dog. People do it every day."

"That's a pain." Pete sat back and put his hands on his keyboard. His fingers flew until he'd pulled up a real estate website. "See, here, I was looking today, and there's this house out in Schaumburg ..."

"Seriously? Schaumburg? Why don't we just move down to fucking Peoria and get it over with?" Ryan laughed. "Can you imagine driving in to work from Schaumburg every day?"

"That's why God invented the train."

"Pete, you barely get out of bed in time to get to work now, and we live ten minutes from here. Do you really think you'd be able to get your ass up and on a train an hour or two earlier?"

"I could try," Pete said. He sounded like a sulky teenager and he knew it. He closed the browser window and took a deep breath. "I'll look for something closer," he said. "But you shouldn't hold out for the Gold Coast, not unless you're getting a promotion I haven't heard about. Or have a sugar daddy on the side."

"Weren't you supposed to be my sugar daddy?" Ryan grumbled. Pete flipped him off, which earned him a grin. "My friend Jon lives over near Lakeshore. His place is kind of small, but there are some decent buildings on his street that might be affordable for us. We should look over there."

"Maybe," Pete allowed. He could still get a dog if they lived in a condo. It just sounded like more fun to have a backyard for the dog to play in. Also, it would be nice to be able to make as much noise as he wanted without getting late-night visits from the local authorities. But, Ryan was set on staying in the city. He was too young, he'd told Pete once, to settle down in the suburbs. This was the problem with dating a guy seven years younger than you, he supposed. Pete probably would have been horrified by the idea of Schaumburg at Ryan's age, too. But, he was past thirty now, and the idea of owning a little real estate was kind of appealing. Somewhere along the line, Pete had gotten old. The idea no longer horrified him as much as it used to.

Pete passed a hand over his face. “God, I need to get the hell out of here.”

“Good thing it’s Friday night, then. Also, past time to leave.”

“I can’t leave yet,” Pete groaned. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “I haven’t finished my AT&T presentation yet.”

“You do remember that we’re due in Kenosha at eight, right?” When Pete looked back over, Ryan’s mouth had quirked downward. “Nick’s holiday party? You did remember, right?”

“Fuck.” That answered that question, and Ryan huffed a breath through his nose. “Sorry,” Pete said. “Why don’t you go on? We have both of our cars here. I’ll finish this and follow as soon as I can. I swear, I’ll be there by nine. Nine-thirty, at the latest.”

Ryan stared for a moment, and then shrugged. “Why not? I certainly don’t want to stick around here any longer than I have to. I spent three hours this afternoon on a conference call revolving around bingo jokes. Seriously, if I have to design an ad around bingo balls, I’m hanging myself from the scaffolding outside my office window.” He stood up and walked around Pete’s desk. When Pete tilted his head to look at him, Ryan planted a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Don’t work too late. Nick’s probably busting out the good vodka just for you.”

“Yeah, because Nick loves me.”

“And no one else does, I know.” Ryan cuffed Pete lightly on the back of his neck as he walked away. “Send me a text when you’re leaving.”

“I’ll text you all the way up there, I promise.”

“Please don’t text while you drive. I don’t feel like identifying your body in a wreck of twisted metal.”

And that, Pete thought when his office was empty, constituted an affectionate goodbye in their world.

True to his word, Pete walked out of the office just after eight, after announcing “AT&T can go fuck themselves!” to the fish in the tank behind his desk. He’d wing his way through the presentation on Monday. Or, possibly, he’d get to the office at five in the morning and rush his way through the rest of it fueled on a lack of sleep and six or seven shots of espresso. Either way, it’d get done.

He was in his car and three blocks away from the freeway entrance before he realized he’d left his iPod in the office. “Well, fuck.” He never had bothered to get the satellite radio reinstalled in his BMW after it’d started broadcasting gibberish in the fall, which meant … “God damn, am I going to have to listen to regular radio?” Pete rubbed his forehead and sighed. He possibly hadn’t listened to normal radio stations since college. Even then, it’d been DePaul’s underground radio station – he remembered their programming director fondly, having spent many a night doing wonderful things in the DJ booth during said director’s midnight to four shift. Well, at least until they were caught by the radio station’s staff advisor. Pete was fairly sure the old dude had been turned on by the sight of Pete on his knees, but nevertheless, they’d both been forcibly evicted from the premises. Good times.

Pete fiddled with the radio dial as his car began to point in the direction of the Wisconsin border. Country music, classical music, rap – he almost stopped, but no, his brain was too fried to appreciate the frantic beats right now – and a screeching car horn behind him, causing him to jerk up and look in his rear view mirror. “Oh, sorry, dude,” he said to the car behind him, when he glanced down and realized he was going forty-five on the freeway. “Watch the road, asshole,” he told himself. “But, hey, if I die in a car crash, AT&T can really go fuck themselves!”

There were too many people on the road – everyone must have some serious Friday night plans, more Christmas parties, he supposed – so Pete decided to concentrate on the road, rather than the radio. He made a face when the commercials ended and a talk radio show came blaring over the speakers.

“Good evening, Chicago,” a somewhat sexy-sounding female voice said. “My name is Doctor Victoria Asher, and I’m here to listen to you.”

“I bet you are,” Pete muttered. But, hey, she sounded better than Carrie Underwood, so she could stay, he supposed.

Actually, the radio show turned out to be pretty entertaining, in ways the good Doctor Victoria probably didn’t intend. (Or maybe she did. Maybe she was just a fake shrink who wanted people to humiliate themselves on the air. It wasn’t the worst idea for entertainment, Pete figured.) He laughed for a full five minutes straight at the poor sap who called in to ask about his potentially cheating girlfriend. “She and my best friend,” the guy said morosely, “they’re working all these late hours together, and sometimes she comes home wearing his coat. But he’s just being nice, right? He doesn’t want her to be cold, I figure!”

Pete shook his head. “God, you totally deserve it, I swear,” he told the empty car.

Pete had just crossed the Wisconsin border when Doctor Victoria came back from another commercial break. “On the phone now, we have a little girl named Jessie, who wants to talk about her father. Go ahead, Jessie, you’re on the air.”

“Oh, right,” Pete said, rolling his eyes, “let’s tug some heartstrings now, shall we? Kids always mean ratings.”

The voice on the radio was young – not precociously young, but not quite a teen, either. “Hi, Doctor Victoria. I … um, well, it’s about my dad. It’s just me and him. My … um, my mom, she died a couple of years ago.”

“Oh, Jessie, I’m very sorry to hear that.” Doctor Victoria's voice oozed sympathy. Pete clucked his tongue and scowled.

“It’s okay … I guess. We’re doing all right. But, the thing is, I think my dad’s lonely. He hasn’t been on any dates since Mom died. I think he needs someone.”

“Have you talked to him about it, Jessie? Told him you’re worried about him?”

“Yeah, I tried. He just blows me off. But …” There was a pause, and Pete suddenly found himself leaning closer to the radio. He made himself sit back in his seat, disgusted. “It’s sorta complicated,” Jessie finished.

“How so?” Doctor Victoria asked.

“Well … um.” The girl paused again, and Pete could hear the shaky, in-drawn breath before she continued. “I sorta found out that my dad is gay.”

“What??” Pete’s voice was louder than he intended it to be, and the echoes in the empty car made his eardrums vibrate. That was emphatically not what he’d been expecting.

Possibly, it wasn’t what Doctor Victoria was expecting, either, because there was a noticeable silence before she picked up the conversation. “Jessie, does that bother you?”

“No, not really. I mean, who cares? Who you love doesn’t matter, right?”

“God bless the future generations,” Pete said.

“I just want him to be happy,” Jessie continued, “you know? He doesn’t act like he’s happy a lot of the times. He tries, and he’s not sad all the time, but I can tell when he’s just acting. I don’t want him to act happy. I want him to be happy.”

Pete felt something tickling at the back of his throat, and he coughed to get rid of it. It wasn’t tears. Absolutely not. Because there was no way some radio show was going to make him cry. The little girl was probably an actress, anyway; they were doing this whole spot because gay people were in fashion, that was it. He was absolutely not going to cry over some fake little girl and her fake gay father. And even if he did, he was never telling Ryan about it. Ever.

“Jessie,” Doctor Victoria continued while Pete carefully sniffed, “is your father home with you tonight?”

“Yes …” The girl spoke quietly, as if afraid of being discovered.

“Would you be willing to put him on the phone? I’d like to talk to him.”

Pete’s sniffles stopped immediately. “Oh, hell no, lady. I can’t even believe you’re doing this!”

“I don’t know … he’s going to be mad if he finds out I’m talking to you!”

“Smart girl,” Pete told her.

“He won’t be mad. You’re just looking out for him. I think he needs to know how much you want him to be happy.”

“I don’t know …” But, suddenly, there was a muffled voice coming from somewhere behind the little girl. Pete made out a form of “who are you talking to?” a few moments before he heard a male voice on the phone. “Who is this?”

“Sir,” Doctor Victoria asked, “are you Jessie’s father?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Patrick. Who is this?” he repeated again, with an emphasis on the words that made Pete blow a breath out slowly and mutter, “Oh, lady, you’re in trouble now.”

“My name is Doctor Victoria Asher, and you’re on the air on Night Talk, Chicago’s only nighttime talk radio show.”

“I’m … what? The radio? What the hell is this?”

“Dude, hang up the phone right now,” Pete advised the empty car. “No good is going to come of this.”

“Your daughter called into my show, Patrick. She’s worried about you. I wonder if you might talk to me for a few minutes.”

“What? She … what?” Pete heard the tell-tale sound of a hand muffling the telephone receiver, followed by quiet, unintelligible murmurs in both a deep adult male and a high child’s voice. After a short conversation, the man – Patrick – came back to the phone. “What did she say to you?” he asked.

“Jessie thinks you’re lonely, Patrick, and she’s worried about you. She thinks you need someone else in your life.”

“Jessie and I have had this discussion before,” Patrick said, “and it’s not one I’m interested in repeating on the radio.”

“I don’t think she thinks you’re taking her seriously, Patrick,” Doctor Victoria pushed on, “or else, why would she call me? Obviously, she’s asking for help. I’d like to give it to her, if you’d let me.”

Pete groaned and flipped his middle finger at the radio, but if he was being honest, he was actually pretty happy when the guy started talking again. Pete was a sucker for voices, and this Patrick had one of the best he’d ever heard, deep and casual and commanding all at the same time. “I love Jessie more than anything else in the world,” Patrick said, and it was obvious he was addressing more than just the telephone, “but she’s eleven years old, and there’s a lot she doesn’t understand about being a parent.”

“Being a single parent is one of the hardest things in the world, I know,” the woman on the radio sympathized, “but you don’t necessarily have to do it alone. Is there anything specific holding you back from reentering the dating scene?”

“I just don’t have time,” Patrick said, and Pete could hear a tightening in his voice.

“Jessie seems to think the problem might be something else.”

“Like what?”

There was a pause, and Pete held his breath. “Perhaps,” Doctor Victoria began, “your dating interests might lay in a different …direction. Like, with men.”

Pete nearly choked. “You did it. You went there. Holy shit.”

There was a long pause, and Pete thought – hoped, maybe – that Patrick had hung up on her. Doctor Victoria filled the silence. “If Jessie’s correct, Patrick, then this is definitely something you should talk …”

“Okay, listen,” Patrick cut her off. “Here’s the thing. I am who I am. I’m not going to sit here and deny anything or argue with you, because … because I don’t want anyone to think it’s something to be ashamed of, alright? There are a lot of things that make my life complicated. But, in the end, it all boils down to something really simple – my daughter. Jessie is my life, period, end of story. I’m doing what I think is best for her, and that’s all I can do. Everything else comes second … or, somewhere beyond second, there is no second, there’s only Jessie and everything else way far away out there. Are there things I … might like to do?” There was a pause, and then he continued. “Yeah, maybe, but the first thing I think of every morning is Jessie, and the last thing, too. She may not understand everything I do right now, or everything I don’t do, but I hope she will someday. I’m trying my hardest to be a good dad. I know it doesn’t always work, but I do my best, and I don’t really need some woman on the radio telling me what I’m doing isn’t good enough.”

As Pete whooped loudly, Doctor Victoria nearly stuttered. “Patrick, that’s not what I …”

Patrick interrupted her again. “I’m sorry Jessie called you. Good night, ma’am.”

There was a click, and after a moment of silence, Doctor Victoria began talking again, scrambling to introduce a commercial. Pete finally looked up at the road, only to realize he’d driven three exits past Nick’s house. Cursing, he flipped the radio off and looked for a place to turn around.
In the silence, though, he still stared at the radio. “Patrick,” he said aloud, “whoever you are, I might need you to marry me.”

For a few moments after Patrick hung up the phone, Jessie’s bedroom was pin-drop quiet. He stared at the phone in his hands, willing them not to shake. “Jessie …”

“I’m sorry, Dad!” She stared at Patrick, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, which was a sure sign of sincerity – as opposed to the apologies that came with fluttering eyelashes and coy glances at the floor. “I didn’t mean … I don’t know …”

Patrick wasn’t quite ready for forgiveness yet. “You called a radio show? And told them … that I needed a boyfriend? What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know!” she wailed. “I just … Trina and I were listening to that show the other night, you know, when I stayed at her house. And the doctor was really nice, and giving all sorts of good advice, and I wondered what it would be like … I don’t know who to talk to!”

Patrick felt all of his anger drain out of his body. “God, Jess.” He sat down on her bed, feeling the mattress dip under his weight. “Why not talk to me?”

“You won’t talk about it!” Jessie sat down on the bed, leaning against the headboard and clutching her knees to her chest. “Any time I ask you about getting a date or something, you change the subject. And then I heard you talking with Bob, about, you know, maybe liking guys, and I didn’t know what to say.”

Patrick looked at his hands, knotted in his lap, then looked up at Jessie. “Does that bother you? Tell me the truth.”

“No.” Her answer was quick and casual, and something about her tone allowed Patrick to let out a small breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. “My friend Max has two dads. They came to help out with our Christmas party last year, and they were really cool. Some people were weirded out, but it’s like, if they love each other, why does it matter? The only thing is …” Jessie trailed off, and studied a thread on her bedspread. “I guess I’m confused, because of Mom.”

“Oh.” Patrick took a moment to arrange his thoughts. Finally, he took a deep breath. “I loved your mom, Jess, a lot. We met when we weren’t much older than you are now, and she was my best friend in the world. But … we were only sixteen when you were born, and sometimes … I guess that was too young for me to really know what I wanted. It didn’t mean I loved your mom any less, just that it was … different than I thought.”

Jessie was quiet for a long moment. Just when Patrick felt like he was about to hyperventilate, she nodded. She looked at him, though, her eyes still cloudy. “But … do you regret … you know, having to get married and all? Because of me?”

“No! No, Jess, no, not at all.” He held out his hand, and she slid down the bed far enough to duck under his arm and lay her head on his shoulder. “Your mom and I were happy together. It wasn’t perfect, but nothing is - we just had … slightly different problems than most people.” And that was about as close as Patrick wanted to get to discussing his sex life – or lack thereof – with his eleven-year-old daughter, thanks. “We were a good family, don’t you think? The three of us?”

“Yeah, we were.” Jessie’s breath was shaky. “I miss her, Dad.”

Patrick blinked back tears. “Me too, baby.”

“I just … I want you to be happy, Dad. That’s all. I’m sorry I called the radio station.”

“It’s okay.” Hopefully. If nobody in the city had been listening. “But, Jess, I’m doing an okay job, aren’t I?” Jessie looked up, confused. “Of being your dad? I mean, I know there’s a lot to do and it’s just me, but is this because you think I’m not doing everything I should be? Because I’m making this up as I go along. If there’s something I should be doing, you’d tell me, right?”

“No! Dad, that’s not it!” Jessie snuggled closer to him. “You’re the most awesome dad ever, trust me. Much better than Trina’s dad, anyway – all he ever does when I’m over there is sits on the couch and watches TV. Her mom does everything for him. You didn’t do that, even when Mom was alive.”

“Your mom would have smacked me upside the head if I even tried.”

Jessie giggled. “I know!”

“So, you’ll tell me if I do something completely wrong?”

“Of course.” She sighed. “I still think you should get a boyfriend, though.”

“Jess …”

“I’m just saying! I’m going to have a boyfriend just as soon as I’m old enough.”

“Oh, so when you’re thirty, then?”

“Da-ad!”

Patrick grinned down at her. “Twenty-five, then. I can compromise.”

“You’re changing the subject again.”

“You started it.”

“Dad …”

“Okay.” Patrick sighed, and held Jessie at arm’s length. “How about this? If you’ll promise not to call radio stations or talk to random people about my love life, I’ll start thinking about going on a date. Does that sound all right?”

Jessie’s smile was worth the flip-flop his stomach did at the thought. It wasn’t as if he’d ever been awesome at meeting girls, even when he was dating them. How exactly did one go about meeting guys? He swallowed the thought and allowed Jessie to hug him. He’d figure it out, for her sake.

“… seriously, Joe, you should have heard this guy. He completely made the chick psychiatrist sound like a moron.”

“So you told me.” Joe was kind enough to omit the “…three times already” from the end of the sentence, but Pete could hear it in his voice. “I can’t believe the kid called in, anyway. If I’d ever called the radio and told the world about my parents’ love life, I would have been dead before the phone even hung up.”

“I can’t imagine … did this guy just figure out he was gay? I mean, obviously he had a wife and had sex with her and everything, because, hello, the kid. So did he figure out he liked dudes late? Did he get married because they both wanted a kid? I don’t know, I’m all curious now.” Pete flopped down on the couch next to Joe and handed him a DVD. “There. Walk your ass over to the DVD player. I’m tired.”

Joe looked at the package in his hand. “Fuck, do we have to watch Say Anything again? I could do a dramatic reenactment of it, if you really wanted me to.”

“You gave me the choice, that’s what you get. Unless you want to pay me back for dinner. Because if I pay for dinner and you pick the movie, I get to tell Marie that you went on a date with me.”

Joe made a face. “She’d probably just laugh at you.” But, he walked across the room and began to fiddle with the DVD player. “Besides, if you and I are dating, what are you going to tell Ryan?”

“I'll tell him I found someone who doesn't mind being a boring old dude in the suburbs with me."

“Ouch. Don’t come to me with your romantic issues, man, I can’t handle it.”

“You can’t even handle your own romantic issues, dumbass. Is Marie still subscribing to bridal magazines?”

“Shut up.” Joe flopped back down on the couch. “I don’t even get the mail any more.”

“When are you going to marry that girl, anyway?” Pete poked him. “What’s it been, six, seven years?”

“Shut up!” Joe smacked Pete’s hand with the remote control. “I’m waiting for the right time. Which will be sometime after the idea stops scaring the living shit out of me. Do you have any idea how many people she would invite to a wedding? On top of the number of family members my mother would invite? I have stage fright, man!”

Pete snorted. The teenage kid who used to play in bands with him – a million years ago now, or ten, same difference – would never have been able to say “stage fright” with a straight face. He wasn’t buying it, but what the hell; he couldn’t throw any stones about fucked up relationships.

On the television, the first scenes of the movie began to play. Pete kicked his feet up on the coffee table, while Joe glanced around the living room. “Where is Ryan tonight, anyway? I thought he’d be here.”

“Some friends of his were hosting a poetry thing downtown. Bunch of hipster kids, whatever.” Pete waved his hand dismissively.

“I’d make a pot and kettle joke here, but it’d be too obvious.”

“Fuck off. I’m too old to be a hipster any more. Besides, their poetry really isn’t my thing.” Pete turned back to the television screen.

“Don’t you write anymore?”

“Sometimes, I guess.” Pete still carried a battered, well-used notebook in his briefcase. These days, though, it was more likely to contain a grocery list than a poem. Once upon a time, he and Ryan used to stay up until the sun came up, reading each other lines and images and pithy observations that probably were never as clever as they’d imagined themselves to be. Once, Ryan had thought Pete was the cleverest person he’d ever met. Pete kind of missed that.

They watched the movie in silence for a few minutes, before Pete got restless and decided to move to the kitchen to make popcorn. Sometime during the graduation party, Pete couldn’t help himself. “I’m so damned curious about that guy from the radio, Joe. Patrick. It’s so stupid, but I want to know what happens next!”

“What do you mean, what happens next?” Joe turned around and peered over the back of the couch at him.

“Is he going to start dating? Because, let me tell you, the gay dating population in Chicago kind of sucks right now.”

“How would you know? You and Ryan have been together for two years,” Joe pointed out.

“It’s not like I don’t still know people,” Pete protested. “I have good relationships with my exes, thanks.” When Joe coughed, Pete shrugged and revised the statement. “The male exes, anyway. You can’t say Mikey’s still not an awesome friend.”

“Yes, but Mikey’s a unique snowflake.” Pete let out a loud laugh. The last time he’d seen Mikey, the kid had been happily dressing his cat in a Tinkerbell costume. “Anyway,” Joe continued, “you know you’re really weird for wondering about some dude you heard on the radio for five minutes, right?”

“Yeah, I know. But still. He had an amazing voice, Joe.” Pete brought the bowl of popcorn back out to the living room and handed it to Joe. “Like, he gave me chills.”

“You have a crush on the dude from the radio?” Joe stared at him, then shook his head. “I should not be surprised.”

“I do not have a crush!” Pete shoved a handful of popcorn in his mouth. “Okay,” he said, mouth full, “maybe a little one." Pete sighed. “If I was a better person, I probably wouldn't be talking about another dude when I have a perfectly good boyfriend.”

“It’s not about being a good person. It’s about finding the one who doesn't mind when you're a shitty person.”

“Is Marie the right one?”

“I think so. But what if I’m wrong?” Joe popped a piece of popcorn in his mouth, frowning as he chewed. “Is Ryan?”

“I don’t know. He should be.” Pete shook his head to clear it. “Can we stop talking like girls and watch the fucking movie?”

“Best idea I’ve ever heard.”

Pete didn’t tell Joe that he spent the rest of the movie hearing a deep voice – not Ryan’s – murmuring in his ear. Joe already knew he was crazy; it wasn’t like he needed more proof. But, still, this was odd, even for him – a guy he’d heard for five minutes on the radio. He tried to put it out of his mind.

Unfortunately, Pete was very good at obsessing.

“Gabe! Dude, it’s good to see you.”

“You too, Pete. It’s been forever! What’s the occasion?”

“I like to check up on my clients every once in a while, you know that.” Pete shoved a chip in his mouth and grinned. Strictly, he wasn’t lying – Gabe was the advertising executive for KFBR, and Pete had overseen their last media campaign. He could totally write this lunch off on his expenses as a push to capture their next campaign. And if he happened to mention Doctor Victoria’s show, well, then, maybe he wanted to advertise her, right? It all made sense.

They chatted for a while over chips and salsa and enchiladas; Gabe knew everyone in Chicago’s media scene, and kept Pete entertained with tales of who was sleeping with whom and who was on the verge of getting fired. Finally, though, Gabe gave Pete the opening he was desperately searching for. “And that creepy old weather dude from our sister TV station was in the studio last week, perving over Victoria. Excuse me, I mean Doctor Victoria.” Gabe grinned. “At least, that’s what she tells everyone.”

Pete kind of wanted to follow up on that, but opportunity knocked, and he wasn’t about to let it pass by. “Dude, I heard part of her show last Friday. The part with the kid, and her dad?”

“Wasn’t that awesome?” Gabe pounded a fist on the table, sending chips flying in every direction. “That segment generated the most calls we’ve gotten in months, ever since the Jonas Brothers appeared on the morning show. And, let me tell you, I got roped into answering phones for a while both times, and I’d much rather talk to a bunch of lovelorn gay men than shrieking pre-teen girls.” Gabe shuddered.

“Got a lot of guys who want to offer themselves up to Daddy Dearest?” Pete asked casually.

“You have no idea, man. If this guy would let us, we could set him up with hundreds of dates. I talked to him myself today – seriously, do you know what kind of ratings we could get if we could do a follow-up piece on him? Not many people listen to the radio on Friday nights –“

“- or ever,” Pete cut in.

“Shut up, our ratings have gone up by double digit points in the last quarter! Anyway, word of mouth has apparently been awesome, because Victoria’s gotten double the usual number of calls the last two nights, and most of those people are asking about Patrick. But he’s a hard nut, man. He pretty much wants nothing to do with us. I finally convinced him to let me forward him some emails, but God knows if he’ll do anything with them. I wish he’d agree to come on her show for a follow-up …” Gabe stared off into the distance, stars (or possibly ratings points) in his eyes.

“I don’t blame him,” Pete said casually. “I was sitting in my car rooting for him to hang up on her, actually. Only, not really, because it was the best thing I could find on the radio.”

“See! That’s my point exactly!” Gabe pounded the table again, and more chips flew into Pete’s lap. “There’s a story there. People can talk about media exploitation until the cows come home, but the fact is, there’ll always be an audience for someone else’s family drama. Everyone loves a good story, just as long as it’s not theirs.”

“I don’t disagree. Hell, I’ve been thinking about the whole thing since I heard it,” Pete admitted.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of my lovelorn gay men.”

“Bisexual, you fucker.”

“Whatever. What does Ryan think of your little crush?” Pete just stared at him, and Gabe started laughing. “Oh, man. I love this shit. Do you want Patrick’s email address?”

“I kind of love you, Gabe.”

“Just promise me that, once he falls madly in love with you, you’ll convince him to come back on Victoria’s show.”

“What, and exploit my one true love?” Pete fluttered his eyelashes, and then ducked as Gabe flicked salsa at him.

Patrick stared at his computer screen in dismay. “Four hundred and thirty-one new messages?”

“What did you say, Dad?” Jessie poked her head into the office.

“I have more than four hundred new emails. Why did I give the radio station my email address again?”

It was the wrong thing to say, because Jessie bounded into the room and laid her chin on Patrick’s shoulder, an eager expression on her face. “Who are they from?”

“Four hundred different people. Oh, thank God, there’s one from Andy.” Patrick opened that one gratefully, ignoring the sound of displeasure that came from his shoulder. “His new band is playing up in Milwaukee in a couple of weeks. I’ll have to go check them out.”

“Dad!”

“What?”

“I want to see what people are emailing you!”

“Andy’s not people?”

“You know what I mean!”

“And my email is none of your business. Don’t you have homework to do?”

“Come on, Dad …”

“Seriously. Go. I promise, I’ll tell you if my one true love turns up in my inbox.”

Patrick stared her down until she stomped away. He heard her bedroom door slam, and sighed. “How many more years of this?” he muttered.
He skimmed his inbox for familiar names. Once he’d read all of his personal email and deleted all obvious spam, he was left with more than three hundred and fifty emails, all forwarded from the radio station. Upon further inspection, almost one hundred of those contained links to gay porn sites, which Patrick deleted quickly, while Jessie was still pouting in her bedroom. “Way to promote stereotypes, guys,” he sighed at the screen.
For a moment, he was tempted to delete the rest of the emails unread, but his promise to Jessie echoed in his head. “You were wondering how to meet guys,” he told himself. Maybe there’d be someone interesting in here? He wouldn’t know unless he gave it a shot.

Fifteen minutes later, his index finger was cramped from hitting the “delete” button. He should have started counting the number of times someone told him he had a “sexy voice” or said he thought he’d be “absolutely perfect” for Patrick. “How do you know that from two minutes on the radio?” he asked aloud. It was all so impersonal … he didn’t care who was six feet tall or who had blue eyes. “If I’m going to do this, I want to know who the hell you people are,” he told the computer.

His attention wandered back to an email from Bob, one he’d been sitting on for a couple of days. “There’s this kid playing with the new band I’m working with,” he wrote, “brand new to town, doesn’t really know anyone yet. He’s looking for a date of the male variety. You’re both music nerds, and he’s entertaining. I think you’d like him. What do you think?” Patrick had been procrastinating, intending to send Bob a “thanks, but no thanks” email back. But, compared to the generic requests that now filled his inbox, this looked positively appealing. At least, with this kid, he knew that Bob liked him, and that they’d at least have music to talk about. Maybe he should …

Patrick got up and walked away from the computer. He found himself in the kitchen, grabbing a handful of Christmas cookies Jessie had brought home from school and shoving them in his mouth before he realized what he was doing. Suddenly, he heard Becca’s voice filling his head. “You always do that,” she said on more than one occasion, “eat stupid things when you’re stressed out. It’s a sure sign something’s going on in your brain.” It had first come in a really stupid argument about weight – it wasn’t like either one of them was some sort of skinny kid, not after Becca had Jessie and Patrick stopped having to run all over school to make classes on time. But, Becca was hormonal and Patrick was stressed over a possible new job, and they’d ended up screaming at each other about whether or not their weights had to do with the fact that they hadn’t had sex since just after Jessie was born. The only good thing to come out of that argument was Patrick’s recognition that he ate when he was stressed out. Eventually, he learned to stop and take a look at the cause. “The idea of dating stresses me out. Gee, there’s a big shock.” He shoved the platter of cookies away from him and walked back to the office.

Jessie was sitting in his office chair when he returned. “What are you doing?”

She minimized the screen quickly. “I just wanted to check my email.”

“Oh, really?” He reached over her shoulder and clicked on the window. His email account was still logged in. “I’ll ask again. What are you doing?”

“I was just curious!” She folded her arms over her chest defiantly. “I wanted to know what kind of emails you got!”

“Didn’t I tell you that my email was none of your business? If you don’t get up from that chair right now, you can call Trina and tell her she can’t come over to spend the night on Friday.”

“God, Dad.” Jessie got up and left the room again, this time slamming her door hard enough that the wall shook. Patrick rubbed his forehead and groaned. He definitely had too many more years of this ahead.

He sat back down and looked at the email that Jessie had been reading. Another one of the radio station emails – from someone who apparently didn’t know what the shift button was for, which nearly made him hit the “delete” button without reading it. But, the subject line caught his eye as his finger hovered on the mouse.

an ounce of nerve is worth a million years of regret

Patrick looked at the line, a melody floating in his head at the sight of the words. “Is that a song?” he murmured, humming the melody as it occurred to him. A moment later, the lyrics came back, and he remembered. “Shit, that’s Daily Dispatch!” Daily Dispatch were friends of his, or acquaintances, these days - he’d worked for them briefly when he was first starting out, but they’d never quite made it as big as they wanted to, and had broken up five years earlier. It was a shame, Patrick thought, because their guitar player did some really interesting things with melodies and their drummer had been pretty phenomenal. Unfortunately, it had seemed like only a couple hundred people in the Chicago area had agreed with him.

Had this person been a fan, or did he choose the phrase completely by accident? Patrick was intrigued despite himself, and scanned the rest of the email.

this feels kind of stupid, emailing someone i don’t even know. why am i doing it, then? beats the shit out of me. i guess i couldn’t not do it, if that makes any sense. probably not.

anyway. yes, i heard you on the radio. i'm probably the seven hundredth person to say that to you today. i’m an asshole who likes to listen to defunct bands and watch 80s movies. i can’t even tell you why you should email me back, but you probably should anyway. Unless you really believe i’m an asshole, in which case, good for you, you’ve got discerning taste.

i liked your voice. that’s my only excuse.

It was signed “pete”. Patrick stared at it for a few minutes, his mouse hovering over the “delete” button. Eventually, without really thinking about it, he moved the mouse an inch to the left and hit “reply” instead.

If you’re quoting Daily Dispatch in your subject (he typed), then you might not be as big an asshole as you claim.

I like your taste in music. That’s my only excuse.

He hit “send” before he could think about it.

He spent the next half hour freaking out. “What the fuck did I just do?” he asked the empty room. “Seriously, did I just email some stranger who heard me on the radio?” Patrick paced the room furiously, occasionally staring at the computer as if concentration would produce a method of recovering a sent email and deleting it from someone else’s inbox. “Okay,” he said, “maybe this means I really do need to get out and meet people. I’m obviously desperate enough to descend into this madness.”

Patrick stared at the computer again, this time gathering his courage. When he sat back down, he opened Bob’s email, took a deep breath, and replied.
You know, maybe I will meet your friend. Let him know I’m interested, we’ll work something out.

“Well, fuck,” he breathed when the email was sent. “I guess I’m going on a date.”

***
daily dispatch was kind of awesome. too bad roger decided to go to the dark side. did you ever see them play at jack’s?

***

Choosing to actually make money is not “the dark side”. Those guys could barely pay for the gas in their van. It was a shame, but I hear Roger’s got a family and plays in a cover band in Elgin now.

Yeah, I saw them at Jack’s a few times. Last time I was there, the stage still had “Adam’s mom sucks dick” carved into the stage left wall.

***

like i said, the dark side. those guys deserved better than singing journey songs at fucking yuppie bars. not that I can talk about yuppies these days, unfortunately. but i never said I wasn’t a hypocrite.

adam’s mom. good times, or so i heard. haven’t been back there in forever. i wonder if they still water down the jack daniels like they used to?

***

Ella only waters down the Jack for assholes. I guess that answers one of my questions, huh?

***

told you i was an asshole right off, man. you can’t complain.

***

“Dad, you’re not wearing that, right?”

Patrick looked down at himself. “What’s wrong?” Good jeans, band t-shirt, blazer. Everything was clean, nothing had holes, and his shoes matched his blazer. Nothing looked out of place to him, but then again, he wasn’t an eleven-year-old girl.

“You don’t wear a t-shirt on a date!”

“How would you know?”

“I just do, okay?”

“Well, too bad. I’m almost late.” Patrick tugged the cuffs of his blazer down and glanced at the clock. “Strike that, I am late. Crap.” He leaned down to kiss Jessie goodbye. “Don’t give Christie any trouble, okay?”

“I won’t,” she promised.

“Good luck, Mr. Stump!” the teenage babysitter called from the living room. When Patrick opened the garage door and looked back into the kitchen, he saw Jessie watching him, bouncing on her toes. It didn’t help the knot of nerves that had taken up residence in his stomach.

When he pulled into the restaurant – nothing fancy, just a fucking Applebee’s, for Christ’s sake – he had to pause to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “It’s dinner,” he told himself. “Just dinner, with someone Bob thinks you could be friends with.” Only, really, it was a date. A date with a guy. Shit. What was he doing here, again?

It took Patrick five full minutes to talk himself into walking through the front door. He really didn’t have a good idea of who he was looking for – “um, he’s got brown hair, and a lot of energy,” Bob had told him. “Just, don’t worry about it, I showed him a picture of you, he’ll find you.” Which wasn’t helpful at all. Patrick had visions of standing around, looking like a dumbass. He couldn’t figure out if that would be better or worse than actually meeting this guy.

“You’re Patrick, right?” Okay, so he was going to find out. When Patrick turned around to find the source of the (surprisingly deep – he wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting, but the baritone wasn’t it) voice, he saw a skinny kid waving at him, brown hair just long enough to brush his eyebrows. Nice looking guy, his brain supplied, and he immediately felt too short and too chubby. But, the kid had a grin that seemed to split his face, so he couldn’t look too bad, right? “I’m Brendon,” he said, sticking out his hand. “It’s great to meet you. Bob’s told me so much about you!”

Turned out, Brendon was just as passionate about music as Patrick, which was hard to come by, so the evening seemed to fly by. Brendon had moved to Chicago from Las Vegas several months earlier (“well, um, there really wasn’t anything going on there, unless I wanted to play in some casino’s house band, no thanks”) and had almost immediately fallen in with a blues-rock band. “They fired their keyboard player one night when I was hanging out with some friends at the bar they played at.” Brendon laughed and contorted his face into some sort of weird pouting scowl, causing Patrick to nearly lose a mouthful of beer. “’Any of you motherfuckers play the piano,’ the lead singer yelled to the entire bar. I was stupid enough to say yes.”

“Bob says you guys are pretty good, though.”

Brendon’s face relaxed back into a genuine smile. “Yeah, it’s a good gig. Mario’s a big freak, but hey, he’s a big freak who doesn’t let anyone mess with the skinny little faggot in his band, so I kinda love him.”
Suddenly, Patrick remembered that he wasn’t just out to dinner with a cool new friend, he was … well, possibly looking at Brendon for something more? He fidgeted, and tried to hide it by taking another swallow of his beer. “How many instruments do you play?” he asked.

Brendon shrugged. “Piano, guitar, bass, and accordion. Don’t laugh, man, the accordion is the sexiest instrument ever!”

Patrick snorted good-naturedly. “That’s really cool, actually,” he admitted. “I’ve always wanted to pick up weird instruments like that, but I don’t ever have the time. I drummed in a few bands, back in high school, and I used to play the guitar, but I’ve just never gotten around to anything else …”

“I guess being a parent kind of takes precedence over learning how to play the xylophone, or something.” Brendon reached across the table to grab the ketchup, and his hand brushed against Patrick’s arm. Patrick held himself still and made himself smile. The wattage behind Brendon’s answering grin could have possibly powered the entire restaurant. Patrick exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Okay. This was easy, or easier than he’d thought. He could do this. “Maybe we could, I don’t know, jam together sometime?” Patrick asked. “I haven’t really had anyone to play with for a long time.”

“I’d love to.” Brendon’s smile didn’t dim as he flagged down the waitress. “A couple more beers, please?”

Yes. Easy. Patrick nodded to himself.

"Seriously, it's fucking six o’clock on a Saturday, why doesn't he just fuck off?"

"Because he's a dick," Ryan sighed. He made a rude gesture at the closed front door, which moments before had been opened so that their upstairs neighbor could once again complain about the noise levels. "Our music wasn't that loud."

"I couldn't hear it in the back bedroom, so he couldn't have heard that much upstairs." Pete flopped into a chair. "We need to get out of here."

"Agreed." Ryan sat on the couch, his legs curled underneath him. "You know, Jon was telling me about the building next door to him. They're rehabbing it, turning old apartments into condos. It's on the edge of the Gold Coast, so it might be more affordable ..."

"And would probably be the size of a shoebox." Pete shook his head. "I'm ready to upgrade, Ryan. If we move, I want a real home, not another place where I have to rent a storage locker just to have room for my record collection." He looked over at Ryan. "What does Jon do, anyway, that he can afford to live over there?"

"He inherited a condo from his grandfather. A couple of his friends live with him to help pay the utilities and property taxes."

"Three people to just pay utilities and taxes, and you think we can afford to live next door?" Pete said disbelievingly

"They're all baristas and musicians," Ryan shot back. "They don't make as much money as we do. It’s not like you and I are poor, Pete. We make good money.”

“Yeah, we do. I’m thirty-two years old, I make a good salary, and I’m kinda tired of living in fucking tiny apartments and condos just because they’re in a trendy neighborhood.” Pete rubbed his eyes. “I just want something that’s mine, you know?”

Ryan stared at him for a long moment. “I don’t want to move out to the middle of nowhere,” he said finally. “I don’t want to live next to a strip mall, and have to drive for an hour to be able to see anyone cool.”

“Yeah, because God knows I don’t qualify as cool any more.”

“Pete, that’s not …”

“Forget it.” Pete stood up. “I’m going to go fuck around on the computer.”

Ryan didn’t protest when Pete left the room.

***

Okay, asshole, if you were around for Daily Dispatch, did you ever catch them when they played with Magnetic Victory? I fucking loved that band, but they only played a dozen shows, and I can’t find anyone around any more who even remembers them.

***

hell yeah. their song about a sexual apocalypse was fucking epic. what the hell was that one called, anyway? and why did they never actually record anything?

***

“Straddling the Bomb”. I heard that their guitarist was a raging cokehead. Apparently, he disappeared off the face of the earth right before they were supposed to go into the studio. He was the songwriter, so they were stuck. It sucked.

I thought I knew everyone on the scene back then. Why don’t I know you?

***

nobody ever really knows the assholes.

okay, you might stop responding to me after this, but i gotta ask. how’d you figure out that you like guys? i’ve been wondering.

***

I have no idea why I actually am responding to you. But, I don’t know, I just did. How does anyone figure out shit like that?

***

i figured it out after i ended up with a hard-on during into a fistfight with jason carver in ninth grade. i got suspended from school for a month. his nose is probably still crooked.

***

Wow, thanks for those totally unnecessary details. Luckily, there was no punching involved for me. My life is not that dramatic.

***

probably more fulfilling, though.

***

I know nothing about your life, so I can’t respond to that.

***

i work in an office, i’m good at my job, and i really want to buy a house in the suburbs so I can have a dog. sometimes, though, i really fucking wish i was still spending all of my nights drenched in sweat in shitty bars. i have a great 401(k). some nights, i’d trade it in a heartbeat for my old fender p-bass.

***

Bassist, huh? I was a drummer, long ago and far away. Maybe if life had been different, you and I would have made a kickass rhythm section for some band. But, that's life, I guess. Nowadays, I guess it'd just be nice to spend some time in shitty bars with someone who understood about growing up and out of it.

***

are you flirting with me? because up until now i was pretty sure you were just humoring me.

***

“That is a damned good question,” Patrick said to the computer screen, rubbing his face.

“Who are you talking to, Dad?”

“No one. Just myself.” He looked up from the computer as Jessie hooked her chin on his shoulder. She grinned at him, and then focused her attention on the computer screen. He blanked out for a moment before minimizing his email, which was apparently all the time she needed.

“What was that? Who’s asking you about flirting? The guy who’s coming over tonight?”

“No,” Patrick said automatically Afterwards, he silently cursed himself. He should have said yes, he thought, it would have been a lot easier. “It’s none of your business.”

Jessie frowned, but stepped back when Patrick pushed his chair back from the desk. “Why is it none of my business?”

“It just is.” Patrick tried to take some of the sting out of it by ruffling her hair, but she ducked away from him.

She climbed onto the bed and sat cross-legged, watching as he walked over to the closet pushed the clothes aside. His back was to her, but he could hear her fingers beating a rhythm on the bedspread. She did that a lot. Probably got it from him, he thought, and grinned to himself.
When Jessie spoke, though, her voice was doubtful. “So, this guy is coming over to … listen to music?”

“Yeah, something like that. His name is Brendon,” Patrick reminded her for the third time.

Patrick reached deep into his closet. He heard Jessie scramble off the bed, then felt her slight weight when she leaned on his shoulder. “Is that a guitar case? I didn’t know you had a guitar!”

He hummed in response. “I used to sing you lullabies when you were a baby; I guessed I stopped before you were old enough to remember.” Why had he stopped? When he thought about it, he just remembered taking more and more sound gigs, because diapers and baby food were expensive and Becca had to finish high school before anyone would hire her for any job with decent pay. Music had just become an afterthought, not important in the grand scheme of things. When he pulled the guitar out of its case, he felt a small stab of regret deep in his stomach. “I bet I’ve forgotten everything I ever knew,” he murmured.

“I bet you haven’t,” Jessie said. She climbed back onto the bed. “Play something for me!”

Patrick frowned and brushed some of the dust off of the strings. “I can’t just play it right now. It needs to be cleaned, and tuned, and I’ll probably have to replace the strings … I don’t even know why I have it out, it’s not like I’ll be able to play it when Brendon gets here.”

As if on cue, the doorbell sounded. Patrick put the guitar back into the case as Jessie scrambled off of the bed. She stood next to him, staring at the guitar. He bumped his hip against hers. “Hey, go let him in, will you?”

She made a face, but left the room. Patrick heard the low rumble of Brendon’s voice a moment later. He looked down at his t-shirt – was that a stain on the hem? Oh, well, too late now – and smoothed it before closing the guitar case and taking a deep breath. This felt a little weird. He’d enjoyed Brendon’s company at the restaurant, and they’d had a couple of really great conversations on the phone in the three days since, but having him over to his house? For a brief second, he wished he could take back the invitation. But, too late, Brendon was already in the living room talking to his daughter. He should probably be supervising that.

When he got to the living room, he found Brendon standing in the entry, bouncing a little on his toes while Jessie leaned against the back of the couch, her arms crossed across her chest. “So, do you listen to music?” Brendon was asking.

“Duh,” Jessie said.

“Jess!” Patrick glared at her. “You have manners, I know you do.”

“Sorry.” She didn’t sound like it, but she unfolded her arms. “I like the Jonas Brothers,” she muttered.

“Dude, they’re super catchy,” Brendon said enthusiastically. “I can’t argue with good pop music!”

“You can if you have to listen to it twenty-four hours straight,” Patrick said, poking Jessie in the arm. She squirmed away. He turned back to Brendon and smiled. “How’d your show go last night?”

“We killed it! Man, those retirees didn’t know what hit them.” When Jessie wrinkled her nose, Brendon explained, “My band was hired to play a 50th wedding anniversary party. We learned every song Elvis ever made. I even had the chance to sing ‘Hound Dog’, which means I can retire from the business happy.”

“Sing what?” Jessie asked.

Patrick groaned and slung an arm over her shoulder. She wiggled out of his grasp with an irritated noise. “Clearly, I have failed as a father. The gap in your musical education must be fixed.”

“Sure, whatever.” Jessie inched towards the hallway. “Can I go back to my room now?”

“You sure you don’t want to stick around? I’m going to make the pizzas you like.”

Patrick stared at her, but she just looked at the wall behind him. Finally, he shrugged. “Fine, I’ll let you know when the pizza is ready.”

Jessie escaped, and Patrick turned back to Brendon. “Sorry, she’s a little skittish sometimes.”

“It’s okay, I understand.” Brendon sat down on one end of the couch. “It’s gotta be weird, meeting … new people.”

Patrick blushed, and sat down at the other end of the couch. “Yeah, probably.” There were a few minutes of silence, and then Patrick laughed. “So.”

“So!” Brendon hopped back up. “I totally left my accordion in the car, I’ll go get it!”

“You brought your accordion?”

“Totally. I promised you I’d show you how to play, right?”

When Brendon bounded towards the door, he gave a hip shake that made Patrick snort. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders, and he got up and headed for the kitchen. The pizza could cook while they messed around with music.

Patrick was not prepared when Brendon kissed him.

It was just a tiny kiss, little more than a peck on the corner of his mouth. But, still, it was done with intent, and Patrick wasn't ready for it. When Patrick pulled back, he could feel his face flaming red. Kissing a guy was … somehow not that different from kissing a girl, but still odd. He couldn’t tell you what felt different;, it just did. “Um,” he said, looking down at the silver star design on Brendon’s t-shirt rather than at his face.

“Yeah,” Brendon replied. “Um, I’m sorry if that was too fast…”

"It's okay," Patrick said. "I guess I just ... I didn't really ...."

"Sorry," Brendon said again. "I just thought I'd try ..."

"It's cool, really, it's okay."

They stared at each other for a moment, an awkward silence stretching between them. It was finally interrupted by a voice from the hallway. “Dad! I need help!”

Patrick stood up immediately. He shrugged apologetically down at Brendon. “Sorry …”

“No, no, that’s fine., I’ll stay here.”

When Patrick got back to the bedroom, Jessie was sitting on her bed in her pajamas, arms crossed over her chest and a frown on her face. “What’s wrong? You didn’t come back out for dessert.”

“Like you cared,” she huffed.

“What?”

"He kissed you."

Patrick felt his face burn again. “You were watching us?”

“I … um … I just wanted to see.”

“Jess …” Patrick pushed his hat off of his head and wiped his brow. “Listen, I thought this was what you wanted?”

“I … just, I don’t like him,” she whispered, peering around Patrick as if Brendon was about to show up in the doorway.

“You barely spoke to him, Jess.”

“I don’t care.”

“Jessica …” Patrick rubbed his eyes, frustration fully replacing the relaxed pleasure the evening had brought. “Okay,” he said finally, “here’s what we’ll do. I’m going to go send Brendon home, you’re going to go to sleep, and we’re going to talk about this in the morning.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Jess. That wasn’t a question.”

She flopped back on the bed with a loud sigh. “Fine,” she said, turning away from him and towards the wall.

Patrick walked back out to the living room, where Brendon was tapping a slow rhythm on the coffee table with the pens they’d been using to figure out the chords of a song earlier. “Hey,” Brendon said softly, looking up.

“Hey. Um … I’m sorry, but I think we’re going to have to call it a night.”

Brendon jumped up. “That’s totally cool, I understand. I have a rehearsal tomorrow, anyway., I should probably think about showing up on time this time.”

Patrick nodded. Brendon rubbed the back of his neck, then turned towards the front door. Patrick tugged on the hem of his shirt. “Hey, Brendon, I … um, had a good time tonight.”

Brendon turned around, a smile on his face. “Me, too.”

“So, maybe we can do it again sometime?”

“Yeah, absolutely, I’d love to.” Brendon made a move like he was going to close the distance between then, but then gave Patrick a small, slightly awkward salute instead. “Give me a call;, I’ll be around.”

Patrick felt an odd weight in his stomach for what seemed like a long time after Brendon left. He turned off all the lights in the living room and headed back towards the bedroom. When he passed Jessie’s room, he peered inside to see that the lights were off, and she appeared in the shadows as merely a lump underneath her quilt. He thought about going in to say goodnight, but decided to let her be. They could figure things out in the morning.

We’re having a friendly conversation, right? Flirting’s in the eye of the beholder, I guess.

So, you’re a bassist. Did you play in a band, way back when?

***
a few. mostly just hardcore nonsense. had a good time crowd surfing and screaming into microphones, though. what about you?

***
No bands for me, outside of some jam sessions in my friend’s basement. I had a line on a band once, but then I became a father and that went out the window.

***
bummer. being a dad’s worth it, though, I bet.

***
Yeah, it is. If I had to go back and choose between music and my daughter, I’d choose her every time. But, still, there are times I wonder what would have happened. I’m human, I get a little bitter sometimes that I never got to be a normal kid.

Why am I telling you all this?

***
because i’m just an anonymous email address. the internet is kinda like the world’s nosiest shrink.

i’ll match you one for one. i gave up music for college because i was better at selling things than i was at playing. i still wish i’d made the other choice about three times a week.

***
Where do you think you’d be now, if you’d kept playing?

***
probably still sleeping on someone else’s couch, either drunk or hung over. it’s better to have a home and insurance and shit, i know. why can't i have the happy medium? play music, get paid well, have a house and a dog and a life?

***

Because someone, somewhere along the line decided that all artists had to starve in order to be taken seriously. It’s bullshit, isn’t it?

If someone gave you the chance to quit your job and play in a band tomorrow, would you do it?

***

no. i told you, i sucked, and i’d suck even worse right now. don’t mind me, i’m just wallowing in memories. i feel kind of ridiculously old and lame at the moment. and acting old and lame probably isn’t helping me flirt with you, so it’s time to shut up.

***
We’re back to flirting again, huh? I think we’re probably both spectacularly bad at it.

***

speak for yourself, i’m smooth as buttah.

***

Riiiiight. Feed me another one.

***

oh, you’re so lucky it’s three in the morning and i’m too tired to give that line the treatment it deserves. there’s something in there about what i’d feed you, but it probably wouldn’t make it past your spam filter.

***

Now I’m curious. You’ll have to enlighten me when you’re more awake.

***

ha. now we’re definitely flirting, you can’t deny it.

***

Andy’s new band was called Animus Rising. The lead singer was a woman Patrick had never met before; she was over six feet tall, bald, and had, among many piercings, a large red barbell pierced through her septum. Brendon complimented her on her choice of jewelry, but when they walked away, he stage-whispered to Patrick, “I was kinda afraid she’d beat me to a pulp if I wasn’t nice.”

“Good call.” Patrick laughed. He and Brendon had seen each other twice since their music "date" at Patrick's house. Brendon hadn't tried to kiss him again. Patrick wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved. Still, Brendon was highly entertaining, so Patrick had invited him to come along to this show. A date, friends hanging out - Patrick had no idea what was going on. But, he'd decided to just go with it and have a good time. There was nothing wrong with making a new friend, he told himself, and Brendon was definitely friend material, if nothing else.

They had just turned towards the bar when Patrick felt a tap on his shoulder. When he turned, Andy stood behind him. “Dude, we need your help. The fucking bar was supposed to provide their house sound guy, but apparently he walked out today. We’re screwed. Can you run the board for us?”

Patrick blinked. “I’ve never even heard you guys before.”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just make sure we can hear ourselves. It’s probably going to sound like mangled noise out here no matter what you do.” Andy grinned. “That’s kind of the point.”

“You’re fucking weird, Hurley, you know that?” But, Patrick turned to Brendon. “Um … do you …”

Brendon waved him on. “As long as I can hang out at the sound board and look cool.”

As Andy walked away, Patrick dug into his pocket. “If I give you money, could you go get me a couple of Diet Cokes? I’m going to need the caffeine to get through this …”

Brendon scowled and tugged on Patrick’s arm. “Seriously, dude, I can afford a couple of sodas. Don’t worry about it.”

Brendon squeezed his arm before wading into the thick crowd that had suddenly materialized at the bar. Patrick smiled at his retreating back before heading towards the sound board.

“Andy motherfucking Hurley!” Pete yelled above the crowd.

“Pete fucking Wentz,” Andy replied, detouring to where Pete was standing. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“A prisoner of the corporate world, man. It’s sad.”

“It really is,” Andy said seriously. “You had so much promise.” He accepted Pete’s hug with enthusiasm, though. When they pulled apart, he scanned the area around Pete. “I thought you had a boyfriend. Is he here?”

“Nope,” Pete said, shrugging. “He got roped into helping a friend photograph a wedding.”

“Too bad, I’d like to meet him.” Pete shrugged again, and Andy huffed out a laugh. “It’s like that, huh?”

“You don’t want to hear my relationship bullshit, trust me.”

“No, I really, really don’t.” Andy clapped him on the shoulder. “Stick around after the show;, it’s good to see you. I gotta go backstage before Carla shoves Jimmy into the toilet.” He walked away, and Pete grinned.

Pete wandered around the bar after that, nursing a ginger ale and wondering when the hell kids young enough to be his children – and yes, wow, he was old enough to have reasonably fathered teenagers, that thought scared him more than he would ever admit – got to be old enough to go to bars for a concert. Granted, it was a straight-edge, all-ages show, which accounted for the drink in his hands not being a beer. He kind of wanted a beer right at that moment. Something that would help him forget that he was getting old, and that his boyfriend would rather be off playing photographer’s assistant than out with him, and that he actually didn’t care that much about whether his boyfriend was with him or not. “You are so fucked up,” he muttered to himself.

As he wandered past the sound board, he glanced at the guy fiddling with buttons behind it, wondering if it was anyone he remembered from his own rock & roll days. It wasn’t – this guy was obviously a few years younger than him, as well as a few inches shorter, with a shock of red hair spilling out of the back of a black trucker hat with a white panel on the front. The panel was decorated with a tiny black Chicago skyline. “For real?” Pete muttered under his breath. For a moment, he wondered where Andy had come up with this dude – he was totally not a hardcore kind of guy, not with his thick black glasses, soft, round face and old Saves The Day t-shirt.

It was the t-shirt that did it. Pete leaned over the sound board before he could stop himself. “Dude, where did you get that shirt? I used to have the exact same one, like, ten years ago.”

The guy looked up and blinked in confusion; the light was just good enough for Pete to make out green eyes, magnified by thick lenses. “Um, I’ve probably had it that long. I saw them at The Metro when I was in high school.”

“You’ve managed to keep it good this long? More power to you, man. Mine was dead within two years. Too much beer and bodily fluids.”

“Too much information,” the sound guy said, but with an amused quirk to his mouth - which, Pete noticed, was kind of phenomenal. Pete was a fan of mouths, multi-functional body parts such as they were. This guy was pretty cute, actually, despite the tragic choice in headgear. He had pretty eyes and strong-looking hands that fiddled with dials on the sound board and held an ear piece to his ear. He finished whatever he was doing on the board, set down the ear piece, and looked back up at Pete. “So, are you a friend of Andy’s, too?”

“How’d you guess?”

“Because we’re two of the only people here that aren’t either seventeen or advertising the rise of a vegan anarchist nation somewhere on our bodies.”

Pete laughed. “I like steak too much. Andy decided to forgive me somewhere over the years.”

The guy let out a laugh, and when the wide grin didn’t leave his face, Pete stared without meaning to. A blush spread across the sound guy’s cheeks, which Pete somehow found unbearably adorable. If this guy was into dudes, well, he could … not do anything, he reminded himself, because he had a boyfriend. A boyfriend who was spending Saturday night with another guy. Pete shook himself mentally, and reached out to tap the brim of cute sound guy’s hat. “If you’re a friend of Andy’s, I’m surprised we haven’t met before. You must be pretty new. I haven’t been around lately.”

The guy stepped back, out of Pete’s reach, but he still had a small smile on his face. “Nah, I’ve known Andy for years. I used to tech for Burn The Miles, back when they were still touring.”

“Really? Shit, that has been a while ago.” Pete hadn’t been able to see Burn The Miles play very often; Andy had joined the band around the same time as Pete had abandoned his rock star dreams and gone back to finish college, choosing to abandon the degree he’d been working towards and start fresh with advertising. “It makes sense,” Andy had told him over the phone, with only a tiny bit of doubt in his voice, “you always could sell water to a drowning man. Might as well make a career out of it.” And he had – he made a damned good career out of it. Sometimes, though, he thought as he glanced towards the stage, he wished he’d had the chance to stand up there for just a little while longer. Finally, he looked back at the sound guy, who was now staring at him with a thoughtful expression. “I’m proud of Andy,” Pete said. “It’s hard to make a living as a musician. He’s one of the few who didn’t have to sell out to stay alive.”

“Talking about yourself?” When Pete’s eyes widened, the redhead held up his hands. “Sorry, personal question; you don’t know me.”

“Nah, that’s okay. Andy and I played together for a while, when we were really young. I was horrible. No, really,” he said, grinning, when the guy looked like he was about to say something tactful, “I was awful. Andy will tell you. But it was a damned good time.”

The redhead smiled, and Pete was struck by the impulse to lean over and kiss his cheek, just to see if he could get the red blush to stain his skin again. “I missed my chance, I guess,” he said wistfully. “I wanted to be a musician, but life caught up with me earlier than most.”

Pete opened his mouth to ask a nosy question, but at that moment another guy – skinny, dark, handsome – came around the other side of the sound board, precariously balancing four glasses in his hands. The sound guy raised an eyebrow as he reached out to grab two of them. “I had to get myself an extra, too, because there is no way I’m going back to that bar. I’m pretty sure Doc Martens can be classified as a deadly weapon on the right feet, and most of those are the right feet.” He grinned, a huge, dopey thing that Pete thought probably shouldn’t look as charming as it did. “There are some old friends of yours over there, Patrick, which is probably the only reason I made it out alive.”

The sound guy – Patrick – looked back at the bar. “Oh, really? Who’s over there? I haven’t seen a lot of Andy’s crowd in forever.”

Pete stared. Now that he had a name, he heard the guy’s voice in his head and … no way. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t be standing here talking to the same guy he’d been emailing. The guy from the radio. There was no way his life worked like that.

The other guy continued, oblivious to Pete’s open-mouthed expression. “One of the women back there says that she’s got some clothes for Jessie, if you want them – she says her daughter reached junior high and decided she was only wearing white t-shirts and cargo pants, some kind of protest of the superficiality of society. Sounded like Mom approved of the kid’s politics.”

Patrick laughed, loud and open, and the sound played straight down Pete’s spine. “God, that’s Rachel. I haven’t seen her in forever. Would you hate me if I asked you to go tell her to come over here?”

“As long as she promises to protect me on the way out.” The new guy pouted – and, again, how was that charming on a grown man, anyway? He reached out to tug on Patrick’s t-shirt before he went. Patrick smiled back at him, no blush, just amusement evident on his face.

Pete backed up until the crowd swallowed him. As soon as Patrick was out of his sight, he made a beeline for the front door of the club. Andy would forgive him if he didn’t stay, probably. He just … had to get some air. Or a life. Or something.

“So … what? You just left?” Joe stared at Pete. Pete stared back, and Joe popped a piece of popcorn into his mouth. “When did you become a pussy, seriously?”

“Fuck you,” Pete said without heat. “I just … well, he has a boyfriend. A really cute one. What was I supposed to say, ‘oh, hey, I’m this guy you’ve been flirting with in email?’ Only, maybe he wasn’t actually flirting with me, maybe he was just being friendly, and I was the only one flirting?” Pete paced across the living room. “Dude, I’m sorta glad Marie’s out tonight. She’d have punched me by now.”

“I’m glad you’re self-aware, anyway.” Joe stretched out on the couch. “You couldn’t do anything logical, like say ‘hi, I’m Pete, you know, the one you’ve been talking to?’”

“Oh, sure, admit to being one of those creepy dudes who heard him on the radio, that’d be great.”

“If you think it’s creepy, why are you doing it?”

“Because he’s kind of awesome!” Pete flopped down into the chair. “And cute. Really cute, actually, in a tiny farm boy sort of way. And he knows good music and has a great sense of humor and … why the fuck am I crushing on this guy when I have a perfectly good boyfriend?”

“Because you don’t have a perfectly good boyfriend?” When Pete looked at him sharply, Joe held up a hand. “Hear me out. I like Ryan, you know I do, but how long has it been since you guys have acted like you were dating? I am,” Joe amended hastily, “not asking the last time you had sex, please notice that, because I cannot tell you how much I don’t want to know that. But how long has it been since you went out to dinner, or something like that?”

Pete frowned. “A while,” he admitted. “I’ve been working a lot, and Ryan met these new friends …”

“Why don’t you hang out with them?”

“I don’t know; it just seems like Ryan’s deal, you know? It’s not like we have to have all the same friends.”

“True. But … dude, I’m just going to say it. I don’t think either one of you wants to be dating each other any more.”

Pete tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. “We’ve been fighting about moving. Well, not fighting, disagreeing. I want to get a real house, and he doesn’t. He wants to stay in the city. And, I guess I’d say the same if I was still in my mid-twenties. But I’m not.” Pete sighed. “I’m getting old, man. I think I want a quieter life than Ryan does.”

“That’s what you get for dating a younger man.” Joe smirked, and Pete flipped him off.

“You’re not helping me feel less lame.”

“That’s because you are lame. You should have just introduced yourself to that Patrick guy; it’s not that big of a deal.”

“Says you.” Pete kicked his feet onto the couch, pushing at Joe’s arm with his socks. “I should’ve,” he said after a moment. “He probably thinks I’m a freak. Or, he forgot about me the minute I walked away.” Privately, he didn’t know which would be worse.

“Just email him, dumbass.”

“Not that simple, jerkoff.”

But, Pete thought about it, through the seven millionth (per Joe) viewing of Say Anything and all the way home. Ryan was still out when Pete walked in the door, and the silence in the condo felt oppressive. “Maybe I should email him,” he said into the emptiness.

In his office, he stared at a blank email window for what felt like forever.

so i met you tonight. sorry i flaked out, i didn’t know it was you until it was too late.

He deleted the sentences almost immediately.

maybe we were at the same saves the day show. wouldn’t that be weird?

Deleted again. “You really are fucking lame, Wentz,” he muttered.

i fucking love your smile. you could use a better hat, though.

Deleted. “I am a creep. I’m a super fucking creep who is sorta cheating on his boyfriend, emotionally speaking, and good fucking God I sound like a girl.”

Pete groaned and looked away from the computer. His gaze landed on the calendar next to his desk. Idly, he scanned the next week, looking to see if anything interesting – or distracting – was going on. “Oh, fuck me, Valentine’s Day.” It was the following Saturday. The calendar square was blank. “We should probably do something,” he said into the nothingness. He wanted to do something for Valentine’s Day, he realized. He wanted to have dinner with Ryan and feel like he did two years earlier. He wanted Ryan to want to have dinner with him, rather than with his friend Jon. He wanted to have a nice, romantic evening with good conversation, rather than just work gossip and awkward silences.

Maybe Joe was right. Maybe he and Ryan …

hey, we’ve been talking a lot. i like talking to you. you make me feel like i might actually have something to say. could we maybe meet sometime? say, next saturday, the field museum, three o’clock. i’ll be the weird one standing next to sue, because she is the coolest.

Pete hit send before he could delete the message.

“Are you done yet, Jess?”

“Just a minute, almost there!”

“How does an eleven-year-old get that much email?” Patrick asked himself under his breath. He took the grilled cheese sandwich off the stove and put it on a plate. “Your lunch is done,” he yelled upstairs. “If it’s cold by the time you get down here, you’re still eating it.”

He had already rinsed off the frying pan by the time Jessie appeared in the kitchen. She slid into the chair and took a bite out of the sandwich in one movement. “Sorry,” she said, mouth full. “You can have your computer now.”

“Thanks.” He ruffled her hair on his way past. “Put the plate in the dishwasher when you’re done.”

In his bedroom, Patrick brought his web browser back up. It still displayed a page full of pixilated dragons and the various fake foods an owner could feed them. He grinned and fed the littlest dragon a rainbow-colored snake before navigating away to his email. He only saw seven new emails from the radio station address – thankfully, that was trailing off, the more time that went by. One was from Andy, thanking him for working the night before, and offering him a regular gig with Animus Rising. “I’ll think about it,” he murmured, and dashed off a reply to the same effect. Most of their shows were all-ages, so he wouldn’t be out until all hours of the night, and he did miss hanging out with Andy on a regular basis. It was worth considering.

Bob had forwarded him a link to a music review site (these guys know what they’re talking about, unlike most pretentious dickwads with a blog) and his brother had sent him an invitation to a party. The final unread message was from “lost boys inc”, a name he’d become more than familiar with in the past few weeks. “Hi, Pete,” he said aloud, surprising himself with the flip his stomach did at the sight of the email.

His stomach was doing full-fledged somersaults, however, by the time he finished reading the message. “Could we maybe meet sometime?” he repeated, biting his lip. He could do it. It wouldn’t be that big of a deal, right? This Pete was just someone he enjoyed talking to, someone who shared a lot of his musical interests. They could be friends. Except, Patrick wasn’t fooling himself; they were flirting. And Patrick was dating someone.

… or, not really. After the show the night before, he and Brendon had parted with a hug and a promise to get together for dinner sometime that week. Brendon hadn’t tried to kiss him, not since that night at Patrick’s house. And, well, Patrick hadn’t tried, either, had barely even thought about it. He was trying not to read too much into it. He hadn’t dated since he was sixteen, after all, and dating guys had to be a lot different than dating girls, anyway. Truth was, he had no idea what he was doing - not with Brendon, and not with Pete.

Meeting Pete was probably a bad idea. Patrick’s finger hovered over the “reply” button. What should he say? “Sorry, I’d rather stay anonymous; it’s less scary that way.” Patrick snorted to himself. That would go over well.

“Whatcha reading?” Jessie asked from the doorway.

Patrick hastily minimized his email and turned his head to look at her. “Did you inhale that sandwich or what?” he asked.
“Yep, and I even put the dishes away,” she said, coming to stand next to the chair. “Hey, are you still emailing that one guy?”

Patrick raised an eyebrow. “What guy?” he asked, hoping he sounded convincing.

Jessie rolled her eyes. “The one with all the music stuff. You know. He sounded cool.”

“My email is my business, Jess.” He tugged on her sleeve to take some of the sting out of the words. “Hey, you mind if we have Brendon over for dinner again this week?”

Jessie’s face started to screw up into a pout, but she stopped it almost immediately. “I guess,” she said without inflection.

Sighing, Patrick closed the web browser and turned his full attention onto his daughter. “Jess, what’s wrong with Brendon?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s nice, I guess.”

“You don’t have to lie. If you have something to say about him, I promise, I’ll listen. I just want to know, okay?”

She shrugged again, not looking at Patrick. “I don’t know,” she repeated. “I guess he’s just not what I expected.”

“Expected for what?”

“Like … a boyfriend.” Jessie scuffed a toe in the carpet. “He kinda acts like a kid. I don’t really like that.”

Patrick thought back, to the dinner the three of them had shared at Chili’s the week before. Brendon had enthusiastically grabbed a crayon from the waitress and colored a jalapeno pepper blue and green while he talked about growing up in a Mormon family and asked Jessie about school. Jessie had refused to color. If Brendon hadn’t been there, Patrick knew that Jessie would have colored without a second thought. “I know what you’re talking about,” Patrick said carefully. He couldn’t really tell her that Brendon’s childlike enthusiasm was one of the things Patrick enjoyed – that hanging out with Brendon reminded Patrick that he, himself, was only 27, and could maybe occasionally act like it. “Brendon is a little bit younger than me,” he continued, after a long minute. “He doesn’t have any kids, obviously, so maybe he doesn’t really know how to act around you.”

Jessie let out a long breath and sat on the floor at Patrick’s feet. “I just expected … something different. I don’t know what.”

“You know, Jess, I didn’t really know what to expect, either.” He rolled his chair forward an inch, and Jessie leaned against his legs. He leaned down and squeezed her shoulder. “I’m kinda making this up as I go along. But, the thing is, I like Brendon, and I think he’s going to be a good friend no matter what happens. Do you think you could learn to like him, at least a little, for my sake?”

Jessie was silent for a long time. Patrick just carded his fingers through her hair and waited. Finally, he felt her head nod against his legs. “I’ll try,” she said softly. “I promise.”

Patrick leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Thanks, baby.” It was as good as he was going to get.

Three days went by without a response to his email. Pete wavered between being insanely grateful and completely depressed. On Tuesday, Ryan finally cuffed him on the back of the head in the car on their way to work. “What’s wrong with you? You’re not talking, which is a sure sign of too much brain activity.”

“You haven’t been talking either,” Pete pointed out. His voice sounded petulant even to him.

Ryan, however, had the grace to look ashamed. “Sorry. I’ve been … distracted, I guess.”

“Me too.” Pete rubbed the back of his neck and stretched in his seat. Ryan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. They were silent for a few minutes. Finally, Pete turned his body so that he was angled towards Ryan. “So, hey, Saturday is Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh. It is?” Ryan looked over his shoulder before changing lanes. “I’d totally forgotten.”

“Me too, until I looked at the calendar the other day.” Pete poked him in the arm. “We should totally do it up right. Fancy dinner and all.”

Pete held his breath for a moment while Ryan concentrated on driving. He was being a little disingenuous; he was willing to admit it to himself. He’d heard Ryan on the phone the night before, talking about going to a party with his friend Jon. At the time, Pete had indulged in a tiny fantasy – Ryan went to his party, Pete went to meet Patrick at the museum, and they hit it off so well that Pete spent the evening watching 80s movie with Patrick and his daughter. He’d laughed at himself for that; even five years ago, his fantasies would have been a lot less lame, and would have involved more sex and alcohol. Not that he didn’t want the sex part to happen. He still saw Patrick’s mouth in his head, stretching into an easy smile. He could find some good things to do with that mouth.

He’d nearly talked himself into having a Serious Discussion with Ryan when he finally remembered that Patrick hadn’t responded to his email. At that point, he’d gone to bed, despite the fact that it was barely ten o’clock.

Pete heard Ryan exhale, and let out his own breath at the sound. “Yeah,” Ryan said, “let’s do it.” He looked sideways at Pete. “I’m sorry. We’ve been weird lately, I know.”

“It’s the moving thing,” Pete said.

“Yeah, probably.”

They fell silent for a moment. Then, Pete sighed. “Why don’t we forget about finding a new place for a while? No one wants to move in the winter, anyway. We can think about it and make a decision later.”

“That sounds good.” Ryan looked over at Pete, his mouth quirked in a grin. “So, where are we going to dinner? That vegan diner we ended up at that one time?”

Pete smacked him in the arm. “That was Andy’s fault. I should know better than to take food suggestions from him. I’ll make reservations someplace. We should go somewhere new. I’ll ask Joe if he has any suggestions, Marie has been making him go to all of these romantic type places lately. I think she’s hoping that the atmosphere will rub off and he’ll produce a diamond out of his ass, or something.”

Ryan laughed. “Tell her I said good luck with that. She’s gonna have to be the one to get down on one knee, I think.”

“I’d probably pay money to see that. I may have to suggest it to her.”

“Let me know when you do., I wanna watch her beat the shit out of you.”

“You’re so romantic, Ross. I can’t even stand it.” Pete fluttered his eyelashes, and Ryan reached over to flick him on the forehead.

When they got out of the car in the parking garage, Pete reached over and pulled Ryan down far enough to kiss him on the corner of his mouth. Ryan smiled, large and genuine, and kissed Pete quickly on the mouth. When they parted at the elevator, Pete began to whistle cheerfully. Maybe things weren’t so bad. He and Ryan had gone through a bad patch, sure, but that didn’t mean that things wouldn’t get better. A date, their first real one in ages, was a good first step.

His impulsive email didn’t matter. In the hustle and bustle of the office, he could convince himself of that without too much doubt.

Patrick considered it a good evening, all around. Jessie had been polite to Brendon, and they’d even laughed together. Granted, they were laughing at Patrick when he slipped on the dishrag in the kitchen, but still. He’d take it.

After dessert, Jessie politely excused herself from the kitchen. “Can I go use the computer, Dad?” she asked.

Patrick waved her on. “Sure. We’ll see you later.”

He and Brendon continued their argument – Billie Holliday versus Ella Fitzgerald – until they both just decided to agree that every person on the planet needed both artists in their music collection. “We’ve got a woman who sings with our band on occasion,” Brendon said, swiping the icing off of his last cupcake with his finger. “She does a killer version of ‘God Bless The Child’. You should hear her sometime.”

“I’d really love to see you guys. When’s your next gig?”

“Saturday night. We’ve been hired to play some sort of radio station sweetheart’s dance thing. I’ve been learning all the romantic standards all week.”

After that, there was silence. Patrick opened up a beer, while Brendon licked the cupcake frosting off of his hand. Patrick leaned back in his chair and listened to the sounds of Jessie walking around in the bedroom until Brendon cleared his throat. “Hey, um, Patrick?”

Patrick looked at Brendon, who had moved on to shredding the cupcake wrapper. “Yeah?”

“I wanted to … I want to say …” Brendon gave up on the wrapper and rested his chin on his hand instead. “You’re really awesome. Seriously. I’m so glad I met you, because you’re exactly the kind of friend I wanted to have when I moved here.”

“But …” Patrick nodded. “’Friend’ is the operative word in that sentence, right?”

“Yeah.” Brendon looked calm, but Patrick heard the chair rattling underneath him. He figured that if he looked under the table, he’d see Brendon’s leg bouncing nervously.

“It’s okay,” Patrick said. And it was. A knot that he didn’t realize he’d had unraveled in his stomach as he said the words. “I know what you mean. It’s cool.”

“Really? You’re sure?”

“Yeah, really.” Patrick smiled and tipped his beer bottle in Brendon’s direction. “Now, what were you saying about Otis Redding’s version of ‘Respect’?”

Patrick didn’t think about mentioning the change in relationship status to Jessie until Bob was over the next night, eating dinner before they went out on a job.

“Brendon’s awesome, but it just didn’t work out.”

Bob raised an eyebrow, while Jessie gaped at him from the other side of the kitchen table. “Didn’t you just say you’re going to see his band play on Saturday night?” Bob asked.

“Yeah, we are. That means you, too, Jess,” Patrick said as an aside. He looked back at Bob. “Brendon’s a good friend. We’re just not boyfriend material, I guess.”

“Fair enough,” Bob said, shrugging. “Better luck next time.”

“I don’t know about next time,” Patrick admitted. “This was weird. I don’t know if I’m ready for it.”

“Come on, man.” Bob tapped his fork on the table in a staccato rhythm. “You don’t get off of a bike after the first time you wobble, right?”

Patrick made a face, but was saved from Jessie’s wide-eyed stare when the doorbell rang. “That’s Christie,” he told her. “Go let her in and show her what homework you have to do tonight.”

Bob laughed when Jessie’s sour face matched the one Patrick had just made. “She’s your little mini-me sometimes, I swear.”

“No way. She’s all Becca., I see it every day.”

“She’s becoming less and less Becca as time goes on.” Patrick found himself staring at his empty plate on the table. When Bob spoke again, his voice was gentle. “She’s gone, man. She always will be.”

“I know. I just like holding on a little bit, you know?” Patrick pushed his hat back and rubbed his forehead. “Sometimes, it still feels like she’s going to walk through the door any minute and life will go back to normal.”

“Would you want it to, though?”

“What?”

“Hear me out.” Bob dug a cigarette out of his pocket and stuck it in his mouth, unlighted. “Having Becca here would be easier on Jessie, no doubt. And I know Jessie’s the number one priority. But … think about yourself, just you, not Jessie. Would you be better off?”

“Of course …”

“That’s bullshit. You loved Becca;, Becca loved you. But you were obviously hiding a big part of yourself.” Bob grabbed the cigarette and gestured with it. “No, actually, bring Jessie back into it. What kind of example would you have been setting – that she should hide the person she is to make things easier on her family?”

Patrick stared past Bob, at a spot on the wall. He and Becca had sat at this same table so many times. Meals were all about Jessie, first correcting her table manners, then asking questions about school and friends and undone chores. They’d very rarely talked to each other. Looking back, Patrick realized they really hadn’t had much in common.

i like talking to you you make me feel like i might actually have something to say.

“You know,” he said to Bob, after a long silence, “there’s this other guy. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Where’d you meet him?”

“I haven’t. It’s an online thing. Not a dating site,” he amended hastily, “an email thing. It’s weird. He wants to meet this weekend. I’m not sure.”

“Why not? Something creepy?”

“No. No, I don’t think so. I just …” Patrick didn’t know how to finish. Just didn’t want to be disappointed? Didn’t want to disappoint Pete? He’d be lying if he didn’t admit to himself that he wondered if Brendon’s step back had to do with a lack of attraction. Patrick knew he wasn’t the most attractive guy on the planet. He’d never been that good at attracting women; why should men be any different? Maybe he didn’t want to just end up with another friend who could have been more. “I don’t know. It’s all been really quick. I don’t think I’m going to do anything about it.”

Patrick didn’t notice that the conversation from the living room had died, or the soft steps that led from the kitchen doorway back to the bedroom.
By the time he and Bob left for work, the babysitter was firmly entrenched on the couch. “She’s back on the computer,” Christie told him.

“She has to start her homework before seven,” Patrick reminded her.

“I’m on it,” Christie said, saluting.

“Good night, Jess!” Patrick yelled back into the hallway.

The clicking of keys stopped for a second. “Good night, Daddy.”

Patrick and Bob looked at each other. “Daddy? Really?” Jessie had decided that ‘daddy’ was “too baby-ish” two years earlier. “What did you do?” Patrick asked, teasing.

“Nothing!” Jessie answered quickly. “Have a good night at work!”

Patrick snorted, but chose not to poke her any further. They keyboard resumed clacking as they walked out the back door.

“Where are we going to dinner on Saturday, again?”

“It’s a little Ethiopian place,” Pete said, spinning in his desk chair. “Marie said she couldn’t talk Joe into going, but all her friends rave about it.”

“Joe has no sense of adventure.” Ryan flopped down on the bed behind Pete and covered his eyes with his arm. “I’m really ready for the weekend. Like, I’m possibly going to start a killing spree at work tomorrow.”

“The county jail would probably be more peaceful,” Pete agreed. “Though your ass would definitely hurt more.”

“Are you sure? AT&T is certainly fucking every single one of us every day.”

Pete shrugged, laughing softly. “True.”

Pete rolled his neck. Just as he heard it pop, Ryan’s phone began to ring. Pete looked over at Ryan, who dug his phone out of his pocket and blinked wearily at the display. He flipped it open. “Hey, Jon … I’m laying on my bed, and I’m not moving … no, really, you have no idea how much today sucked.” Ryan rolled onto his side, facing away from Pete. “What’s that? … oh, that sounds awesome, just not tonight … what? Saturday? … god, dude, I’d love to, but Pete and I have plans … yeah, it’s fucking Valentine’s Day, you loser, go find yourself a boyfriend to fuck or something.” Ryan rolled back onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “Yeah. Have fun, man., I wish I could join you. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“What’s going on?” Pete asked when Ryan clicked the phone closed.

Ryan stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “Jon’s got this friend, a singer-songwriter, who plays the most amazing Beatles covers. He’s playing at our favorite coffee shop tonight and Saturday only. Bummer.”

“Yeah, bummer,” Pete echoed. If he was a nicer person, Pete thought, he would probably suggest going to the coffee shop after dinner on Saturday. But, he wasn’t nice enough to want to spend Valentine’s Day night with the Ryan-and-Jon entity. He rubbed his face, chasing those thoughts from his brain. It was fine. They were fine. Ryan had turned down the opportunity to hang out with Jon in favor of a night with Pete. That was good, right?

He watched Ryan on the bed until his eyes drifted shut and his breathing evened out. Then, he turned the chair and dug into his email, which had been neglected for the past two twelve-plus hour work days. He skimmed past spam, forwarded jokes from Joe, a plea for a phone call from his mother, until he finally came to Patrick’s name. Something stuttered in his chest. “Shit,” he hissed softly. He clicked to open the email.

i’ll be there on saturday. can’t wait to meet u.

The lack of capitalization was usually his game, not Patrick’s, Pete thought a little hysterically. Shit. Fuck. He’d nearly managed to forget about that little invitation. He’d put Patrick completely out of his mind, except for the time when David Bowie shuffled up on his iPod and he remembered Patrick waxing rhapsodic about The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars. Pete hadn’t admitted he’d never actually listened to the full album, but had bought it off of iTunes the very next day.

“Jesus. What do I do?” he whispered.

“Do what?” Ryan asked sleepily.

“Ugh. Family stuff,” Pete said hastily. “Long story, too boring to get into after the day we’ve had.”

He could probably pull it off. He could go to the museum in the afternoon, then come back and go to dinner at night. He could offer to go see Jon’s friend play that night to assuage his guilt. He could explain to Ryan … that he just wanted to meet the guy he’d developed a stupid crush on thanks to a radio show? Yeah, that would go over well.

He was still staring blankly at the email on his computer screen when he heard Ryan begin to snore softly.

Patrick had no idea anything was wrong until he picked up the phone to call Dawn. “Hey,” he said when she answered, “I don’t know if you’ve got plans for tonight, but a friend of mine is playing a concert, and Jessie and I are going. It might be fun if you and Trina joined us.”

Dawn laughed. “Sure, my Valentine’s Day plans usually consist of mentally cataloging all the ways my ex-husband is a jackass. That sounds a lot more productive! I’ll ask Trina, but I’m sure she’s always up for hanging out with Jessie.”

“Oh, to be a child again, when spending more than 24 hours in a row with your best friend didn’t make you want to kill anyone.” Patrick poked around in the refrigerator, mentally debating about whether it was too much effort to make a sandwich, or if he just wanted to eat chips and salsa for lunch and call it good.

“At least they’re getting a small break from each other right now.”

“What, are they playing separately?”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “Didn’t you come and pick Jessie up an hour or so ago?”

Patrick stood up straight. “Um. No.”

More silence. “You should come over here right now.”

Patrick had grabbed his keys and opened the garage door before he’d even clicked the phone shut.

Trina sat on the couch, arms crossed over her chest. “I promised Jessie,” was all they could get her to say.

Patrick and Dawn looked at each other. Patrick paced across the room while Dawn leaned over from her spot on a chair next to the couch. “Katrina Elaine, this is serious. If you don’t tell us where Jessie is, you’ll be grounded for a month. And I’ll take both your computer and your cell phone away for the duration. So out with it, right now.” Somewhere in the back of his head, Patrick was impressed with her technique – she didn’t yell, didn’t raise her voice, but somehow Dawn sounded utterly frightening, even to him.

Trina blinked, and Patrick could see her shaking. Her lips, however, remained tightly pursed. Dawn stared at her, but Trina just stared at the wall across from the couch. Finally, Dawn threw up her hands. “God, Patrick, I’m so sorry. We should call the police. I should have been keeping a better eye on them …”

Patrick had his phone out and had punched the nine before Trina finally broke. “She’s going to the museum! The Field Museum! We called her a cab; I had birthday money left over.” Both Patrick and Dawn started to ask questions, but now that the dam had burst, Trina spilled everything. “I can sound like an adult, I told the cab driver on the phone that I was her mom and that she needed to meet me at the museum. He didn’t want to do it, but we promised him more money than he charged, so he gave in.”

“But, honey,” Dawn started.

“… why is she going to the museum?” Patrick interrupted.

Trina squirmed in her seat. “Um.” Then, words tumbled out so fast that Patrick could barely understand. “She said there was this guy, a guy you were emailing with and maybe might be a boyfriend, and she read your email and saw that he wanted to meet you but you didn’t respond to him, so she did and she was going to go meet him and see what he was like, because she thinks she might like him and you might, too.”

Patrick stared at her, dumbfounded. Dawn wasn’t so silent. “You girls … made a plan to get her downtown, by herself, and meet a stranger? You have no idea how much trouble you’re in. Forget seeing the outside of your bedroom for the rest of the school year., I swear to God …”

Trina shrunk back into the couch while her mother lambasted her. Patrick moved towards the front door. “I have to go … I have to …”

Dawn stopped her diatribe and stood up. “Of course. Do you want – or need – help? We can come with you if you need help looking …”

“No. No, I know where to find her.” i’ll be the weird one standing next to sue, because she is the coolest.

After the seventeenth time Ryan checked his Sidekick – Pete had been counting – Pete rolled his eyes and tapped him on the shoulder. “Waiting for something?”

Ryan flushed. “No.”

“Liar.”

“Well,” Ryan said, twisting on the couch to face Pete. The movie on television – something on Sundance that Ryan had settled on – went ignored. “You can’t really talk, seeing as you run up to the computer on ever commercial. Why don’t you just bring the laptop down here?”

Pete’s heart stuttered. He still had Patrick’s email open on his desktop, and every time he sat in front of the computer, his finger hovered over the “reply” button. To say what? That he’d be at the museum? It was a little late for that, the clock told him; it was after two o’clock, and even on a good day it took at least a half hour to make it there. Maybe he should just say sorry, that he’d been half-crazed when he made the invitation. That wouldn’t be too far from the truth. And then Patrick would stop emailing him, and that’d probably be better for both of them. Right?

“Pete?”

He looked at Ryan. Really looked at him, angled face and wide eyes that hadn’t fooled Pete for a minute, not when they’d met and Ryan had been trying to pretend to be a jaded scene kid. Ryan’s gaze had flicked over Pete’s tattoos, and there’d been something warm there that had pooled at the bottom of Pete’s stomach and stayed there for a long time. “When did it go away?” he murmured.

“What?”

“We’re done, aren’t we?” The words surprised Pete as he spoke them, but once they’d left his mouth, he felt lighter. It felt like he’d kicked a gigantic pink elephant out of the room.

Ryan opened his mouth, closed it, and then smiled, small and humorless. “Yeah. Probably.”

“You and Jon?” Pete couldn’t resist asking.

“No!” Ryan said immediately. He sighed. “We haven’t … we could, I know, but we haven’t.”

“It’s okay.” And oddly, it was. “I miss talking to you.”

“Me, too.” Ryan leaned to the side and put his head on Pete’s shoulder. “Maybe we’ll be better as friends.”

“Maybe.” Pete slung an arm around Ryan’s shoulder. “Go seduce Jon for Valentine’s Day.” It only stung a tiny bit to say it.

Ryan snorted, pushing Pete’s arm off. He sat up, though, and fingered the Sidekick in his hand. “What about you?”

“Maybe I’ll go jeer at the couples freezing their asses off at Navy Pier. It’s been a few years since I’ve done that.”

Ryan poked him in the side. “No, really. You’ve been haunting your email for a reason. It’s gotta be for someone.”

Pete grumbled, but allowed Ryan to snuggle closer and put his chin on his shoulder. “Jesus, if I’d known breaking up would get me this much play, I’d have done it weeks ago.”

“Fuck off. What’s up?”

Pete turned his gaze to see Ryan’s unwavering stare. “Fuck,” he breathed. “It’s nothing. It’s too late, anyway.”

Ryan didn’t look away, and, well, Pete never had been able to resist that determined look. He started with the radio show, and by the time he finished the whole story, Ryan was curled up on the other side of the couch looking at him like he was a moron. “What?” Pete finished, kicking aimlessly at the coffee table.

“It’s almost three now,” Ryan pointed out.

“Yeah, and?”

“If you get off your ass right now and drive like a maniac – which you do anyway – you could be at the museum by 3:30. Maybe he’ll still be there.”

Pete blinked. “You think …”

“I think I haven’t seen you this wrapped up in anything in a long time. You need it. Go.”

“But, what if …”

“Have you turned into a complete pussy in the last two years? Didn’t you seduce me by grabbing my arm and feeding me the biggest bullshit line I’d ever heard?”

“Yeah, no one but you ever fell for the Pokemon line.”

“I figured anyone with balls that big had to be worth something.” Ryan grinned. “I was right. Go show him that.”

Pete stared for a minute more. Then, he jumped off the couch and kissed Ryan square on the mouth. “I do still love you, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, likewise.” Ryan waved him off. “Go get him!”

Patrick wasn’t a religious man, by any stretch, but he prayed to whatever god would listen for his entire drive to downtown Chicago. “Please let her be okay. Please let the cab driver have been an honest man. Please let there be enough good people at the museum that someone would help if something happened to her. Please, Jesus, just let her be there and in one piece.”

When he reached the parking garage, he parked in the first spot he saw – a handicapped spot, fuck it, he’d pay the fine – and ran all the way to the entrance.

The high school student working at the gate was leaning on her elbows when he rushed up, breathless. “Fourteen dollars.”

“Please, I think my daughter’s in there by herself; can I just go in and look?”

“Were you here before?”

“No, I just got here.”

“You’ll need to pay, sorry. Fourteen dollars.”

Patrick muttered a curse as he dug his wallet out of his pocket. He tossed a twenty at the girl. “Keep the goddamned change,” he said as he ran past the turnstile.

For a brief moment, the crowd around the dinosaur looked too thick to spot anyone, and Patrick’s heart dropped to the floor. But, once a large group of kids moved on, he peered across the floor and saw a small figure, clad in a pink hoodie, sitting with her knees up to her chest, scanning the crowd.

She spotted Patrick when he was still about ten steps away from her. She scrambled to her feet. “Dad …”

“Don’t. Just don’t, okay.” He swept her into his arms, holding her as close as possible. Her head came up to his chin. When did she get so tall? It would only be a year or two until she was taller than him, and then she wouldn’t be his little girl any more. The thought rolled around in his head with the rest of the storm that had been brewing since he’d realized she was missing. He held her at arm’s length. “Don’t ever do this again. Do you hear me?”

“I won’t,” Jessie said in a small voice. “I’m sorry.”

“What if something had happened? What if someone bad had grabbed you? What if this guy turned out to be some kind of creep? What if you’d been hit by a car, or fell down the stairs, or something?”

“I didn’t. Everyone’s been nice. And that guy didn’t come, I don’t think.” Jessie’s chin trembled. “I’ve been looking. I don’t know what he looks like, but I’ve been watching everyone who came by themselves, and no one seemed to be looking for anyone else. He’s not here.”

Patrick did not feel any disappointment, he told himself. He was too busy being grateful to have his daughter back in one piece. “Listen, Jess, I know you didn't like Brendon, but …”

“I know, you said you guys aren’t dating.” she interrupted, looking at the floor. “I just thought …”

Patrick sat down on the floor, tugging Jessie with him. “This dating thing is weird for both of us, okay? Can you just promise to not pull any more big stunts that have to do with my love life? I’d really appreciate it.”

“Yeah. I promise. I do!” she protested when Patrick looked at her sideways. “I just … okay, I read some of your emails with this Pete guy, and it seemed like you guys liked each other. I thought maybe …”

“Maybe,” Patrick agreed, feeling a flip in his stomach at Pete’s name, “but that was up to us, not you, okay?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I’m serious. Leave dating to me, at least for a few more years.”

“I promise.”

Patrick kissed the top of her head, then stood up and held out his hand. “Come on. You and I are going to Brendon’s concert tonight, which you should enjoy, because it’s the last time you’ll see any place but home and school for at least the next month.”

Jessie’s face screwed up, as if to start a tantrum, but one look at Patrick’s expression shut it down immediately. Instead, she demurely took his hand and allowed herself to be led away.

Patrick looked around the museum floor one more time before they left through the front door, but he told himself it was only an automatic thing. He wasn’t looking for anybody.

By the time Pete skidded to a halt in front of the museum box office, it was two minutes to four. “One, please,” he told the girl.

She looked at the clock. “Last admission is at four.”

“And I still have two minutes.” He thrust his credit card at her. “One admission.”

She took the longest time humanly possible to run his card, but once she’d waved him on, Pete practically ran the length of the floor until he reached the base of the dinosaur skeleton. The crowd was thin; most museum-goers had obviously finished their tours and headed for home. Pete made a circuit of the dinosaur, looking at every person who lingered. He knew what Patrick looked like, yes, and that the six foot tall black dude was definitely not him, but … just in case, he checked everyone.

After three times around the skeleton, Pete finally began to admit to himself that maybe, just maybe, Patrick hadn’t shown up. Or he had, and he’d gone home long before, thinking Pete had stood him up. He put a hand over his mouth, to prevent himself from cursing in front of the tiny blond child who stood next to him, gaping up at Sue. “I suck,” he allowed himself to say aloud. The kid just transferred the look to him, staring blank-faced. “When you grow up,” Pete said to him, “promise me you won’t be a loser like me.”

He looked past the child; on the floor next to the barrier sat a small Jonas Brothers backpack. When the boy’s mother came hurrying up to him, Pete gestured to her and to the backpack. “Is that yours?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s been sitting there for a while. Someone must have lost it.”

“Or some parent ‘accidentally’ left it behind,” Pete theorized, making air quotes. The mother laughed and smiled at him as they walked away. Pete walked over to the backpack and picked it up. Even though he’d struck out, he might as well be some kind of good person, he figured.

He was heading back to the front when he saw two figures arguing with the girl at the desk. “Listen, we were just in there. You sold me a ticket,” a familiar male voice said. “She lost her backpack. We just want to go back in to find it.”

“I see a lot of people, sir, and you don’t have a hand stamp. You have to pay to get back in.”

As he walked closer, Pete stared at them - a blonde preteen girl accompanied by a man in a baseball cap, almost as small as she was. A smile spread across Pete’s face. He stepped around the desk. “Here,” he said, holding the backpack out to the little girl. “I think this is yours.”

She grabbed it, eyes wide. “Thank you,” she nearly whispered.

The man – Patrick, it was Patrick, Pete would never ever forget what he looked like even if this was the last time they ever met – looked away from the girl at the desk and straight at Pete. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then furrowed his brow. “You?”

“Hi. Me.” They stared at each other for a moment. Pete memorized Patrick’s face, round cheeks and pink mouth and sharp eyes. He wanted … well, he wanted a lot of things, but mostly he wanted to figure out the right thing to say. “I’m Pete,” he finally decided on.

Patrick continued to stare. “You,” he repeated.

“Yeah. I, um.” Smooth, he thought, then took a deep breath and started over. “I didn’t know it was you until your friend said your name.”

“You left. I turned around to talk to you and you were gone.” Patrick had his arm around the girl’s – Jessie’s – shoulder. Jessie was looking between the two men, mouth agape.

“I’m kind of a freak. I told you that, right?”

“Yeah, I guess you did.”

More silence. Finally, Jessie tilted her head. “You’re really Pete. Like, the Pete?”

Pete chuckled. “That sounds ominous. But yes, I am.”

“Oh. Cool.” She held out her hand gravely. “I’m Jessie.”

He shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I heard you on the radio.”

She blushed. “I was stupid.”

“Nah, not stupid. We wouldn’t be standing here if it was stupid.” Pete regretted the words instantly – Patrick was still staring at him, blank-faced. Maybe it was stupid, that they were all standing there. Maybe Patrick wished he’d never even responded to Pete. He tugged on the hem of his shirt and took a half step backwards. “Hey, um, maybe I should …”

“What are you doing tonight?” Patrick blurted out. His cheeks flamed bright red.

“Uh. Nothing?” Pete stood still. Maybe if he didn’t move, he wouldn’t mess this up.

“Well. Um.” Patrick looked at the floor, then at Jessie. Jessie’s eyes were wide, and she nodded once. “A friend of mine is playing a concert tonight. We’re heading over there now. Do … do you maybe want to come with us?”

Pete couldn’t help it. The grin that split his face probably made him look like a tool, but he couldn’t stop it. “I’d love to.”

Patrick took Jessie’s hand and pointed her towards the door. She slung her backpack over a shoulder. Both of them looked back at Pete. After a moment, Jessie held her other hand out to him. Pete felt a little lightheaded, but he took her hand and squeezed it. “It’s very nice to meet you, Jessie.”

“You, too.”

He looked over her head at Patrick. He was still blushing, but he was smiling. “Nice to meet you,” he echoed.

“Absolutely.”

They all walked out of the museum into the sunlight, hand in hand in hand.

Fifteen months later:

The synagogue was filled with people – far fewer than Joe had originally feared, as Patrick understood it. (“There will be hundreds and hundreds of people at this wedding,” Joe had moaned, the first time Patrick met him. “People I haven’t seen since I was seven. I guarantee that everyone I ever met in elementary school will end up with an invitation. It will be awful!”) However, there were enough people that the noise resembled a dull roar. Patrick chose to stand at the back and observe.
Ryan stood next to him, which Patrick thought should feel odd. Admittedly, he did feel a bit of jealousy every once in a while; maybe, he wondered on his bad days, this whole relationship thing would be a lot easier if he didn’t have to interact with his boyfriend’s ex-boyfriend on a regular basis. But, Patrick actually liked Ryan quite a bit, so he let the occasional flash of doubt pass by.

At the moment, Ryan was laughing at his current boyfriend, who was standing a few feet away, patiently teaching Jessie how to take a photograph with an insanely expensive camera. The camera flashed, and then Jon took it away and fiddled with a few buttons. When he passed the camera back to Jessie, she took a look at the screen before smiling brightly up at Patrick. “This is fun!”

“You should use your own camera more often,” Patrick said.

She wrinkled her nose. “My camera is too small. It doesn’t have all this cool stuff.”

“Maybe if you practice with your camera, I’ll think about getting you a better one for Christmas.”

“She’s kind of a natural,” Jon said, rather unhelpfully as far as Patrick was concerned.

Jessie widened her eyes into a hopeful expression. Patrick shook his head. “I’m not buying you a new camera right now.”

“I bet Pete would do it,” she muttered, softly enough that Patrick was pretty sure he wasn’t meant to hear.

Patrick didn’t doubt it. Pete was responsible for the bulldog puppy that had shown up at their house only a month after he and Patrick had started dating. Patrick would have been angrier if the tiny dog hadn’t made Jessie laugh in a way he hadn’t heard since before Becca died. Still, there was a parenting principle here. “If you ask Pete to buy you a camera,” he warned her, “I’ll cut off your allowance for two months.”

Ryan burst into laughter, which Patrick also thought was incredibly unhelpful. He glared, and Ryan stifled his laugh. “Sorry,” he said unconvincingly, “it’s just … well, I don’t really envy you having to deal with both Jessie and Pete sometimes.”

Patrick rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped. At that moment, an arm slung over Patrick’s shoulder. “What’s so funny?” Pete asked.

“Nothing, Ryan just makes a good point.” Patrick allowed himself to relax into Pete’s body. It had been a struggle, getting to the point where this casual physical affection felt normal, but Pete wasn’t exactly the type of person who took no for an answer. “How’s Joe doing?”

“About two minutes away from puking,” Pete said cheerfully. “If he doesn’t faint up there, I’ll lose twenty bucks to his cousin.”

“Why are you betting on your best friend’s wedding?”

Pete shrugged. “Because when Joe’s yelling at me for being a douchebag, he’s not puking.”

“You’re the most helpful friend ever,” Ryan said.

“I know!” Pete laid his chin on Patrick’s shoulder and grinned across at Ryan. Ryan stared at him blankly. .

Jessie reached across Ryan to poke Patrick in the side. “Jon says I can help him take pictures during the wedding. Can I?”

Patrick shrugged, and felt Pete’s head bob up and down with his shoulder. “If you don’t mind standing the whole time, sure. Just make sure you don’t get in the way!”

“She won’t be in the way,” Jon assured him, smiling.

Jessie darted around Ryan and stretched up to give Patrick a kiss on the cheek. She didn’t have far to stretch, Patrick noted with more than a little bit of sadness. It wouldn’t be long until she was taller than him, most likely. The thought lay heavily in his chest, just for a moment.

He felt an entirely different pressure in his chest as he watched Jessie move to the other side and kiss Pete on the cheek. Pete wrapped a quick arm around her and held her close for a split second. “Have fun, monster.” Jessie stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry at Pete before following Jon to the other end of the sanctuary. Ryan followed the two, sticking his hands in his suit pockets and whistling tunelessly.

Pete leaned in close to Patrick. Patrick bumped his shoulder to Pete's. "So, Brendon called, he wants me to sit in with his band next weekend. You wanna go?"

"Are you gonna sing?"

Patrick shrugged. "Yeah, a couple of songs."

"Awesome." Pete leaned his head against Patrick's. The singing was Pete's fault. One day, Patrick had started singing an old Elvis Costello song in the shower; the next thing he knew, Pete was telling Brendon, "dude, you have to hear him, he's fucking amazing!" Possibly, Patrick thought, introducing Pete and Brendon had been a bad idea. Put Pete, Brendon, and Jessie in a room together, all looking at him with large, pleading eyes? Well, that's how Patrick had ended up singing "Pride & Joy" with Brendon's band one night. Surprisingly enough, he had a great time, and now it was a semi-regular gig.

“Hey, Patrick,” Pete said softly, close to Patrick’s ear. “Will you marry me?”

“That’s not legal in Illinois, dumbass.”

“Yet. But when it is, will you?”

It wasn’t a new conversation. The first time Pete had proposed, they’d only been dating for a month, and Patrick had treated it like a joke. He treated it like a joke for the next six or seven repetitions. More than a year later, though, Patrick was starting to wonder. Wonder if Pete was serious. Wonder if the fact that he wasn’t freaking out at the very idea meant something.

“Maybe,” Patrick replied. “If you’re good.”

“I’m always good, baby.” Pete leered at Patrick. Patrick blushed. He was better about it than he had been at first, but still, something about Pete’s attention always caught him by surprise. And the kind of attention Pete liked to lavish on him …

… well, that was mostly better left to contemplate somewhere that wasn’t a house of religion. Patrick didn’t believe in God, not usually, but some things were better not left to chance.

Patrick slung his arm around Pete’s waist. “Come on, we should sit down before we’re forced to sit behind that woman with the gigantic flowers on her hat.”

Pete stepped away from Patrick’s grasp and offered his arm gallantly. Patrick stared at him doubtfully for a moment before taking hold. “You’re so lame,” he muttered.

“You love it.”

Pete reached over with his free hand and adjusted the fedora on the top of Patrick’s head. Patrick rolled his eyes, but he could feel a smile stretching across his face. “Yeah, I kinda do.”

They walked down the aisle arm in arm. When Patrick glanced over at Jessie, she was beaming at them.

This being in love thing, he thought, wasn’t half bad.