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Until now, Patrick hadn’t really questioned why there was no lock on the spare room at Ray’s. Ray had been generous enough to offer him both a job and a place to live on such short notice, he wasn’t about to complain about something as small as a lock.
Until now, the only imposition, really, had been Ray’s unwavering hospitality, his bi-weekly dinners and his early-morning breakfasts and the occasional game night once or twice a month, and Patrick had absolutely no qualms about this desire to be such a consummate host.
Until now.
“Patrick!”
He freezes at the sound of Ray’s voice behind him.
His right hand stills in front of him, fingers a little wet, a little cold, definitely getting a little sticky.
A timer dings cheerily from the kitchen downstairs.
With his back still facing the door and Ray hovering expectantly in the doorway, Patrick slowly clicks the bottle in front of him shut, the sound echoing loudly in the uncomfortable silence of the bedroom.
He didn’t usually do things like this before dates, but he didn’t usually go on dates with David Rose. The thought alone had him all worked up.
“Are we trying a new hairstyle?”
A comb falls to the ground suddenly, bouncing twice on the drab carpet.
Patrick quickly grabs a tissue from the nightstand and wipes a glob of cold hair gel off his hand.
“Uh, Ray.” He tosses the tissue toward the trashcan and misses. “Can I help you with something?” he asks hastily, trying to hurry the moment along.
“I was just coming to ask if you wanted to join me for some dinner downstairs, but I can see now you already have plans.” Ray raises his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth turning upward into a wide smile. His eyes drift pointedly from the blazer draped across the bed to the half-gelled hair on Patrick’s head.
“If you want my opinion, Patrick, I think the way you normally wear it is fine,” he offers warmly. “Though if we’re being completely honest, I can’t really tell a difference either way.” There's a disarming kind of laughter in his voice and his shoulders move so casually up and down in a half-shrug that Patrick feels his embarrassment subsiding.
“Thank you, Ray.” He laughs softly.
“Anyway, I’ll just head back to the kitchen.” Ray turns toward the door. “But if you need any help at all, just give me a holler.”
“Actually,” Patrick remembers out loud, reaching behind him for the shopping bag sitting next to his pillow. “Do we have any wrapping paper?”
Ray stops in the doorway and clasps his hands together. “I think I might have some festive holiday paper downstairs. Would that work?” He stares back at Patrick with wide, eager eyes.
Patrick tilts his head to the left, his lips pressed together into a tight but amused frown. “Well it’s July, so, not quite.”
“Oh! You’re right.” Ray shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “How silly of me. Um, remind me again, Patrick, what exactly do you need this wrapping paper for?”
“It’s for a birthday present.”
“And what message are we trying to send with this present?” Ray leans his weight against the doorframe as if he plans to stay and chat for a while, dinner be damned. “I have a crush on you? Let’s go steady? I love y --”
“Just” -- Patrick cuts him off on an exhale -- “‘happy birthday’ is good, Ray.”
“Okay, yes, but...” he continues, stepping in closer. "Happy birthday, coworker? Happy birthday, friend? Happy birthday, lover? ”
Patrick’s eyebrows shoot upward and he sucks in a deep breath. “How about just ‘happy birthday, David?’” he suggests briskly.
“Got it,” Ray says with a wink and a snap of his fingers. “I might have a few gift bags lying around. Let me check.”
As soon as Ray leaves through the door, Patrick lets out a long sigh and bends down to pick up the comb. He runs his fingers along its teeth then sets it down on the dresser. The clock on the wall reads a quarter after seven.
Ray returns with an armful of holiday wrapping paper and a bunch of what Patrick can only assume are Valentine’s Day themed cardboard boxes. And the pickings are even slimmer in his collection of gift bags. A small red one that’s seemingly only made to fit a single gift card, a dark blue one, a large checkered one, and one with an image of Ray’s face superimposed over a series of various roses.
“I would advise against that one,” Ray explains, pointing at a facsimile of his own face. “It was custom-made for one of my wedding couples, but as soon as the order came in I realized how inappropriate it was.” He throws up his hands in disbelief. “It’s the completely wrong shade of red!”
The oven beeps loudly and abruptly from downstairs, sending Ray dashing out of the room in a hurry. Patrick settles on the dark blue gift bag, but not before considering the rose one just to see David’s reaction. (“Happy birthday, David Rose.”)
He laughs to himself as he places the picture frame into the bag.
It slowly starts to lean backwards, stiff and heavy, the weight of it soon toppling the entire bag over completely. He sighs, looking at David’s present lying helplessly on the bed, at the lone frame now peeking out from the fallen bag, and a wave of nerves suddenly and unexpectedly surges in his gut. He wonders if David will even like his gift. Was it too much? Too little? What message was he trying to say?
He lets out a calming breath and looks around until he spots some light blue tissue paper from where Ray had set down the rest of his things. He arranges it carefully inside the bag, pulling meticulously at the corners, fluffing up the middle until it looks passable. It stands up nice and sturdy on its own now, but before Patrick can admire his handiwork, he hears the door creak open slowly.
Ray’s face appears in the small one-inch space between the door and the wall and his smile is big and bright even if Patrick can only see a fraction of it.
“What’s the password?” Ray asks in the most sing-song voice Patrick’s ever heard.
“Ray.” He doesn’t mean for his tone to be so stern, but it comes out sharp with nerves and anticipation. “I don’t think that’s how --”
“Correct!” Ray says gleefully, swinging the door open wide. “How’s it coming along?”
Patrick lifts the bag up in front of him and shrugs. “Not bad?”
“Wow, Patrick,” he gasps. “That looks very nice. Tell me, have you been watching my two-part video series on the different ways to fill a gift bag?”
“I have not, unfortunately.”
“Well…” Ray steps back and gives him a once-over. “I’d say you’re all ready for your dinner with your boyfriend.”
Patrick’s face grows warm. He fiddles with the bag in his hands, the tissue paper crunching softly between his fingertips.
“He’s not my boyfriend, Ray.”
And something inside him jumps.
He realizes in an instant that was the first time he’d ever said that phrase out loud. My boyfriend. It felt different. It felt good. He mouths it again, silently, to himself, feeling the shape of the words on his lips. My boyfriend.
He flashes back suddenly to a time not that long ago, shortly after their engagement, when he and Rachel had spent one long Sunday cleaning the entire apartment. She had been saying the words “my husband” out loud all weekend long. In the kitchen, scrubbing the shower, talking to her friend on the phone. “My husband and I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.” The way every time she said those words he could feel his pulse racing in his hands, the way the sweet, gentle sound of her voice left something hard and sour at the back of his throat.
“Say it,” she asked of him softly in bed later that night. She traced his lips tenderly with the tips of her fingers as if she could draw the two words out of his mouth. As if it were that easy.
“Not yet.” He ran a clammy hand through her hair. “I want to wait til it’s official.” He hoped he sounded convincing enough. The back of his neck tingled with heat and he shut his eyes hard and tried to fall asleep.
But now, here, in Ray’s spare bedroom.
It is that easy.
My boyfriend.
He can’t help the small smile that begins to sneak across his face. He turns and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and huffs out a short laugh as he squints at his reflection, at his futile attempt to re-style his hair, the short strands failing miserably to hold any position other than “up.” Ray was right, he couldn't really see any difference at all.
But, right now, he certainly feels one.
My boyfriend.
He feels a little like laughing. Some childish impulse nearly drives him to say it again. He’s not my boyfriend, Ray.
He hears some rustling coming from his left as Ray finishes gathering up the rest of his things and heads toward the door.
“Not with that attitude, Patrick!” he calls out behind him.
Laughing freely now, Patrick grabs the gift bag and his jacket off the bed and takes one last look in the mirror.