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“Um, excuse me?”
David looks up from his phone. The same customer who’s dipped in and out of Rose Apothecary three times that morning already is back yet again, finally speaking up as if she thinks David will just be noticing her for the first time and hasn’t actually been paying suspicious attention to her for the past two hours.
“Hello? Can I help you?”
“I mean, it’s fine, but I was wondering when the other guy was coming back.”
“Who, Patrick?” David bites back a smirk. If she’d come in a week ago, before Patrick had come out and confirmed to David that he was indeed gay, the presence of a slightly-younger-than-him, attractive, sharply-dressed woman coming into the store would have filled him with dread. Now it was just kind of funny.
The woman nods.
“It’s his day off today, but I’m sure I can help you with whatever you need. Unless you want me to pass on a message?” David says. If she were after his number, David would definitely make sure to pass it on and tease Patrick about it later tonight.
“Oh it’s okay, I was just going to ask him some questions about the business.”
David repositions himself on the stool, trying to look more customer-friendly and ignoring the recognizable pit clawing at the sides of his stomach. “I’m sure I can help you out with anything you need to know.”
The woman’s face immediately drops into something of scepticism, doubt, and – oh God – pity.
“Are you sure?” she says.
Her voice definitely wasn’t that sweet before. It reminds David of the time Alexis had been staying with him in New York and she’d answered the door to the postman. He’d given her a pitying look when she tried to take the big box off him, crooning “are you sure you can handle that, sweetie?” She’d looked him dead in the eye and snatched it off him with one hand. “I took two of my friends over the Guatemalan border in fireman’s lifts,” she’d said. “I think I can handle a couple of Harrods hampers.”
David grimaces at the woman in what he hopes looks like a smile, but also kind of hopes doesn’t. “I’m pretty sure.”
“Okay, well, I was just interested in what kind of turnover you’re getting this season, especially with everything that’s been dragging the markets down this financial year,” she says. Oh, so she’s one of those people. The kinds who phrase their sentences in a way that best shows off how intelligent they are. The kinds who talk just because they know the things coming out of their mouth sound cool.
Without breaking eye contact, David pulls a file out of the drawer next to his knees and flips to the pages that he knows contain some of her stupid buzzwords. Though none of this side of the business actually interests him, he read over all the necessary documents once a couple of months ago and didn’t feel the need to keep poring over them because he remembered pretty much every word.
“Standard,” he says. “Whatever inconsistencies in the financial year you’re talking about haven’t had an effect on hyperlocal businesses like this one.”
“Hm.”
“Can I ask why you care?”
The woman shrugs, and David pretends not to notice the way his tone gets under her skin, like it tends to do with most people. “I just like keeping up to date with how businesses in the area are doing. Next time your manager’s in, let him know I was asking after him. I’ve been looking for more people to network with.”
And after five minutes of excruciating interaction, there it is. The other shoe finally drops.
“I am the manager,” David says icily. It’s his new favorite thing to say. It’s also his least favorite thing to say, because it usually follows a conversation just like this one.
For as long as David can remember, people have always, always miscalculated his intelligence. They take one look at his disinterested gaze, his choice clothing, his feisty, flappable nature and assume his head is filled with air. It was something he and Alexis had bonded over when they first came to Schitt’s Creek and realised people started judging them more on the core of their character rather than the things they could do with their Black Cards. The people of the town – and David is fully aware that some of them still do – saw them as ditzy reality washups with little more left to their name than giant sunglasses, flopped wrists where handbags were once perched, and deep dissatisfaction.
As if on cue, Alexis appears at the window, stopping to let the woman out before she comes in to presumably bother David. She looks around at their new weirdly named, supposedly summer-scented candles (“What are ‘Angel Wings’ even meant to smell like, David?”) and picks some lip balms off the counter before perching next to David and helping herself to his latte.
“If you don’t pay this time, I’m genuinely going to call the cops and say I caught you stealing.”
“David, I have like ten different lines for getting out of that exact situation. I’d like to see you try.”
David watches her for a moment more, assesses the body language he’s learned to speak in the past three years since they moved here and started sharing their inhumanely cramped space. There’s something on her mind.
“I know that look,” he says, “you’ve got a bee in your bonnet.”
Alexis tuts and rolls her eyes. “You could’ve given me another minute to annoy you without having to talk about feelings and stuff.”
David rests an arm on the counter and turns to her. “Alright, what is it?”
His sister shrugs, lapping up the foamy bits of latte that have escaped up to her top lip with tiny flicks of her tongue. “I’m just getting that vibe from that one group of people at college again and I needed a break from it.”
David knows what she’s talking about. While the kids at high school had been somewhat in awe of Alexis’ stories and dress sense, to the people at college it’s like she’s someone who’s jumped straight out of some Twitter meme. They are, as Johnny would say, not a fan.
“They sort of have this thing where they’ll all stay quiet in case I speak up because they’re always expecting me to say something dumb. And when I do answer, no matter what I say, they’ll always…look at each other.”
“What kind of a look?”
Alexis bobbles her head and shrugs. “I don’t know, just a look! Like a surprised look when I say the right answer, but also kind of like…I could say anything, and they’d still do it. It’s like they’re not even giving me any room to prove myself. They’ve already got me all worked out.”
David knows exactly what she means. Knows it too well, in fact. He lets Alexis drain his coffee and doesn’t say much to lift her from her dejected mood. He doesn’t need to; he knows Alexis just wanted to get it out to someone, and all David needs to do is listen. He checks the clock.
“I’m gonna close up for lunch,” he says, “and if you wanted to, um…join me at the Café, I…wouldn’t say no.”
Alexis smiles up at him, her eyes squinting fondly.
“Okay, David.”
It’s not what most people would call the epitome of familial affection, but they’re learning.
The irritation that the woman planted stays with David all day, and not even the prospect of having a night in with Patrick can dampen it down. Even when Patrick manages to find a takeout restaurant in the area that David somehow miraculously hasn’t used before and orders them both spinach and ricotta cannelloni with crème brulee for after, David is still a little on edge.
“Hey.” Patrick shuffles closer to him on the couch, squeezing an arm between the space where David’s back is pressed to the back cushion. The feeling of Patrick being so casually close is still new and novel, and David tries not to get too flustered at the touch. It’s only been two weeks since their first night at Stevie’s. Since then every connection has felt charged with something new and bright and precious, something David definitely doesn’t want to let slip away from him. “You okay?”
David nods, his lips tight. “Mm-hm. Fine.”
On the TV, the commercial break is over and they’re back to watching the poor sweating individual sat with their life on the line in Chris Harrison’s hotseat.
“Now Alex, time for the $32,000 question. The opera ‘The Thieving Magpie’ was written by which composer? Was it A, Puccini, B, Verdi –”
“Rossini,” David says tiredly, before all the options are up on the screen. Then, louder as the contestant struggles and pauses, “Rossini! It’s Rossini!”
Patrick laughs at him. It’s the same laugh that used to offend David before he learned it meant Patrick found whatever he was doing cute.
“You like operas, then?”
“Not particularly.”
“For $64,000, here’s your question. In Hokusai’s print ‘The Great Wave’, which mountain is depicted in the background?”
“Fuji,” David interrupts again, without being prompted by the options. By the time he’s shouted and answered his way up to a hypothetical million, which he definitely would have won if he’d been on the show (Alex the contestant did an admirable job, but fell at the last hurdle on a question about Robert Burns), Patrick is suitably impressed. Once he’s settled back and the adrenaline has worn off, Patrick tugs him closer and presses a soft kiss to his hair.
“Well done,” he says.
David shrugs, not too keen on broaching the subject anymore. “It’s general knowledge.”
He’s not wrong.
****
David’s back at Patrick’s the next night, the two of them making the most of Ray’s weekend out-of-town visit to his mother. After a rather unsuccessful attempt at making skillet chicken and zucchini (and then a rather more successful baked ziti after they chucked the ruined meal into a baking tray with some pasta and mozzarella), they were snuggling on the couch again like the night before, Patrick’s choice of movie leaping and bounding around on the screen in the form of a 1940s musical that David was trying really hard to hate. He was trying really hard to like it, too.
“Patrick, did you think I was stupid when we met?”
The question comes out of the blue and seems to take David by just as much surprise as it does Patrick. Patrick wriggles out of David’s grip just enough to show David the bemused look on his face.
“Stupid?”
When Patrick just stares at him blankly for another moment, David goes on. “Yes, stupid. Adjective. Having or showing a great lack of intelligence or common sense.”
“David, I know what stupid means.”
“French origin, 16th century. I could go on.”
“Oh, please do.” Patrick sees that they’re playing now, and feigns arousal with a husky voice as he leans closer into David. “Tell me what all the words mean, David.”
David laughs, pushing Patrick away. “I’m being serious! What did you actually think of me?”
Patrick thinks about it. He thinks about the way David’s large, soft hand shook his, the handshake loose and quick and indicative of someone reluctant and distracted. Then he thinks about the way David’s thoughts had come spilling out sideways, a brain so full to the brim that there were few methods of articulation that had room for it all. And then he’d said I don’t know what that means, I don’t play cricket, and for some reason that was the moment Patrick had decided that David was the cleverest person he’d ever met.
He’s not going to say as much out loud, because he knows David won’t believe him. Not just yet. But Patrick knows him well enough to be confident that he’ll believe a firm “No.”
“You’re not stupid, David,” he says, “not stupid at all. Where did you get the idea that you might be?”
David huffs out a sigh. It’s the kind of sigh that makes Patrick pause the movie. He watches David squirm under the discomfort of talking about Things That Bother Him. He’s not used to this. All this listening and talking and rubbing of backs. He might be trilingual, but this kind of intimacy is a language David Rose has yet to learn.
“I just…I’m getting a little sick of the way people see me,” he says quietly. “It’s not that I have a problem with myself – well, that’s usually a given, but there’s nothing specific bugging me at the minute. But people seem to look at me and still see all of the person I used to be.”
“Mm. And do you think you’ve changed much? Since then?” Patrick knows that ‘then’ means since New York, since before the money loss, since Sebastien, since a million other things that don’t need expressing right now.
“Yes, but not in the way people think. It’s not like I’ve gotten any more intelligent. I still know all the things I used to know. I have an insane memory. I have two degrees, for fuck’s sake –”
David breaks off and sighs. His frustration is something so deeply personal, so intimate, something Patrick has never seen before. It’s a side of David he didn’t fully know existed; one so sure of himself, so resolute and confident and so solidly sure that any doubt of it shakes him to his very core. Because David is intelligent, and he knows it. He’s intelligent in the way that only he could be. It’s the way the rest of him operates as well; dancing around the edges of society, forging his own path, deciding what he deems intellectual based on his own merits.
“Just because people don’t see you in the way you want to be seen, it doesn’t make anything about you any less valid.”
David nods. “I know. But it’s just…hard, sometimes. I get that the way I present myself makes people think a certain way, so I can’t hold that against them. But sometimes I wish people could just know me, without me having to prove myself to them. You know?”
Patrick sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh, I know.”
He does. He’s finding that he knows too well, ever since he started coming out to the friends he’s made here. Like everyone else in this strange, beautiful little town, they were completely accepting, but Patrick didn’t miss a couple of raised eyebrows and murmured comments about it being unexpected.
“So, do you have a boyfriend?” his friend Adam had said, who Patrick met through baseball and became better friends with through a shared passion for singing. He was married to Ronnie’s niece.
“No – well, I…I don’t know. My business partner David and I, we have a bit of a thing going on.”
Patrick will never forget the giddy flush he felt just being able to say something like that so casually. Nor will he forget the restraint it took to say bit of a thing instead of a thing I think I might maybe want to continue for the rest of my life.
“Sometimes, people only see what they want to see,” Patrick says, tugging David closer gently with a secure arm around his waist. “Everyone just wants the world to make sense to them, so they omit the parts that they don’t think are relevant or don’t seem to fit. You’re allowed to be hurt by it, but I don’t think it comes from a place of malice.”
David visibly relaxes into Patrick’s arms. “You’re right. But it’s just…there’s so much of me on the outside, you know? It’s like a shield. Like metal shining into everyone’s faces in the sun.”
Patrick chuckles. “There’s a whole lot of you on the inside, as well. Anyone only needs to spend five minutes with you to know that.”
“You know something?” David says.
“I know quite a lot of things, actually.”
“Shut up, I’m being nice.”
“Okay, what?”
“I think you’re really clever.”
Patrick smiles into the kiss he’s trying to press on the crown of David’s head.
“Well thank you, David.”
“I mean it. Like…one of the cleverest people I’ve ever met.”
I love you.
“You know, I was thinking the same thing about an acquaintance of mine recently.” He pokes David in the side, locking up the giggle it produces and promising to play it on a loop in his head while he’s trying to sleep that night.
“Oh? Would I happen to know this acquaintance?”
“Nah, don’t think so.”
David laughs and presses himself closer. The movie doesn’t get much attention for the rest of the night.
****
“Um, excuse me?”
Patrick looks up from where he’s clicking away at spreadsheets on the till computer. “Yep?”
The customer steps closer to the till. “I have a question about your lemongrass and patchouli soap? Usually it doesn’t make my skin flare up but this new one has. Can I ask what’s in it –”
David is already at their side before Patrick can open his mouth. “Lemongrass oil, sodium olivate, pogostemon cablin, eugenol, and naturally occurring glycerine with a goat’s milk base,” he recites from memory. He takes the soap from her hands and looks it over, rubbing it in his fingers. “Yeah, you can tell from the composition that she’s upped the concentration of lemongrass oil, which is likely to set off any skin sensitivities you have.” He points at the customer in recognition. “You’re Bryn with psoriasis, right?”
“Yes, I am.”
David nods. “Okay, I think I have something that might work better for you. Come with me.”
The customer looks at Patrick, who shrugs and smiles. “I think we know who the brains is on this one, Bryn.”
They laugh and follow David to the other side of the store. Before David gets reinvested in the soaps, he looks up at Patrick and shoots him a smile that means so many things. It means look at me. Look at me doing it. And this kind of knowledge doesn’t matter to the whole world, but right here, right now, it does. It’s making a person’s day.
Patrick smiles back, giving David the tiniest wink. A smile and a wink that say, you’ve got this. And I see you.