Chapter Text
Patrick couldn’t get out of the limo.
Now that the moment was finally here, now that his life was about to change, his arms and legs had turned to stone. There was no going back from this. He was about to go on the most popular dating show in America and declare to the world that he was looking for a boyfriend.
He was either going to completely humiliate himself, or maybe finally figure out that gaping hole in his heart that no one, no woman that is, had ever been able to fill. His heart raced with nerves and excitement as he straightened his tie, until he was interrupted by a swift kick to the ankle.
Stevie, one of the assistant producers, was lying on the limo floor, out of the camera sightline. “Keep it moving, Brewer,” she hissed. “Time to get the hell out of here and meet Mr. Right.”
Patrick took a last sip of champagne and opened the door.
***
Patrick had heard of Mr. Right, of course. Rachel and her girlfriends all watched it together every week, drinking rosé and analyzing the contestants. For all their cattiness, though, they whole-heartedly believed in the premise of the show— that two people could fall in love over the course of a few weeks through progressively more over-the-top dates while cameras followed them around, and a bunch of other suitors tried to break them up. Patrick was banned from watching it with them because he made too many dumb jokes. “It’s like you don’t believe in romance,” Rachel sighed. If Patrick cared to think about it, there was probably more behind this than her annoyance at his jokes about how Hannah C., Hannah M., and Hanna should start a band.
So when he and Rachel had that same fight, where he said again, “I can’t breathe here!” and she said again, “Why won’t you fight for me?”, and he drove aimlessly until he ended up at the mall, it made sense that he was drawn to the sign. “CASTING CALL FOR MR. RIGHT: Do you believe in true love? Are you a fun, romantic, single guy between 25-35, looking to meet the man of your dreams?”
The new Patrick was all of those things. The old Patrick was only between 25-35. The old Patrick could get lost.
Two women sat under the sign. The older woman, with light brown skin and cropped hair, gave him a disappointed once-over. It was the younger woman— about his age, with long, dark hair and heavy black eyeliner— who actually spoke to him. “You interested?” she asked.
Patrick nodded and stepped closer.
“I’m Stevie, one of the assistant producers. And this is Ronnie, the director. And you are...?” Stevie was sizing him up warily and impersonally, like she had done this hundreds of times.
“Patrick Brewer.”
“Well, Patrick, I’m going to take your picture, and you’re going to fill out this form.” She typed on her tablet as she spoke to him.
“Wait, now,” said Ronnie. She sounded irritated, but Patrick was already sensing that she probably always sounded that way. Ronnie glared at him suspiciously. “Are you an actor?”
“What? No.”
“A singer? One of those Instagram people?”
“Maybe an open mic night here and there? And no.” It was the truth, but Ronnie still made Patrick feel nervous, like he was lying to her.
Stevie gave Ronnie a little reproachful look and turned back to Patrick. “Why do you want to be on Mr. Right?” Stevie asked.
“I want to fall in love.” After Patrick said it, he realized it was true.
Stevie finally met his eyes. She sighed. “You really do, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “Turn around for me. Okay, I can see it. You look like everyone’s high school crush’s younger brother.”
Ronnie snorted, but Patrick thought maybe that sounded like a good thing.
“I’m not really supposed to tell you this, but a few of our guys failed the psych evaluation, and we need to fill out the suitor pool in a hurry,” said Stevie. “I can fast-track you through the other screenings and the medical tests, if you’re really serious about this.”
“Tell us now if you have herpes because they WILL test you, and we WILL find out, and I don’t like to waste my time,” said Ronnie.
Patrick shook his head. “No. No herpes.”
Stevie gave him another hard look. “Okay, Mr. Boy-next-door. This is all going to happen very, very fast. You are going to need to quit your job and come to Los Angeles for 10 weeks, where you will be completely cut off from your friends and family. And most people find that their lives are changed forever by being on the show— they can’t go back and pick up where they left off when it’s over. So are you ready to blow up your life to meet Mr. Right?”
“Absolutely,” said Patrick.
The next few weeks passed quickly. Patrick told Rachel that he needed a break and stayed with his parents. He’d pulled the same move before but had always come back, so she didn’t push too hard. He Facetimed with Stevie a few times from his childhood bedroom, hoping his parents didn’t think he was having an affair with a new woman. He drove to Toronto one weekend to meet with the show’s psychologist and get some blood drawn. Everything was moving forward like it was meant to be. Patrick wasn’t surprised at all when Stevie called him to say, “You’re in. Sign the contract ASAP. And I’m sending you a plane ticket to be in LA on Sunday.”
“Okay,” said Patrick.
“Is that all you’re going to say?” said Stevie with exasperation. “Don’t you want to know who the guy is?”
Patrick paused. He was so far in— it almost didn’t matter at this point.
Stevie took his silence for agreement. “It’s David Rose. The Rose Video heir. He’s rich and handsome and smart. I mean, I always say that, but he’s a pretty good one.”
Patrick made a strange sound between a laugh and a cough. David Rose. Even he knew who David Rose was. When he was in high school, he worked as a clerk at his local Rose Video. He remembered the company holiday card from their boss that got pinned to the break room bulletin board every year: the entire Rose family posed in front of their grand staircase or towering Christmas tree. Dapper and confident Johnny Rose, majestically glamorous Moira, pretty Alexis, and...David. Reserved, elegant David Rose, who always caught Patrick’s eye the dozen times a day he might pass by the bulletin board. Never quite smiling, holding his body with simultaneous grace and discomfort. Patrick hadn’t thought about David Rose in years, but there he was again, the picture in his mind as fresh as when he was 18 years old and wondering how the guy on the card, not much older than him, knew how to dress like that, and fix his hair like that, and probably knew how to do a lot of other things as well.
Suddenly, the insanity of his plan hit him. What was he thinking? He was going to leave his life and his job and his family and Rachel, to burn bridges and destroy his old life, just to meet a hypothetical guy? And now that guy was wealthy and sophisticated David Rose, who would never look twice at pleasantly average Patrick Brewer unless forced to by a camera crew and a bossy producer?
“I know what you’re thinking,” snapped Steve, bringing Patrick back to reality. “It’s too late to back out now. Get your ass to LA. Meet Mr. Right. Or at least Mr. Right Now. I’m counting on you to keep the yahoos from taking over the mansion.”
***
Now, stepping out of the limo into the bright lights, he wondered again what he had done. Stevie had coached him a little on what to expect from the filming— he would have to surrender his cell phone, all the contestants would be living in one house together, and he would share a room— but she wouldn’t give him any advice on what to do when he met David.
“Just be yourself,” she told him. “It’s cliche advice but in your case I actually think it’s the best I can do.”
Patrick walked towards the lights. As his eyes adjusted, he began to make out the silhouette of a man in a black suit. He tried to keep his breath slow and even, imaging his microphone picking up nervous panting.
“Hello,” said a voice.
Patrick stepped closer. He almost gasped.
Patrick had known for a while that he was attracted to men. It felt like a general thing, though. His eye would race through the players on a hockey team, or a group of friends at the bar. He hadn’t yet allowed himself to think specifically about a guy he might be attracted to, a real-life guy and not a composite of smiles and biceps and deep voices. But seeing this man here, standing in front of him, surrounded on either side by lavish flower arrangements, Patrick suddenly knew what his type was. His type, ingrained since he was a teenage video store clerk, was a little taller than him, dark hair, dark eyes, a suit that even Patrick could tell was expensive.
“I’m David,” said the man.
Patrick’s type was David Rose.
“Hi. I’m Patrick.”
With multiple cameras circling around him, he took a step closer to David. He had imagined greeting David with the sort of handshake and half hug that he and his friends used when they met up at the bar, but seeing David standing there, holding himself with such care, Patrick realized how wrong that would be. Bro-hugging David Rose was like serving Twinkies to the Queen. Patrick stood frozen and was about to attempt some kind of bow when David held out his hand. His fingers were soft and cool, with silver rings stacked on the index and middle fingers.
“Hello, Patrick,” he said, looking faintly amused as a blush spread from Patrick’s ears to his cheeks. “Where are you from?”
Patrick wondered how many times David had said that same line tonight. He tried to go back to the greeting he’d rehearsed in his head.
“Thank you, David,” he said, and then realized that David had not actually said “Welcome to Mr. Right,” as he had so many times in Patrick’s head. He cringed as David gave his head a slight questioning shake.
“I mean, hi, I’m Patrick.” Oh my God, what was coming out of his mouth?
“Hello, Patrick,” repeated David, a little less patiently this time. Patrick suddenly saw Stevie, dressed in black and standing just behind the camera, waving her hand in the universal signal for “Get your shit together, moron.”
“I, uh, wanted to sing a song. To introduce myself to you.”
David suddenly seemed to notice that the strap across Patrick’s chest was attached to a guitar slung over his back. Patrick reached around to adjust the guitar and looked up to see David literally recoiling in horror. His dark eyebrows knit together while his expressive mouth compressed into a tight line. Patrick took a preliminary strum, and David winced.
“I’m going to stop you there, Patrick,” he said. “The first impression has already been a bit awkward, but you seem like a decent person, so I’m going to prevent us both the discomfort of you singing at me, okay? Why don’t you go inside and get a cocktail, and we’ll try to have a second first impression a little later.”
Patrick tried to keep his face neutral, but the blush spreading down his neck surely gave away how humiliated he was. “Sure, David. See you inside,” he managed to say, and one of the junior production assistants led him down the path towards the mansion.
This, thought Patrick, was a terrible mistake.