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David hates Wednesdays.
He didn’t always; he’s certain as a baby he had no strong opinions either way but over time he’s noticed a pattern and it’s led to a deep distrust and loathing of the day.
It’s just that so many of the negative experiences he’s had in his life have happened on a Wednesday.
Adelina left on a Wednesday, packing her bags and heading off to care for her aging mother.
His first girlfriend dumped him on a Wednesday on the playing fields behind school. It had been in the middle of gym class at the time which meant her actions had been akin to coming in and punching him in the face while he was already undergoing root canal surgery.
The first time he saw Sebastien’s Exhibition (Sebastien had many exhibitions of course, but only one that deserves to be capitalised - the one that perforated David’s heart and still features in his nightmares) was on a Wednesday.
The graduation ceremony his parents missed - that was on a Wednesday. As was the day the CRA came to shred the life they had into pieces. Never mind that Schitt's Creek ended up being one of the best things that ever happened to him, at the time it felt like the end of the world.
The barbecue incident happened on a Wednesday too, kicking off a week of abject misery until he and Patrick made up.
Wednesday is also the quietest day at the store, and so it is the day that Patrick takes himself off the shop floor and dedicates the afternoon to completing paperwork in the back, asking not to be disturbed unless it gets busy. This leaves David to run the front of house alone which, as it’s quiet, isn’t difficult, but it’s boring without his husband to talk to and flirt with as a distraction. Add to that the fact that at any time a customer could drop into conversation the nonsensical phrase 'hump day,' (which, what even is that? Whoever thought that up must have known how misleading it sounded and the reality of Wednesdays is made even more depressingly mundane in comparison) and David will have to smile like his irritation levels aren't rocketing through the ceiling.
The point is that Wednesdays are terrible. Always be on your guard on a Wednesday.
So, when Roland wanders into Rose Apothecary at two-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon, David should have half-expected that he came bearing bad news.
The mayor’s arrival is announced by the tinkling bell above the door and David looks up from where he’s occupying himself with adjusting the lip balm display, more to give himself something to do rather out of necessity.
Roland, for once, does not head straight to the foot cream section. Instead he jams his hands into his pockets and peers around the store before walking up to the counter where David has just replaced the last of the cocoa butter balm on the rack.
“How do, Dave. Pat around?”
David winces. Five words in and already so many incorrect things have come out of Roland’s mouth. He might have the time – Roland’s the first person to come in the store in over an hour – but he has nowhere near enough energy to address all of them.
“Patrick’s run back to the house for a file he forgot this morning.” Then, through slightly gritted teeth, “Anything I can help you with, Roland?”
Roland takes his left hand out of his pocket and scratches his stomach, greying tee-shirt riding up slightly as he does so and wrinkles his nose as he thinks. “I thought Pat was more on the customer complaint side of things but sure, I guess.”
“Complaint?” David straightens, a sudden flood of anxiety swooping low in his stomach and making him regret that second chicken sandwich from the café, a decision he’d already been on the fence about.
Roland lifts both his hands in a placating gesture. “See, this is why I wanted to talk to Pat. Complaint is a strong word, let’s say… concern.”
“That’s not better, Roland. Can you just tell me what's going on?”
“Alright, alright, cool your jets, I’m getting to it.” Roland turns his right hand around, the back of his hand now towards David and waves his fingers, drawing David's attention towards it. “’Fraid you got a little problem with your hand cream, pal.”
On the patch of skin between Roland’s thumb and index finger, the skin is pink and inflamed. The main sore spot is maybe an inch or two in diameter, the rest of the hand also blotchy and red. Roland wiggles his fingers again and grimaces before lowering his hand and using his left to scratch at the skin.
“Itches like hell.”
Ew.
“We have some aloe gel that might help,” David says. “What makes you think it’s because of something from the store?”
“Only new thing we’ve had in the house,” Roland replies, still scratching so vigorously that David can hear the nails scraping across the skin. If he’s been doing that all morning, it’s a wonder the skin isn’t cracked and bleeding. “Joce has a rash too. Hers is on her palm and she bought that fancy new lavender hand cream from here last week. Plus she says she lent some to one of her students because she said it smelt nice and afterwards Jocelyn noticed her scratching. Don’t think it’s a coincidence.”
David’s stomach sinks and he bites his lip. They have recently taken on a new lotion supplier, the lavender hand cream being one of the biggest sellers from the new range. If Roland’s right… David isn’t sure what the exact sales figures for that product is but it’s in the mid-double digits. This could be very bad for their reputation.
“Oh, I don’t... No one else has said anything.”
“Yet,” Roland says, the ominous response ratcheting up David’s apprehension. “Trust me, we thought long and hard about this and don’t see what else it could be. Thought we’d give you a heads up before the phone calls start coming in.”
David swallows but is saved from responding by the ringing of the bell above the door.
The new arrival is Patrick and David, who is happy to see Patrick on normal occasions, has to stop himself rushing around the counter to fling himself at his husband in ecstatic gratitude at his return. Already he can feel some of the tension leaching out of his shoulders as a result of Patrick’s presence.
Patrick is carrying a large cardboard box and he flinches when the door swings back and bangs into his fingers where they’re curled around the edges. He tries again, shouldering the door open and edging in sideways through the doorway. He has to angle the box to get it through alongside him and he sucks air in through his teeth when the movement causes something to audibly shift inside the box and the weight becomes momentarily unbalanced before he rights his hold.
“I take back what I said during Singles Week,” he says as he finally gets his whole body and the box inside. “It’s impossible to do that gracefully.” Patrick uses the box to push the door shut before turning and finally spotting Roland. “Hi, Roland.”
“Hi, Pat.”
Patrick rounds the counter, heading into the back with the box. “Let me just put this down.”
He disappears and David awkwardly gestures after him. “I’ll just go see if he... Needs help. With putting the box down. Be right back.”
He hurries into the back after Patrick while trying not to look like he’s desperate to get out of Roland’s presence. It’s a tricky balance and he isn’t sure he succeeds but luckily Roland’s attention is back on his disgusting inflamed hand and he isn’t looking at David’s less-than-smooth exit.
Patrick is over by the desk and turns when he hears David enter.
“Thank fuck you’re back,” David whispers, trying to keep his voice low as he closes the space between them. Patrick’s eyebrows – what there is of them – shoot up towards his hairline.
“Sorry, I made a quick detour to Lucy's to pick up those soy candles. Didn't think you'd miss me; I’ve only been gone forty minutes. What’s wrong?”
David stops in front of him. “Roland’s here.”
“I know,” Patrick says slowly, confusion creasing his brow. “I saw him on the way in.”
“Roland’s here and he has skin issues,” David hisses. “His hand is all gross and swollen.”
“So he needs advice? David, I know you find it distasteful but you probably know better than I do which of our products is best to help.”
David shakes his head. Panic is making it hard to order his thoughts and he clearly isn’t explaining this right. “No, no, listen. He doesn’t need my advice. Well, he does need it, in so many areas not just skin care but that's not the point. He’s here because he says it’s our fault.”
The confusion on Patrick’s face shifts into worry in a split second and it wrenches at David’s heart because he never wants to be the one adding to Patrick’s troubles. At least Patrick finally seems to be grasping that the situation is a little more serious than he first thought and if there’s one thing that David knows, it’s that his logical-minded husband will know what to do.
“Our fault?”
“Kind of. He says Jocelyn has a rash too as well as some kid in her class and they think it’s the new lavender hand cream we got from Ursula.”
“Is he sure?” Patrick’s arms fold across his chest and he leans towards David, fully focussed. David can almost see his agile brain working behind his chestnut eyes and knowing Patrick’s capable mind is working on the issue helps David feel a little calmer.
David takes a deep breath before answering. “They say it’s the only thing it can be. There’s nothing else they’ve bought or used that’s different.”
Patrick sighs heavily and a hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose. His eyes squeeze closed and David bites his lip as he watches his husband think.
“Okay,” Patrick says after a moment. “We need to look into this and… what do we do?” He opens his eyes to meet David’s. “What did you do last time? When you thought the moisturiser had given you a rash?”
“Hid in the back of the store, called the supplier and yelled at them for half an hour. Then I didn’t speak to my father for four days.”
“… We’ll call that plan B. Let’s go talk to Roland and get some more information. Then if it looks like it might be the hand cream, I’ll call Ursula and ask if there’s anything in her recipe that can cause a reaction.”
They head back out to the front together to find Roland inspecting the air freshener section. When he spots them, he holds up citrus-scented reed diffuser, shaking the box slightly so it rattles. “Is this heavy duty? Roland Junior has issues with gas and the air in the house could do with freshening up, if you catch my meaning. Kid can clear a room in thirty seconds.”
David’s nose wrinkles. How delightful. His initial instinct is to respond with a simple ‘Ew’ but he has learnt something about customer service over the past few years and, with a supreme effort, he stops himself. He is unable to think of a more appropriate answer but fortunately is saved by Patrick stepping into the breach.
“They’re excellent, Roland. Strong but not overpowering; it’s a good choice.”
Roland looks pleased and thankfully refrains from discussing his son’s bodily functions further.
“David says you’re having some trouble with a rash?” Patrick asks.
Roland walks back over to them, reed diffuser in hand as he says, “Yeah. I told Dave you want to get that hand cream investigated. You know me and Joce aren’t ones to cause trouble but I can’t say you’ll have it so easy with everyone.”
“You’re sure it’s the hand cream?” Patrick asks.
“Pretty sure, yeah. We’ve bought nothing else new. Just our luck the first time we try the upmarket stuff, this happens. Goes to show you, nothing wrong with the ninety-nine-cent cream from Brebner’s.”
“There is so much wrong with it!” David protests. “I’ve read the ingredients on that cream and you might as well rub sandpaper on your skin. Or just splash water on it; it would be as effective.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Roland says. “I never had this problem before which tells me the fancy-shmancy stuff isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” He crosses his arms across his chest as if that closes the argument and… well. Maybe it does.
Except no. Even if the Schitts and Jocelyn’s student have had an allergic reaction of some kind to this cream, there’s no way David is going to accept that the garbage Brebner’s is passing off as a skin care product is as good as the carefully selected, high-quality items in Rose Apothecary.
“We don’t know for sure it is the hand cream,” David tries again. He can hear his voice rising again as his stress levels increase and Patrick lays a steadying hand on his arm.
“Roland, listen. Thanks for telling us. If there is any chance it is the cream, it’s best that we know,” Patrick starts, tone rational and level and how the fuck does he do that? How does he instinctively know how to project calm like that? For Roland is looking less combative, nodding in agreement as he looks at Patrick and David feels more relaxed just from the thought that Patrick has a handle on this.
“We’ll call the supplier and see if we can figure out what’s going on.”
“Sure thing, guys,” Roland says. “Like I said, me and Jocelyn aren’t going to kick up a fuss but other people might be less reasonable. Why don’t you just give me this-” he rattles the reed diffuser again “-and some of that aloe gel Dave was talking about on the house and we’ll call it quits.”
It’s a sticky area and David can see Patrick hesitating. Offering complimentary products could arguably be a confession of liability and until they investigate further…
“Tell you what, Roland,” Patrick says. “We’ll find out what’s going on and when we have an answer for you then we can talk about compensation.”
Roland is reluctant but agrees when Patrick reiterates the promise of compensation once they’ve got to the bottom of things. He leaves and Patrick sags down onto the counter, leaning on it with his elbows as he looks up at David.
“What do you think?” he asks and David sighs, a sinking feeling in his stomach.
“I think we need to call Ursula.”
Ursula doesn’t answer the phone and Patrick leaves a message, urging her to call back as soon as she can while David hurriedly removes the suspect cream from the shelves – just in case.
There’s a heavy silence once Patrick hangs up and he hovers behind the counter as if unsure what to do. David finishes putting the hand cream back into a box and brushes past Patrick to store it away in the back. When he returns Patrick is still standing motionless behind the counter and David moves up behind him, hugging him consolingly round the middle and laying his chin on his shoulder.
“Thanks for making the call,” David murmurs in his ear as he feels Patrick relax slightly in his arms. “I didn’t know what to say and I would have got upset with her.”
“That’s okay,” Patrick replies. “I like taking action, you know that. I just… now there’s nothing to do but wait until she calls back and I don’t think I can concentrate on the paperwork right now.”
“It’s not like you aren’t up to date. You can afford to leave it this afternoon, why don’t you stay out here with me and we can wait together for her call?”
This being as good a plan as any, Patrick agrees and the next half hour passes slowly, with both of them jumpy and tense. No customers come in to distract them and while David occupies some time spreading out the products on either side to fill in the gap vacated by the hand cream, he can only stretch it out so long.
When the store phone does ring, they both jerk, startled by the noise they’ve been waiting for and Patrick snatches it up before it begins its second ring.
“Rose Apothecary?” he blurts out and then visibly sags. “Hi, Ronnie.”
David also slumps in disappointment, turning his attention back to shelves and tuning the conversation out. That is until…
“Could you repeat that?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Patrick gesturing at him and when he turns to look, Patrick mouths something David doesn’t catch. Patrick waves him over and then wedges the phone between his shoulder and ear while he opens the receipt section of the cash register, tears a strip of paper off and recloses the compartment.
While he hums in acknowledgement of something Ronnie says, he grabs a pen and hastily writes something on the paper before turning it around so David can see.
All it says is: Rash.
Fuck.
He meets Patrick’s eyes in dismay and Patrick reaches out to squeeze his forearm while he continues talking to Ronnie.
“You spoke to Jocelyn?... No, we haven’t confirmed that... Yes, we’re looking into it.”
While he can’t hear her words, David can hear the irritated tone of Ronnie’s voice through the phone and when he sees Patrick frown in response, he just wants to hold him. Patrick and Ronnie have a fractious relationship at the best of times and this is not going to improve matters.
“I know... Like I said, we don’t know for sure but as soon as we know we’ll... Yeah, okay.”
Patrick falls silent as he listens to what Ronnie’s saying to him, nodding along with her even though she can’t see him.
“Sure…. As soon as we find out what’s going on… Bye, Ronnie.”
Patrick hangs up the phone and blows out a long breath through pursed lips. It is only when his shoulders droop that David realises how rigidly he was holding himself throughout the conversation with Ronnie.
“What did she say?” he asks. He’s almost certain he already knows, the four-letter word on the till receipt almost shouting out from where it lies on the counter between them.
“She has a rash,” Patrick says. “Along her left forearm. She was talking to Jocelyn this afternoon and she told Ronnie that she and Roland had a rash and thought it was the cream. Ronnie says she bought some too a couple of days ago.”
David listens to this with a sinking heart. “And I’m guessing she wasn’t too happy.”
“No. She’d probably have been less irritated if you had answered the phone but as it’s me, she started the conversation already annoyed. She wants us to let her know as soon as we hear anything.”
“I heard that bit.”
“I have to say, David, it is looking more and more like the hand cream might be to blame. Hopefully Ursula will ring back soon and we can start to get to the bottom of this.”
Patrick glances at the phone as if he can will it to ring through the power of his mind. David follows his gaze and there’s a few seconds where they both stare at the device.
Unsurprisingly, it stays stubbornly silent.
In the typical Wednesday fashion, the only distraction they get for the rest of the afternoon is a single customer. It’s one of Twyla’s cousin’s friends who occupies a little of David’s time asking about the best shampoo for her hair type but is soon gone again, leaving the store empty and fraught with nervous energy once more.
Patrick tries twice more to get hold of Ursula without success until finally, just after half past four, Ursula returns Patrick’s call.
David hurries over to the counter to listen in as best he can, straining his ears to try and catch her replies to Patrick’s words. Patrick spots him hovering and, with a quick glance at the door, puts her on speakerphone so David can hear.
Patrick explains the situation and Ursula is confused but insistent – she’s been making that cream for years and she’s done nothing differently for this batch. Nothing like this has ever happened before, she says.
Patrick, in turn, is equally firm but stays calm, requesting that Ursula think carefully, investigate the ingredients she used this time round thoroughly and get back to them with a list of where she got it all.
She is still protesting that it couldn’t be her cream but agrees to look into it so they can put the matter at rest. The conversation ends with her decidedly cool towards them but not nearly as angry as the vendor David dealt with under similar circumstances a few years ago.
Patrick puts the phone down and rubs a hand over his lower face. His whole expression is drained and exhausted.
“All we can do now is wait for her to send us the information,” he says and David murmurs in agreement.
Patrick sighs and David feels a wave of sympathy wash over him. The prospect of sitting and waiting is uncomfortable for David, who has never been the most patient of people, but it’s nearly unbearable for Patrick. His husband, by his own frequent assertions, is a take-charge kind of guy and this forced inertia will grate on him far more than it will do David.
He can only hope that Ursula, as eager to get this cleared up as they are, will not be long in getting back to them and they will soon be out of the disconcerting limbo they find themselves in.
The only upside is that it’s finally time to close the store for the day. By the time Patrick has finished working out their daily takings and storing it all in the safe, David has made quick work of sweeping the floor. The lack of customers throughout the afternoon means the shelves need minimal tidying and David meets Patrick in the back as Patrick is just closing the laptop down, having filled in their takings on the spreadsheet.
“I don’t know about you but I don’t feel like cooking today,” Patrick says as they step out into the street and David locks the door. “Shall we order pizza on the way home?”
David is always in the mood for pizza and is already signing into his account at their favourite pizza place in Elmdale on his phone before they reach the car.
Their usual order is saved and after confirming with Patrick that there’s nothing else he wants, David types in his credit card details from memory and places the order to arrive in an hour’s time. That done, he slumps back against the headrest and closes his eyes.
At last they’re safely on their way home where they’ll be out of reach of any other members of the community trying to show him their gross rashes. With any luck, no one else will report experiencing skin issues and Ursula will have an answer for them soon. Best case scenario: Roland, Jocelyn, Ronnie, and the unknown student will all suddenly think of perfectly plausible explanations for their itchy condition that has nothing to do with the store.
He knows it’s unlikely but it’s not impossible. Anyway, he’s spent enough of his life catastrophising, he figures he’s entitled to hold on to a little bit of hope.
Patrick’s phone rings, cutting through the silence in the car and jarring David out of his thoughts. His eyes snap open at the sudden noise and shoot to the phone lighting up from the cup holder in the central console, where Patrick has a habit of storing it when he's driving.
Patrick releases the wheel with one hand to fish it out, glances at the screen and then holds it out to David. “It’s Ray. Could you answer please? Normally I’d leave it but in case it’s another rash…”
David takes it from him, inhales deeply and gives himself two seconds to prepare for Ray’s relentless enthusiasm before he jabs the green handset on the screen to accept the call.
“Hello?”
“Patrick?” Ray’s voice comes over the line, sounding upbeat if a little confused.
“No, it’s David.”
“Oh, David. I thought it didn’t sound like Patrick! I am sorry, I thought I called Patrick.”
“You did. He’s driving.” David looks across at his husband, whose eyes are on the road but who, David knows, is paying close attention to the phone call. David wonders how effective giving the phone to him was if Patrick still isn’t going to give the road his full focus.
“Is everything okay Ray?”
“Oh, yes,” Ray says cheerfully and something untwists inside David’s chest. It doesn’t sound like he’s about to start complaining.
“That’s good,” he replies, more for Patrick’s benefit than Ray’s and is pleased to see Patrick visibly relax.
“Yes, I was just looking for a quote from one of you for my podcast, and I know my calls to you never connect. Did you manage to talk to the cell phone company about that yet by the way?”
“Um. No, not yet. They seem… really busy.”
It’s not necessarily a lie. They’re a big company, they probably have a lot on their plate. He has noticed them tweeting a lot so clearly they’ve got several developments they need to communicate to their customers.
“Well, I’m sure they’ll fix it soon.”
“Mmm. What were you saying about a quote, Ray?” David asks, eager to hurry Ray on to the point of his phone call. Not only would he very much like to get off the subject of the phone company’s undoubtably hectic schedule and their inability to fix a made-up problem, they’re now only five minutes from home and a night of pizza and Patrick await.
He looks over at his husband and smiles to himself. They may be dealing with a crisis but at least he has Patrick, the house is finally redecorated to their standards and they have their store. It’s a different kind of life than the one he thought he wanted ten years ago but it’s theirs and they have so many years ahead of them in which to be happy together.
He's ripped unceremoniously out of his musings as he hears Ray reply, “For my podcast. I’d like to get your opinion on the disease outbreak at the store.”
David has never completely understood how someone’s face could ‘fall’ but now he can say he knows for certain what it feels like on his own face.
Seriously. Fuck Wednesdays.
He stammers something to Ray about nothing being confirmed as Patrick pulls into the driveway at home and David puts the phone on speaker so they can both listen to Ray’s explanation of how he heard about this (“Roland told Bob at the town hall and Bob told me all about it when he came to have some professional photographs taken for his online dating profile!”) It takes a few tense minutes but they finally manage to persuade a reluctant Ray not to put anything on his podcast until they can investigate the matter.
When Ray has hung up, they drag themselves into the house, David gratefully closing the door behind them to shut out the rest of the population. It’s a little harder to banish the day’s events from their thoughts, and as David watches Patrick nibble at a slice of pizza later that evening, his own lying half-eaten on the plate in front of him, he suspects he isn’t the only one whose appetite has vanished.
Ray might have promised not to talk about the situation at the store on his podcast, but even without the aid of the airwaves, news travels. Between Roland’s platform at the town hall, Jocelyn’s friendship with the Jazzagals and Ray’s naturally verbose nature, the details of the mystery rash and the store’s apparent part in it is soon all over Schitt’s Creek.
David receives a call from Stevie the following morning after they’ve opened the store, asking if he’s taking his revenge on the town for its lack of style one epidermis at a time. More importantly, she adds, why didn’t he ask her to join in?
David hangs up on her.
Stevie might have been joking (he hopes it’s only her twisted mind that’s come to that conclusion, not that the town couldn’t benefit from some style advice) but over the course of the morning, it becomes clear that tendrils of doubt have snaked their way through the community.
It’s barely noticeable at first. A whisper between customers here, a passer-by peering in the window and then hurrying on without entering there. Once or twice David catches someone’s curious gaze just before they quickly avert their eyes. Nothing is said to them directly but by lunchtime it becomes clear to both David and Patrick that even for a Thursday (not as bad as Wednesdays but not one of their highest earning days) takings are down.
Patrick has been pacing restlessly between the back office and shop floor, worried furrow in his brow deepening every time he glances out of the window and sees a potential customer scurrying in the other direction. Partly to give him something to do as a distraction, and partly to give himself and his own escalating anxieties a break from having to watch his husband’s stress-fuelled circuits, David asks Patrick to run over to the café to pick them both up some lunch.
Patrick seizes on the chance to be useful gratefully and grabs his wallet before striding purposefully out.
But any brief happiness or self-congratulation David feels at being able to suggest something to take Patrick’s mind off their current situation is short-lived as barely ten minutes later, Patrick is storming back in. He throws the bag containing their sandwiches on the counter, it falls onto its side and Patrick’s wallet tumbles out from where he’s clearly shoved it in with their food so he could leave as quickly as possible. The force of the throw has the wallet sliding across the wooden surface and it drops out of sight onto the floor behind the counter.
Patrick grunts in frustration and scrubs at his face with both hands while David watches on, trepidation growing.
“What happened?”
“It’s all over town,” Patrick says. “When I walked in to the café Roland was there, he crossed his fingers to ward me off like I was a vampire or something. He laughed and said he was joking but it was annoying. There were a few whispers and someone else stopped me to ask how many products were affected and if we were accepting returns on massage oil if they’ve used half of it.”
“Oh my God,” David says, horrified. “I hope you said no.”
“Of course I did. I said the same as we said yesterday: nothing’s been confirmed yet, we’re investigating the matter. Didn’t stop Twyla offering to bring her aunt over to cleanse the place.”
“Cleanse the place?” David can’t help feeling affronted. “It’s spotless.”
“Of evil auras,” Patrick clarifies. “From what Twyla says, it involves burning plants.”
David looks around at their beautiful wooden floors, the ladder displays in the window, their carefully arranged product tables. “No one is waving fire around in here.”
“I didn’t say yes, David.” Patrick sighs. “Did anyone call while I was out? I’m hoping Ursula gets back to us today so we can get this sorted out.”
“No. How long do you think she’ll be?”
“Not too long, I think. When we hung up yesterday, she sounded as anxious as we are to get to the bottom of this.”
“How much time do we give her?”
“I was going to call again at the end of the day to hurry her if we haven’t heard anything. Does that seem reasonable to you?”
“I suppose so,” David says after a moment’s thought. Privately, he’d like to call her immediately and demand an answer but if they’re being reasonable…
As it happens, they don’t need to call her for an update. Shortly after three that afternoon, after they’ve both eaten and spent more time circling their empty store searching for distractions, Ursula calls them.
Patrick is closest to the phone and as soon as he hears it’s Ursula, he puts her on speaker again. It’s not like they have any customers to overhear.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” she says after they’ve said hello and David has asked if there’s any news. “I’m sorry, there’s absolutely nothing I can think of. I get my supplies from the same place each time, I’ve called them and they’ve had no other reports.”
“Are you sure?” Patrick urges.
“Positive. Look, your order came from a larger batch I made. I sold a few from the same batch online, I also gave some to my sister for her birthday. She’s been using it every day. You guys are the only ones reporting a problem.” Her tone is growing stronger, more defensive as she makes her argument and David gets it - from what she’s saying it’s looking more and more unlikely that she’s the source.
Patrick seems to realise this too. “Alright. Thanks for looking into it for us, Ursula. I think we might have to look elsewhere for where this came from.”
“Yes,” she says tersely.
“And we’re sorry if we upset you,” Patrick continues. “We just had these complaints and they said they thought it might be the cream. But we’ll tell them they’re wrong.”
“Please do,” she says. “I really can’t have people thinking my products are going to give them a rash.”
“Of course not,” David interjects. “As soon as we get off the phone, we’ll call and let them know they’re mistaken. Word will get around. And you know how much I love your range.”
“Hmm,” she hums down the phone. She still doesn’t sound happy and David thinks quickly, anxious to appease her. The truth is her products are excellent (their appeal has vastly increased again now that they have been found innocent of skin crimes.)
"We'd love to place another order with you soon," he tells her. "Your products have been selling so well and once this misunderstanding is cleared up, I’m sure they’ll be one of our more popular ranges.”
“Well... Okay,” Ursula replies, still slightly hesitant but at least her tone is warmer when she says, “I am sorry you guys are dealing with this. I hope you work out what’s happening.”
“Yeah, us too,” Patrick says. “Thanks, Ursula.”
They say goodbye and Patrick ends the call before letting his head fall forwards with a groan.
“Now what?” he says and David reaches out to rub a hand along his shoulder blade consolingly.
It’s good news. They’re in the clear. But the doubts are already out there about their store and at least if it had been the cream they would have had an answer. Now, with Roland and Jocelyn – along with most of the town – convinced that their store is the only explanation, they aren’t likely to just believe it if David and Patrick simply say, "Sorry, not us."
It will take a while for the townspeople to come to accept the truth without something else to blame, and even then there are sure to be lingering doubts in the minds of some of them. What will that do to their sales?
“The sooner we get the word out the better so I guess we call Roland – ugh – and Ronnie.” David thinks for a moment before continuing, "I’ll call Ronnie if you handle Roland?”
Patrick looks up at him. “Alright. I could do without Ronnie lecturing me about another ‘Brewer screw-up.’”
“What does she think you've screwed up before?” David asks. Of all the many things his husband is, David would not have said he was prone to failure. Quite the opposite – Patrick is very capable and it’s one of the aspects of his personality that David finds incredibly attractive. And, okay, sometimes a little annoying, particularly when he wanders in and does something in five minutes that David would need four hours and several online tutorials to attempt.
“I didn’t ask her. I didn’t really want to listen to a list of my shortcomings.”
“Fair enough.”
The phone calls go about as well as expected. Jocelyn answers the phone at the Schitt residence – hardly surprising as they deliberately called the house knowing that Roland was tied up at the town hall and Jocelyn was likely to be just arriving home from school at that time. She’s cheerful and thanks them for ringing to let them know but although she repeats variations of "Oh that is good news" several times, it’s clear she doesn’t totally believe them.
Ronnie is more forthright. She scoffs, reiterates her belief that it can’t be a coincidence that she, Roland and Jocelyn were all suffering a rash after buying the same product and suggests the vendor is lying to them (“Bambi-eyes Brewer would be easy to fool.”)
The instinct to defend Patrick rises uncontrollably in David and he immediately tells her they both believe their vendor is telling the truth, having heard her reasons and evidence against it being her product causing the rash. Ronnie makes a disgruntled harrumphing sound but seems a little abashed and doesn’t argue back when David stays firm and reiterates that they’re sorry but it isn’t the hand cream causing the problem.
At the end of the conversation, Ronnie attitude is still on the cold side, making it clear that his arguments have failed to convince her.
Perfect.
At least he spared Patrick having to speak to her. With their history the conversation would have taken twice as long and consisted of 75% yelling. Possibly not only on Ronnie’s part if she’d riled Patrick enough.
Once he hangs up, he looks over at Patrick, who is leaning on the counter and watching him anxiously.
“So?”
“I don’t think she believed me,” David says. “But with any luck the news will spread and we can put this behind us.”
On the plus side, the news does spread. On the downside, it seems like, as suspected, people are reluctant to believe it without an alternative explanation. Especially when the story of the local store selling irritants to the unsuspecting public is such a compelling one.
There’s a definite downturn in foot traffic over the next few days. It’s small but noticeable and this is borne out at the end of each day when Patrick jots down a daily total smaller than the average takings of the same weekday over the previous month.
It’s not enough to put them in trouble – not yet – but it’s enough to pinch concern into the corners of Patrick’s eyes and twist an anxious knot in David’s stomach.
“It will be fine,” they take turns to tell each other quietly when they catch each other’s eye across the empty store. “This won’t last.” Or, “They’ll come around, we don’t need to worry.”
The unspoken yet hangs in the air between them.
Despite the fact they haven’t sold all of their last order, they place another with Ursula, keen to show her their faith in her products and avoid losing a range that could prove to be big sellers provided people ever start spending money in their store again.
After they pick up the order, the boxes of lotion and cream are stored unopened in the back room. Every time David sees them, he’s hit with the fear that they’ll remain that way forever, or that they’ll have to swallow their pride and return the order to Ursula for their money back. They’d certainly lose her as a vendor then, but they might buy a little more time for their store.
After a couple of days the anxiety the sight brings gets to be too much and David determinedly stops his eyes from looking into the corner where the boxes sit whenever he has to go into the back room.
In the end, the potential answer comes, as the start of the problem did, from an unexpected source. The same source, in fact.
Roland comes into the store on a quiet (when are they not these days?) morning a week later, clutching a clear plastic bag through which David can see a collection of leaves and bark.
David and Patrick are both behind the counter this morning, midway through a discussion about how to bring custom back. David is leaning back against the tiled wall, the framed business license next to his left ear while Patrick leans over a notepad on the desk where he’s been jotting down their ideas.
This is interrupted when Roland walks over and, with the air of someone performing a magic trick, tips the bag of woodland detritus over Patrick’s notepad. Patrick blinks and shakes a dried petal off his pad while Roland steps back.
“I’ve solved your problem,” he announces.
David rather thinks introducing dirty pieces of wood and twigs to their pristine store is rather adding to the list of things they have to deal with but before he can say so Patrick gets in there first.
“Roland, why have you poured potpourri all over the desk?”
Potpourri?
David straightens, pushing off the wall so he can step sideways for a clearer view without Patrick’s back blocking his eyeline.
Patrick’s right: it is potpourri. Which David supposes is marginally better than the idea that Roland has gathered some soil and mud in a bag and thrown it around their store as some kind of mob-style insult or threat. It’s an admittedly tamer threat than the horse head thing from that film Patrick made him watch but it still makes David tense as he watches another piece of bark fall onto his beautiful floor.
“We got round to changing out the bowl today and found this. Look,” Roland steps forward again and, without asking permission, takes the pen from Patrick’s hand and proceeds to use the end of it to rifle through the mess on the desk.
It’s Patrick’s turn to tense up at the sight of one of his favourite pens (as odd as David finds it that Patrick has favourite pens, David thinks it’s still weirder that he knows which pens those are. It’s also kind of adorable though, the way Patrick’s face brightens in happiness when he asks for a pen and David takes the time to search through the pot and present him with one of his favourites) being used in such a way.
He’s distracted from Patrick’s discomfort when Roland separates out a whitish, translucent object from the pile. A whitish, translucent object with legs.
David jumps back, skin crawling and bile rising in his throat.
“What the fuck is that?”
Roland grins, a wide, triumphant curving of the lips like this moment will not be haunting David’s nightmares for… forever probably.
“It’s a bark centipede,” he proclaims with the air of telling someone they’ve just won a prize. Only the prize here is a gross insect and a pile of dried up twigs. “Jocelyn took it to Miguel and he did some research. Of course, this is just the skin… exoskeleton he said? They shed it as they get bigger.”
“Get… bigger?” David squeaks. Patrick steps back so he is at David's side and lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.
“Yeah. There were a couple of the little critters in the bowl. They kind of blended into the twigs so you don’t notice if you aren’t looking for them.”
David scans the collection of twigs currently littering the desk in alarm. “Two of them?”
“Two dead ones, yeah,” Roland catches David’s distressed look and laughs which, okay, rude. “Don’t worry, Dave, I didn’t bring them here. I’m not a lunatic, I knew you’d freak out about bringing bugs in.”
Somehow Roland makes this sound like an unreasonable stance for David to have and, somewhere beneath the screaming in his brain, he wonders why Roland thought it was okay to bring a dead bug’s skin in but drew the line at the actual insects. He doesn’t ask; a vague curiosity is not enough to induce him to delve into the inner workings of Roland’s mind.
“Roland, I’m afraid I still don’t understand why you’re showing this to us?” Patrick steps in, reasonable as ever.
God, David loves him. It’s just nice to be reminded when dealing with some of the more unhinged residents of the town that he has someone by his side who is… well, hinged.
“We got this stuff from you a couple of weeks ago and it turns out these little guys bite,” Roland says and David recoils further, tucking his hands under his elbows as he folds his arms. “Miguel says if they feel threatened they inject venom through their fangs which can cause the redness and itching me and Joce had.”
With every word that Roland utters the reality becomes more and more horrifying and at this rate they may just have to burn the front desk.
“You think you were bitten?” Patrick asks.
“Yeah. I mean, Joce put it into the bowl with her hand so that could have been when they got her. It was a big bag so she gave some to me to put out at the town hall. I knocked the bowl over onto Ronnie’s desk and had to scoop it all off. Some must have got on her arm. I checked before I came here, there was a dead one in that bowl too.”
After days of wishing for one, it seems as if their alternate explanation has arrived and unfortunately, it’s another one of their products. While it’s good to have an answer, they’re still going to have to do some repairs to their reputation.
“Have you spoken to Ronnie?” Patrick asks.
“Not yet. Wanted to give you guys the heads-up first.”
“Thanks. We’ll let her know.”
“What about the kid in Jocelyn’s class?” David breaks in, keeping his distance from the counter and the literal fucking animal exoskeleton sitting on top of it. Patrick will be lucky if David ever takes his turn behind the cash register again.
“What? Oh, I told you Jocelyn’s been spreading that stuff out. She put some in her classroom but some kids thought it was funny to have a potpourri fight so she threw it out after a couple of days. So, we can’t check that bowl.”
“I don’t think we need to. I think this might be the culprit,” Patrick says, patting David’s arm again before moving forward to peer at the milky exoskeleton.
David watches him in disbelief. How can he stand to be that close? More importantly, why would he subject himself to it? David himself is half tempted to move into the back office and conduct this conversation by shouting through the curtain. Except then he would need to take his eyes off the disgusting thing on the desk and it could fall anywhere, touch anything.
Wait a minute.
“Do we need to fumigate now?” David blurts out. Two sets of eyes turn to stare at him. “You know, now that that thing’s touched the table?”
Patrick shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Don’t worry, I’ll scrub the counter. Although…” he trails off and a moment later rounds the desk, leaving David without a shield between him and the bug, a situation he finds less than ideal.
He bites down his objection because: a.) insisting on a human barrier between himself and a shed skin seems a little dramatic; b.) it’s probably bad form to ask the person you love to be that barrier and c.) before he can make up his mind to insist anyway, Patrick is already grabbing the pot with the bags of potpourri in and carrying it purposefully back to the counter.
Once he’s back, Patrick reinserts himself between the counter and David (who breathes a small sigh of relief, and immediately feels bad about it) and, one by one, begins carefully lifting the clear sealed bags out of the pot to lay them on the counter atop the leaves and petals.
David hadn’t realised what Patrick was going to do until he was already doing it but when he registers the sight of Patrick’s hands, his beautiful, strong, talented hands, lifting the bags out, his reaction is visceral.
“No!” He moves forward to grab Patrick’s forearm and pull it away from the container, danger from the exoskeleton forgotten. Patrick drops the bag he was holding in surprise and David shakes his head in response to Patrick’s quizzical look. He’s aware of Roland watching them but he ignores him, refusing to let go of Patrick.
“Your hands,” he says by way of explanation. “They’ll bite you. I don’t want them to hurt you.”
Patrick’s confused face softens and he gives David a gentle smile. “It’s fine. If there are any, they’ll be in the bags.”
David hums, unconvinced, as he darts a suspicious glance at the pot.
Patrick lays a soothing hand on top of David’s own where it grips Patrick’s forearm and gently squeezes it. “It’s fine,” he repeats. “I just wanted to check the pot, see if there are any signs of them.”
David is still hesitant, visions of Patrick’s beautiful skin swollen and painful filling his thoughts, but reluctantly allows his hand to be moved off his husband’s arm. Patrick knows what he’s doing.
“Don’t know why you’re fussing, Dave.”
Oh, right, Roland’s still here. David had almost forgotten, focussed as he was on his husband but he should have known he wouldn’t be allowed to be oblivious to the mayor’s existence in their store much longer. Roland has a way of making his presence felt.
“They’d be dead by now,” Roland continues. “Most ol’ Pat’ll find is a couple of carcasses.”
David has no idea why Roland’s tone seems to imply this should be reassuring.
Patrick has succeeded in emptying the container and lifts it to peer inside. “Nothing there. That’s something I suppose - it means any more were sealed inside the bags and we don’t have to worry about any having escaped into the store or finding their way into other products.”
David shudders violently, shaking out his hands as if to fling off the thought as well as any germs floating from the insect towards his skin. He’ll probably find time later to be grateful they don’t have to seal off their precious store so they can release sterilising fumes throughout the carefully curated interior but for now he’s stuck on the very real dead animal skin and mess of potpourri on the desk. Not to mention the fact that, need to fumigate or not, they still have a product on their shelves that will need to be recalled and the ensuing negative views towards the store to deal with.
“I suppose we should check the rest of these bags out, though,” Patrick says, picking one up and turning it over in his hands. “We should let Mr Hockley know as well so he can track down the rest of the batch.”
David’s jaw clenches. Fucking Mr Hockley. First the tea misunderstanding at the store’s launch and now this. So much for giving him another chance.
“Yep. And then we can insist on a refund and tell him in the future he can take his fucking potpourri and-”
“We’ll deal with that later, David,” Patrick says over the top of him, shooting a wary glance at Roland who is watching this all play out with interest. “One step at a time.”
David inhales deeply through his nose, anger simmering in his stomach as he tries to calm himself.
“Roland, thanks for letting us know about this,” Patrick says. “It answers a lot of questions and we’re going to check the rest of these bags out-”
“When you say ‘we,’” David interjects. “You mean…?”
Patrick shoots him a look that is an even split between fond and exasperated. It’s a finely honed skill, one that only Patrick seems to possess. “I mean I will take these bags a reasonable distance from the store and tip them onto the ground to see if I can spot any more centipedes.”
“That’s better.”
“Except,” Roland puts in. “As mayor, I have to object to you littering the town. What’s wrong with doing it inside? Here or at your place?”
Just when David had managed to get his temper more or less under control, Roland has to chime in and undo all his hard work.
“We are not infecting the house as well as the store!”
“Of course we aren’t going to take it home. And it’s already all over the counter here, we don’t need to make it worse,” Patrick says. “Much better to do it in the parking lot across the street. I’ll sweep it all up afterwards and throw it away.”
Roland shrugs and David guesses his objections to dirtying the town were more for show than anything else. This is the man who has no problem with people leaving furniture by the side of the road or filling every available stretch of grass with his wife’s campaign signs.
“You do you. As long as I don’t get a call about any more creepy-crawlies attacking local citizens.”
“We are really sorry about all this,” Patrick says. “We had no idea and we will obviously take all these off the shelves.”
Roland folds his arms. “Well, that’s all fine but it doesn’t help the innocent victims or take away their pain and suffering.”
Ah. David was wondering when they’d get to this.
“I gave you the aloe gel,” David points out.
“You sold me the aloe gel,” Roland corrects which, fair enough.
“We’ll reimburse you for it. And how about store credit of-” Patrick breaks off and shoots a look at David as he considers. “Twenty-five dollars?”
“That's twenty-five dollars each, right? For me and Joce?” Roland jumps in quickly.
“Sure,” Patrick says at the same time as David mutters, “I guess so.”
Roland clears his throat, clearly trying to seem casual while his eyes light at the prospect of free stuff and he can’t stop his gaze darting to the shelves on his right to see what is on display.
“I suppose that would be acceptable. Gentlemen,” he says and wanders off towards the personal care section. David pointedly avoids watching to see which items he picks up. He’s been traumatised by that before.
Patrick turns to David. “I’d better go check these bags. I’ll be back in a few minutes and then we can contact Ronnie and Mr Hockley.”
“Mmm,” David murmurs, eying the pile of old petals still sullying the counter.
Patrick follows his eyeline. “Or one of us can clean that up while the other makes the phone calls? I’ll let you choose which you want to do.”
As if there’s a choice. He’ll take calling a couple of people over handling dirty dead insect skin any day. “I’ll call.”
“Thought so.” Patrick leans in to give him a quick kiss, checking that Roland’s back is turned first. For a man of Roland’s age, he does seem to enjoy telling people to ‘Get a room’ while snickering anytime he witnesses anyone showing affection.
Patrick gathers up the potpourri bags back into the pot and picks up a broom from the back office before leaving. David watches through the window as Patrick looks both ways before he crosses the street, behaving as if they’re on a major highway instead of on a tiny street which sees an average of one car every hour drive down it. It’s usually so quiet you can hear any traffic coming two minutes before you see it and David sometimes forgets to check before stepping out. Patrick on the other hand never forgets and David is grateful. He needs that man to be safe.
For his part, David is trying to get better at remembering to look; Patrick’s frown whenever he sees David being less than careful is more than enough to persuade him to try harder.
Patrick disappears from view and David is left alone with Roland, who fortunately does not seem to require conversation. He’s pulled out his cell and is engrossed in a conversation with Jocelyn about their store credit. He appears to be attempting to persuade her that she wants him to spend the entire fifty dollars on bunion cream and beer. From the half of the discussion that David can hear, he isn't being successful.
Eventually Roland hangs up and heads back over to the counter with assorted items in his arms including apple sauce, bubble bath, a liquid exfoliator and, yes, foot cream. With the bottles he grabs from the fridge while David’s loading the items into a bag (at the other end of the counter than the still-present pile of potpourri), it comes to slightly over their fifty-dollar credit. After a brief discussion, David gives all the items to him free of charge once Roland agrees he’d rather that than go through the process for the aloe gel refund.
At last he leaves and David is just about resolving himself to the idea that he might have to at least look like he’s made the effort to begin cleaning when Patrick reappears, holding the empty pot in one hand while the other clutches the broom.
“There was a centipede in two other bags that I could see,” he announces without preamble and David grimaces. “Mr Hockley must have been collecting bark and gathered up a… nest? Colony? Whatever it’s called, I think we’ve definitely found the culprit.” He pauses and looks around at the empty store. “Where’s Roland?”
“Left. Off to spoil someone else’s day.”
“Alright. Although it is a good thing we have an answer now. Otherwise we’d never be able to fix it and everyone would always be wondering what was safe to buy in here.”
David sucks his lips into his mouth. It’s a solid enough point but he’s got a long way to go before he can admit to being thankful for someone coming in, covering their store in bark and petals, scooping up armfuls of free merchandise and wandering out again.
Patrick disappears into the back to put the broom down before emerging again with a dustpan and brush and getting to work on the counter.
“We’ll need to disinfect those as well,” David tells him, pointing at the dustpan as Patrick brushes the counter clear.
“I will,” Patrick promises. “Do you want to call Ronnie? I think one of us probably should before Roland has a chance to get to her.”
David nods and picks up the phone, which is thankfully free of dirt. “Yep. I don’t trust him not to immediately tell everyone he sees that he got some free stuff.”
“Oh, he definitely will. But she’ll be less pissed if we get there first.”
Ronnie answers the phone pretty much immediately, in her best professional voice that drops the moment she realises who it is. David apologises for disturbing her and she impatiently hurries him on, informing him that she’s waiting on a business call.
Once David explains their findings, her objections drop and she listens carefully to the story and how they believe she managed to get bitten.
“I remember that,” she sighs. “It’s not the first time Roland’s spilt things all over my desk and I’d put money on it not being the last.”
“Yes,” David says. “We are sorry that it came from the store though. We’ve taken it off the shelves and we won’t be stocking it anymore.”
“I would have thought not. I know Brewer isn’t always on the ball but I think even he would recognise that as poor business practice.”
“The decision to stock it was mine, not his, and he was the one to take it off the shelf,” David defends.
“I suppose even he has to get something right sometimes,” Ronnie mutters and David rolls his eyes. He doesn’t even remember how this feud started but really, it’s up to them to fix it. Not that he can see how - they’re both as stubborn as each other and making the first move will require one of them swallowing a lot of pride.
“Anyway, we’d like to offer you some compensation to apologise for our part in this,” he says. “We have some wonderful aloe gel to help with any residual itch and in addition we’d like to offer twenty-five dollars of store credit.”
Ronnie pauses. “Yeah, okay. That sounds fine. And I’m kinda glad I can use the hand cream again. It was great for my skin.”
David thanks her for understanding and they hang up. Patrick has finished sweeping off the counter and is wiping it with an antibacterial wipe when David sets the phone back on the counter.
“Is she okay?”
“Yeah. She’s taking the twenty-five dollars credit. I think it helped that she could partly blame Roland’s clumsiness.”
Patrick nods and drops the wipe into the trash can behind the desk. “What do you want to do about Mr Hockley?”
David grunts in annoyance at the sound of the man’s name. Maybe in time he’ll be feeling more forgiving about the damage this has done to their business but for now…
“I think we should cancel the order we have on hold and review the products he stocks with us. If we can’t trust them to be safe, we can’t stock them.”
Patrick nods. “Agreed. Especially no more potpourri if he’s just gathering dirt from his garden.”
David gestures towards the phone. “Want me to call?”
“No,” Patrick replies. “I’ll draft a formal email. We need to look at the contract to see under which clause we can cancel it. It’s best to have a paper trail and phrase it all properly. I’ll also write an official recall notice to put in the window for anyone who’s bought the potpourri.”
“I love it when you talk business to me. So hot.”
He’s joking but also kind of not. Patrick is appealing in all his iterations and his confident, knowledgeable business persona is no exception. Plus, it is the first side of him David ever encountered and so holds a special place in his heart.
Patrick laughs. “Save it for home.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Home. I promise.”
David pouts but it dissolves into a smile when Patrick chuckles again and leans up to press a kiss onto David’s cheek. Warmth spreads from the point Patrick made contact and a pleased shiver passes right down the length of David’s body.
As the morning shifts into the afternoon, it becomes clear that the Schitt’s Creek gossip mill is doing its job once more.
The student in Jocelyn’s class who was given a rash comes into the store, having heard from the mayor in the café that a discount was being offered. They agree to give her the same amount of credit as they offered the Schitts and Ronnie, and she happily wanders off to spend it. There’s only one brief argument when she picks up a bottle of wine and tries to convince them that she’s old enough to buy it, despite having introduced herself as one of Jocelyn’s tenth-grade students.
Her unwillingness to see the flaw in her logic clears up a lot of lingering questions David had about the kind of person who would find amusement in taking part in a potpourri fight.
She eventually gives in and leaves, after swapping the wine for a box of luxury chocolates and a manicure set, and over the course of the afternoon David and Patrick begin to see a slight increase in customers entering the store. However, a slight increase isn’t really anything to celebrate and they’re nowhere near back to pre-crisis levels. Of the few who do brave coming in, most don’t linger for long and there are still couple of suspicious glances thrown in David and Patrick’s direction across the display tables.
Later in the afternoon, Patrick receives a call from Ray, congratulating them on discovering the source of the infection and asking, once more, if they’d consent to be interviewed for a review of the story on his podcast. Patrick declines but after he hangs up he falls quiet, a thoughtful expression taking over his face as he watches a young lady pick up a candle, sniff it, and then replace it before surreptitiously wiping her hand on the thigh of her jeans. She leaves without buying anything and Patrick’s eyes follow her out.
“What is it?” David asks after a few minutes, during which he sees Patrick closely studying another customer in a way that treads the line between observant and disturbing. “You’re going to start creeping people out if you don’t stop that.”
Patrick shakes himself from his reverie and looks over at David with pensive eyes. “I think,” he starts. “We need to do something to win back some of the public’s trust. Some people are still hesitant to shop here and that will fade over time but it would be useful if we can do something to speed it up.”
David mulls it over for a few seconds. “Okay. What did you have in mind?”
“Another open mic night maybe? To bring people in the community together and remind them that the store is part of the community. We could offer a small discount on items to those who attend.”
Their last open mic night served to make David less averse to the idea overall, particularly if Patrick plans to take the reins again and will let David avoid all stage time (he has no desire to reprise 'The Number.') In addition to the beautiful, romantic serenade, the night also had a lasting positive effect on their sales figures.
The customer Patrick had just been watching walks past them, empty-handed and throwing the whispering couple a sideways glance of the utmost distrust. They both fall silent as the ringing of the bell above the door signals the man’s departure and they are alone once more. It’s clear they need to do something and an open mic night is as good an idea as any.
There are a few details David would like settled, though, before he commits.
“We aren’t doing tacky sale signs.”
“No,” Patrick agrees instantly.
“And I can hide in the back if Bob decides to do beat poetry again.”
“If you like.” Patrick smiles at him, eyes crinkling. “But you can’t leave me alone all night.”
“I won’t. Just for the more incorrect acts.”
“Which if I know you will be most of them. You can disappear for… two acts.”
“Five.”
“Three.”
David fiddles with one of his rings as he considers. “Okay, three.”
It isn’t many; he’ll need to make his choices wisely. Would it be unreasonable to ask every participant to submit a pre-recorded snippet to help him choose which to avoid?
“And you can’t miss mine,” Patrick tells him.
“No, not yours,” David says. And then, after a small pause, “Are you… will you sing again? To me?”
“Maybe. Is that okay?”
David pretends to think for a few seconds, pretends the memory of Patrick on stage doesn’t make his heart leap in his chest. “I could live with that.”
The knowing glint in Patrick’s eye lets him know he isn’t fooled for a moment. “Good. I liked singing to you.”
David feels his cheeks heat with pleasure as Patrick approaches him, wraps his arms around his waist and gazes up at him with such naked adoration that the David of a few years ago would be squirming away, looking for somewhere to hide. The David of now, however, sinks into it, wrapping his arms around Patrick’s shoulders in the middle of their store.
“It wasn’t as awful an experience as I expected,” he admits.
“Wow. What a compliment,” Patrick deadpans.
“You know I… You know it was…” David bites his lips, the memory once more overwhelming him. It’s far too difficult to put into words what that moment meant to him, how valued and seen he had felt, and he scrunches his eyes closed as it wells up inside him.
He feels Patrick squeeze his waist tightly. “I know,” his husband’s voice murmurs. “It’s okay.”
David exhales in a long stream and when he opens his eyes Patrick is standing there, holding him steady and sure.
David can’t not kiss him.
No one comes in to interrupt, which David supposes is one upside to the reduced number of customers. Patrick lets it go on longer than he normally would when they’re standing on the shop floor during work hours and David suspects he’s also remembering the romance and tenderness of that night.
Empty store or not, spending all afternoon kissing his husband in the middle of it is not actually a viable plan, not least because they’ll put off any customers who were thinking of venturing in and Patrick’s neck starts to hurt after a while when he has to tilt his head back. Marathon make-out sessions are better at home, where they have more privacy, comfortable furniture and it doesn’t matter if hands start roaming.
When they draw back, Patrick’s face is flushed, his eyes blissful and David can’t resist another kiss to those slightly parted lips although he makes sure to draw back before he can get carried away. He doesn’t move too far away, instead pressing his forehead against Patrick’s and closing his eyes as they both revel in the feeling of having each other near.
“Is that a yes on the open mic then?” Patrick murmurs after a minute or two, the words falling into the space between them.
David nods, his skin brushing against Patrick’s where their heads are still pressed together.
“If you promise you’ll take care of all the on stage stuff.”
“You don’t want to say anything? Give a welcome speech?”
“Mmm, no. See, then some people might mistake me for the host and I’ve been told it’s traditional for the host to sing at least one song and I won’t be doing that.”
He feels Patrick move his head back and David opens his eyes to look down at him.
“David, we’re both the hosts either way. If it makes you feel better, I think one of us performing will be enough. You don’t have to do an act.”
“In which case I will think about saying a few words.”
David already knows he probably will end up saying something and he’s much more comfortable with the idea than he was a few years ago. It was never the public speaking he struggled with - in his gallery life there was plenty of that involved and once he gets past the initial twinge of nerves he can manage perfectly well. It was easier because the patrons and artists that frequented his gallery were, at the time, his people. His community.
At their first open mic night the idea that his community had altered was still one that didn’t quite sit right, a small part of him remaining unwilling to totally accept that everything was different. But now… yes, Schitt’s Creek is his home and these people are his community. He can give a small speech to welcome them to his store.
“Thank you,” Patrick says. “I want us to do this together.”
“We will,” David promises. “When do you think we can do it?”
“The sooner we can get people back in the door the better,” Patrick says. “Next weekend?”
“Okay. I can make some flyers and we can put them out in the café and the motel.”
“Yes and I was also thinking about calling Ray back. We can let him do the podcast as long as he tells people we fixed the problem and mentions the open mic night.”
“I think you’re overestimating the reach of Ray’s podcast.”
“You’ve never listened to 'Ray’s Corner'?”
“No. Have you?”
“I’ve been a guest on it before,” Patrick says and David blinks at him in surprise. “Back when he was starting it up, he was eager for interviewees and I was living in his house so it was really hard to claim I was busy every night.”
“Are there… are there recordings of this?”
Patrick shrugs, his eyes gleaming in amusement at David’s poorly disguised interest. “Probably. Are you asking because you’re interested in listening to Ray and I discuss the process behind filing taxes or because you think it will be funny to hear us awkwardly trying to make it entertaining?”
“The first thing. Definitely.”
Patrick’s eyes narrow suspiciously and David smothers a laugh. “Not sure I believe you.”
“There is a third option, which is I think it’s adorable that you put yourself through that to help him out.”
Patrick’s face melts into a smile and David returns it with one of his own. “Oh. Well, I’ll ask Ray where to find the recording. As long as I don’t have to listen to it with you. Living through it once was enough.”
“But what if I have follow-up questions?”
“Just let me know when you’re finished listening and I’ll be happy to discuss the finer points of tax forms.”
“Yep, I’m sure all my questions will be about that.”
Patrick laughs and kisses him gently before detangling himself from David’s arms. “It’s nearly closing time. I’d better go call Ray and let him know we’ve changed our mind about the podcast. You’re definitely sure about the open mic?”
David dips his head in agreement. “And once we’re closed up we can go into the café and get Twyla to start spreading the word before we go home.”
Patrick disappears into the back with the phone, leaving David alone in their empty store. Empty for now, but with the open mic plan coming together, David is confident business will pick up again and he feels more at peace than he has since this whole thing began. Things will be alright.
He leans on the counter in their darkening store and waits for his husband to return.