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Chapter Text

Tashi’s face is grim as she turns her laptop around. “This is why I didn’t want to come to Los Angeles.”

The page is unambiguously TMZ, but most of the screen is a photograph. A shitty photograph, to be sure, one that looks like it was taken with someone’s iPhone 4 and left to marinate for the better part of a decade—but a photograph.

Of Art. And Patrick. At the Grove, two days ago. Patrick is kissing what could charitably be called Art’s cheek but is, in reality, the corner of his mouth. Art has an arm looped around Patrick’s shoulders. He’s all smiles.

The headline: Following US OPEN FLAMEOUT, Art Donaldson seen with MYSTERY…MAN? DIVORCE RUMORS hit fever pitch—WHERE’S TASHI?

Art scowls, pushing the laptop away. “I didn’t flame out. Losing in the finals is not flaming out.”

Patrick gives him a conciliatory pat on the arm.

Tashi stands up from the counter of their little kitchenette to pace around the confines of the suite. It doesn’t take her long to make a full loop around the perimeter of the living area: the Four Seasons is nice enough, but space in Beverly Hills is at a premium.

“What were you guys thinking?” she says. Annoyed but not that annoyed. For all her protestations, Art knows that there’s nothing Tashi loves more than a crisis. “At the Grove? That’s like the one place left that you can still get papped without calling them yourself. I told you guys not to go there.”

“No,” Art says. “You told us not to go to Los Angeles.” Half-assedly, because she didn’t really mean it. Tashi always liked being back in California. The weather alone put her in a good mood. “You didn’t say anything about shopping malls.” Patrick had wanted to go to the farmer’s market, and Art had wanted to do whatever Patrick felt like doing. Was that such a crime?

“I don’t even know why you guys are so worried,” Patrick says as he commandeers what’s left of Art’s breakfast. “It’s just some shitty tabloid. Nobody’s going to believe it, anyway.”

Art and Tashi exchange a look. “TMZ is usually accurate,” Art says. He pulls his bowl away from Patrick and back in front of him, not that he has much of an appetite left. “They’ve got sources everywhere. And not just Los Angeles,” he adds, waving an accusatory spoon in Tashi’s direction.

“Besides,” Tashi says, “it’s a fucking photograph.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “But not a paparazzi shot. There’s no way a professional took that.”

It’s true, but that makes it worse. Paparazzi are one thing: they can be reasoned with, or at the very least paid off. Observant opportunists and fans are an entirely different matter. Unpredictable, and as far as Art is concerned, usually insane.

“So some people do believe it. Who cares? No offense, Art,” Patrick says, smiling in that way he does that signals he’s about to cause as much offense as possible, “but you’re retired. Is anybody really checking for the details of your personal life these days?”

Tashi is trying to exchange another meaningful look with him, but Art is going full ostrich. Head in the sand. No eye contact, thank you.

For once, she takes the hint and gives up. “It feeds into a narrative,” she says. “One that we’ve been trying not to encourage.”

Patrick clearly finds this intriguing, exactly as Art had known he would and hoped he wouldn’t. He’s looking back and forth between the two of them with an incredulous look. “A narrative?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Tashi says, crossing her arms. “We both know you’ve been stalking every Art-related Twitter hashtag for at least ten years.”

“Only the highlights,” Patrick says. He’s speaking with his mouth full, the sound of which never fails to raise the hair on the back of Art’s neck. “I appear to have missed some juicy specifics.”

Art sighs. Once Patrick sinks his teeth into something, there’s no way to escape without tearing flesh. And it’s usually Art’s flesh. It will be today. “There have been rumors for years that I’m gay,” Art says. Now he’s avoiding eye contact with both of them. “And Tashi’s just been bearding for me since Stanford.”

Patrick throws his head back and laughs loudly enough that Tashi smacks him in the arm. Hard. She’s separated by several walls, but Lily is still asleep nearby. The thought of her makes Art’s heart twist in his chest—no. That is a precipitous rabbit hole of guilt and shame to go down, one that Art needs to save for later. Not until they have a plan.

“It’s the hair,” Patrick says. He can barely contain himself; he’s trying to cover his mouth with a hand, but it’s not helpful. “Really. A grown man can only dye his hair blonde for so long before the rumors start.”

“It’s not just the hair,” Tashi says, and Art reaches across the counter to slam the laptop closed before Patrick has time to process and ask any more questions.

“So what are we going to do?” Art says loudly. “I vote to ignore it. Don’t fan the flames.”

“We’ve already been over this,” Tashi says. “It’s TMZ. The flames have already been fanned. It’d be one thing if this was isolated, but all the Art Donaldson truthers are going to have a field day.”

“You could tell the truth,” Patrick says. He is suddenly very interested in his empty bowl of cereal. “It’s bound to come out eventually.”

“Is it?” Tashi says, but she’s tapping a thoughtful finger on her cheek.

Art would like to say something, but his throat can’t force the air out.

“Isn’t it?” Patrick counters. “Unless you guys are just planning on keeping me as your dirty secret forever.”

Maybe not dirty—though stripping the word from Patrick Zweig of all people doesn’t seem right—but Art is perfectly happy with secret. He’s spent too long negotiating his life with the public to want to give them more. Of anything. But certainly not Patrick. Tashi is already bad enough. “There’s nothing wrong with being private.”

“Great thinking,” Tashi says. “Except for the part where you two dipshits started making out in public.”

The strained look isn’t entirely gone from Patrick’s face, but that does manage to make him smile. “Tashi, I’d hope you’d know by now what it looks like when Art and I make out.” With the finger quotes. “That wasn’t even a peck.”

“Maybe Patrick is right.” Art looks up at her in alarm, but Tashi’s not done speaking. “We can tell them the truth. Only part of it, but the truth.”

“Which part?” There’s a fleeting chance that Tashi will change her mind in the next five seconds, and that’s all that Art can cling to.

“What did they call Patrick again?” She opens up her laptop where Art had smashed it closed. “That’s right. Mystery man. But that’s only because the picture is so shitty that nobody can make out his face. That won’t last long. We should get out in front of it.”

“And say what?” Patrick is leaning back on his stool, balancing precipitously on the back two legs. The aftermath of New Rochelle had given him the highest profile he’s ever had: the bizarreness of Art’s presence, not to mention their embrace, had had its day at the forefront of the media’s mind. Art can barely remember any of it except for the feeling of his heart in his throat.

“That you’re Art’s old friend from school,” Tashi says. “And you reunited at New Rochelle, and now that Art’s retired, you’re spending more time together.”

“And kissing?” Art’s eyebrows are near his hairline.

“Brotherly love,” Tashi says with a shrug. “The whole world doesn’t actually know how repressed you are, Art. Men can be physically affectionate too.”

“I thought we were going to tell the truth,” Patrick says softly. Easy for you to say, Art thinks.

Tashi’s eye roll is unusually spectacular. She’s getting exasperated again, the way she always does when she has a plan and they don’t fall in line immediately. Art can see where she’s coming from: it’s not like they don’t always end up doing exactly as she says. “We both know Art’s going to have an aneurysm if we do this in anything other than baby steps. He’d die in the closet if we let him.”

Why shouldn’t he? The closet has served him very well. For most of his life, Art didn’t even know he was in it. “I don’t like this plan,” he says instead.

Tashi ignores him. “All in favor?”

She and Patrick raise their hands and turn to look at him. Patrick is trying to look pleased with himself. Tashi just looks impatient. “You’re outnumbered,” she says. “I have some phone calls to make.” She kisses Art on the cheek, exactly where Patrick had kissed him the day before, then does the same to Patrick.

And that’s that.

Tashi doesn’t tell him the contents of her phone calls, for which Art is grateful. It’s one of the fundamentals of their relationship: Tashi will do all the media legwork, and Art will do whatever she tells him to do. It’ll never be equal, not when every year that Art played tennis and she didn’t piles up between them; maybe it’ll even be worse, now that all the years that Art isn’t playing tennis will start to pile up as well. But it’s the only way Art can think to keep his end of the bargain.

That’s how Art ends up sitting outside at some souped up Brentwood brunch spot, poking at a farm to table salad that tastes like dirt. Sunglasses, to playact at anonymity, but no baseball caps to obstruct the view. He can only try to ignore the click-click-click of a DSLR going off nearby. Multiple DSLRs.

Tashi called them, of course, because Art is famous but not famous famous: a recognizable name to anyone outside the tennis bubble, but perhaps not a recognizable face. He’s always thought that Tashi, being both distinctive and beautiful, has a better shot of getting them noticed without a thumb on the scale, but Tashi never agrees. She always says that the only people who know her for being Tashi Duncan are diehard tennis fans. Everybody else only knows her as his wife. He hates to think that she might be right.

“Eat your food,” she says, taking a dainty bite of her shakshuka. “And stop looking like I’m torturing you by making you be out here.”

“Aren’t you?” Art says. He picks up the hunk of bread that came with his salad and starts buttering it. “Because this feels like a punishment.”

“Self-inflicted,” she reminds him. “And I’m not letting TMZ run with those fucking divorce rumors. Kiss me.”

He does: on the forehead, which usually gets him a smack on the arm. Don’t kiss me like you kiss Lily, weirdo. This time Tashi accepts it without protest. “Was that so hard?”

“Kissing you is never hard,” he says. That earns him a scoff, so he kisses her again, this time on the mouth.

She reaches up to brush the hair off his forehead, but also to push him away. “Don’t overdo it,” she says. “Or else people are going to think that we’re playing it up for the cameras.”

“Isn’t that exactly what we’re doing?”

“Sure. But we can at least pretend to have some dignity about it.”

Out of everything, dignity seems like the thing furthest out of reach. There was dignity in playing tennis, but that part of his life is over. All that’s left is life as a C-list celebrity. That seems distinctly opposed to any form of dignity.

Tashi reads his mind as easily as she ever does. “You know, there’s still time for us to do something else,” she says. “Address the tabloids in another way, I mean. I’m all ears for suggestions.”

There’s no suggestion that Art wants to make beyond ignoring the whole situation and moving on; since Tashi has already rejected that approach, there’s nothing else Art can think to do. This is, of course, why Tashi makes the offer.

“This is as good of an idea as any,” Art mutters. He skewers a beet on his fork with extra force.

Later, back at the hotel where Patrick has a room booked under a separate credit card, Art finds himself face to face with a wall of sullen resentment.

“Have a good time out there?” Patrick says, not looking up from his phone. He’s lying on the bed that he sneaks out of every night once Lily falls asleep.

“No,” Art says. There’s no reason to lie. “It was demeaning. And my food was disgusting.”

That only placates Patrick as far as putting a smirk on his face, but he still won’t look up. If he did, he would notice Tashi standing nearby and glowering down at him.

“What,” she says, “you’re jealous?”

“No.”

“Art, don’t you think he sounds jealous?”

Art’s eyes dart back and forth between the two of them. In a battle of wills, there’s only ever going to be one side to stand on. “He sounds a little jealous.”

“A little?” Tashi says. “Sounds like we need to up our game.”

She’s kisses Art so quickly that he has no time to react with anything other than pure instinct. It’s not some brush of the lips: Tashi is kissing him with real determination, one hand on Art’s cheek and the other on his chest. Art pulls her closer. He can give as good as he gets.

Tashi takes too long to pull away, and once she does, she’s looking at Patrick, not Art. “Still not jealous?” she says.

Patrick, still lying on the bed, crosses his arms and frowns. “I’m jealous now. But still not jealous of your little pap walk, no.”

“Hmm,” Tashi says. She sits down on the bed. A quick glance over her shoulder is all Art needs to mirror her and sit down on the other side. Patrick is between them, pretending to be annoyed at them.

“Because if you were jealous, that would be pretty silly,” Tashi says. “Considering that your little candid moment with Art is what launched this whole thing in the first place.”

Maybe Patrick really is annoyed, or maybe he’s just annoyed now. It looks like he’s trying to pick from one of several choice words. “You can’t really compare it,” Patrick says. “One shitty cellphone picture is not the same thing as paying for a fucking public photoshoot.”

“Ah,” Tashi says, satisfied. “So that’s what it is. You’re just jealous that I get to be with Art in HD. You want me to call some more photogs so you and Art can try for round two?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Art says, trying to sound casual.

It’s never good when Tashi and Patrick are looking at him in the exact same way; it’s even worse when they’re looking at him like they can right through them. Art is determined not to look away. Some things just invite weakness.

“Actually, I was thinking that you and I could have a go,” Patrick says. He reaches toward Tashi to pull her closer, and improbably, she doesn’t resist, just lets him tug her wrist until she’s nearly horizontal beside him. “Maybe at the beach. I’m sure we could make a lot of money selling your bikini photos. I’d just be the icing on the cake.”

“Great idea,” Tashi says. She kisses Patrick lazily, only for a moment. Art still has to force himself not to look away; he’s not intruding, not even on this. “That’ll really help with all the divorce rumors.”

She looks like she’s going to sit up again, so Patrick pulls her in for another kiss. He smiles directly at Art. “Who knows, maybe it will? The mystery man can’t be that mysterious if he’s out and about with both halves of the Donaldsons. It adds credence to that whole ‘friend’ cover-up you’ve been working on.”

Tashi might actually like that plan; she appears to be considering it, which is bad enough. Art and Tashi together is old news, blatant PR damage control but at least an indication that they’re still operating under the same team. Adding Tashi to the Patrick story is something new. It might get new eyes on them. It could turn a potential blip into an actual story.

It’s like Patrick wants him to be the one to argue against it, but Tashi beats him to the punch. Sort of. “Maybe in a few weeks,” Tashi says. “And not in LA. But it’s not actually a bad idea.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Patrick says, grinning.

“I’ll always be surprised when you manage to scrape together a couple of brain cells,” Tashi says. She sits up for real this time. “Now kiss Art before he gives himself an aneurysm thinking about everything we just said.”

Patrick doesn’t need to be told twice.

Traffic on Sunset Boulevard has slowed to a crawl: it’s rush hour, and past Beverly Hills the road grows narrower, windier, and backed up with cars trying to get to the 405.

Art’s leg is jiggling nervously and he can’t stop looking at the GPS on his phone. They should have been at UCLA twenty minutes ago. It’s the entire reason they’re in LA in the first place: the athletics department is putting on their one millionth tribute-fundraiser in Arthur Ashe’s name, and Art was invited as a guest speaker. It’s the type of thing that Tashi would have rejected on his behalf a thousand times over; this time, she said yes and let him know after the deed was already done. Her complaints about the city are performative, as they always are until they aren't—or maybe she'd meant it as a warning. One that Art and Patrick failed to take.

“What?” Tashi had said. “You’re retired. Sounds to me like you have the time.”

They’re crammed uncomfortably in the back seat: there’s room in the row ahead of them, but Art hates feeling pinned in by the stupid little armrests, Tashi refuses to be in a position where she has to turn around to have a conversation, and apparently Patrick’s natural subservience took him to the back row without another thought. It’s not made for three grown adults, least of all the middle seat where the strap is cutting uncomfortably across the side of Art’s neck.

He has no desire to give a speech, or hobnob, or answer questions, or put on the tuxedo currently following behind them in another car with Tashi’s assistant and their mutual stylist. He doesn’t want to be sitting in the back of a Ford Escalade, which feels douchey even when he’s not in the Prius capital of the world. And if he’s going to do all of this anyway, the last thing he wants to be is late. Art hates being late.

“If you don’t stop bouncing, you’re going to take Tashi’s eye out with that bony knee of yours.” Patrick puts a hand on Art’s thigh to stop him from moving. Art doesn’t even look down at it, just whips his head up to make sure that the partition blocking off the driver is up. It is. Thank God.

The gesture is not lost on Patrick: he withdraws his hand and resumes looking out the window. There is absolutely nothing for Patrick to be mad about; he isn’t even invited that night. There is no tuxedo with Patrick Zweig’s name on it; he isn’t going to be there at all. Tashi had invited him along for the ride because she felt bad for him, or else because she was bored—there are some things that Art can never entirely tell. When Art had asked what Patrick was going to do with his evening in Westwood, he was met with what he can only think of as a venomous shrug.

“It’s a big city,” Patrick had said. “I’m sure I’ll find something to do.”

Now he says nothing. Tashi, superhuman in her capacity to avoid motion sickness, scrolls through her phone. And Art waits for it to all be over.

Eventually, haltingly, their car turns down the side road into the UCLA campus and down toward the parking structure near the stadium where their driver will wait. Art is stiff and uncomfortable as he peels himself out of the car; there’s hours more work ahead of him, but he’s tired enough to already want to crawl back into bed.

This doesn’t escape Tashi’s notice. “You need a caffeine pill?” Tashi’s assistant always comes with a veritable pharmacy packed in her purse.

“No,” Art says. “Just need to get this over with.”

He’s focused enough on the endgame that he almost starts to walk away, until he hears a cough behind him. Patrick is rummaging through his pockets, ostensibly looking for a cigarette but really just waiting to be acknowledged.

“Keep your phone on,” Tashi says. “I’ll text you later when we’re ready to pick you up. If you make me drive more than fifteen minutes out of the way to get you, you’re finding your own way back.”

“What a long leash you’ve given me.”

Tashi is unfazed. “You’re the one who wanted to come.”

Patrick looks like he wants to be there about as much as Art does. The difference between them is that when Patrick gets that brooding look on his face it means he’s about to do something stupid. “Just one more thing,” he says, and kisses Art directly on the mouth.

Art tries to jerk his head away, but Patrick’s hand is already on the back of his head to hold him still—not forcibly, not insistently, just steady. That’s all it takes for Art to give in. Kissing Tashi feels natural, as intrinsic to his life as breathing or blinking; kissing Patrick still registers to him as a shock to the system, the thrill of something he wanted for so long that it still feels unreal every time it happens.

When Patrick pulls away, he looks eminently self-satisfied. Art’s heart is thumping in his chest, and not in a good way. “Don’t do that,” he hisses, taking a step away. It’s late enough that there’s not a crowd of students hanging around, but there are cars in the lot, and their driver is right there. Tashi’s PA and the stylist haven’t gotten out of the car yet, but for all Art knows, they could have been peering through the windows. Anybody could have been.

The satisfaction falls from Patrick’s face, but only a little bit. “You really think that none of them have noticed? You think you’re that subtle? You had no problem making out with me in the car out of LAX the other day.”

Low blow: besieged by gate delays, Art had been drunk by the time they got off their flight, as had Patrick and Tashi. Anything that happened after that couldn’t be positioned as typical behavior.

“I hate to break it to you, Art, but anybody who spends that much time around you already knows. Around any of us, honestly. It doesn’t exactly require that many logical steps when your team had to start including me in all their budgets.”

And—well—if Patrick’s not wrong, which Art knows that he is, knows he’s telling the truth like he always is until he isn’t—then why should Art have to confront it? Everything had been working. They were working. Art retired and Tashi survived it, and it’s all because Patrick was there. Art knows that; he won’t deny it, wouldn’t even want to. Because it had been working. And it would continue to be working too, if it hadn’t been for their own stupidity and now Patrick’s resolute inability to let things go. Nothing had needed to change. All Art wants is to go back.

“You fucking idiot,” Tashi growls. “What did I say to you about timing? He’s about to give a speech.”

That’s enough to chastise him, but only barely. For a moment, it looks like Patrick is going to walk away without another word; he even takes a few steps, but something seizes him and he turns back around looking composed. “Good luck up there,” he says, and kisses Art once more for good measure. He’s already gone by the time Art can find the words to respond.

Chapter Text

Art makes it through the rest of the evening. He even makes it through his speech: nobody will ever mistake him for a great orator, but the words are all ready for him on the notecards, and he’s not so flustered that he can’t get through a few pat tennis metaphors about personal success.

Tash is, per usual, the lifeline. It’s not an act—she doesn’t transform into an entirely different Tashi when it comes time to buttering up strangers. But she’s more in her element than she has any right to be. All her best qualities are on display: her memory for details, her awareness of every single person in a room, her quick wit. People come up to speak to both of them. They stick around for Tashi. As they should. Art can’t argue with any of that. All it is is a reminder of what he’s always known to be true: that it should have been Tashi. It was always supposed to be her.

He takes his time waking up the next morning. With the fundraiser out of the way, there’s technically nothing left keeping them in Los Angeles, but nobody’s gotten around to booking them tickets anywhere else. Lily’s enjoying it here, anyway. She likes the sunshine. Maybe they should go to Disneyland—but no, not Disneyland. Not with Art, at least. The last thing he wants is people taking photographs of her too.

Nothing shifts Tashi from her regular morning schedule. She’s up and out of bed early, then Art hears the shower run, her morning workout out of the way once again. But Art’s half-conscious mind does manage to be surprised when she gets back into bed. Tashi never gets back into bed. She never even takes a nap.

When he sits up, rubbing his eyes back into focus, Tashi smooths his bedhead with her fingers. “I was trying not to wake you up,” she says.

“I was already awake,” Art says with a yawn.

If she hears him, she doesn’t acknowledge it. Art lolls his head to the side to look at her: she’s looking at her phone with a look of extreme concentration.

“Phase two is a go,” she says. She presses her phone into Patrick’s hand.

It’s not TMZ this time, but Page Six, which Art had always sort of thought of as a respected, if marginal, American institution until Tashi laughed herself nearly to tears and told him under no uncertain terms to never tell that to another soul. So it’s a tabloid like any other. It’s apparently not one that they’re above using.

The headline at the top of the page is simple: WHO IS PRO-TENNIS STAR PATRICK ZWEIG?

Art can afford to be a little more magnanimous now that he’s bowed out of the ring, but Patrick as a star is a little much to stomach. Tashi sees his eyebrows raise. “Nobody would click on the article otherwise,” she says dismissively. “Just read through it and let me know if you’re going to have a conniption fit.”

It’s more a delineation of basic facts than anything too scandalous: Patrick’s lack of college degree, the stock options held by his parents, his less than impressive tennis performance going back years. There’s a feint to Art in the first line reminding people why they’re supposed to care about this at all, but it takes several paragraphs to get to the stuff that makes Art’s stomach drop.

Eagle-eyed tennis fans may remember Zweig’s performance in the 2019 New Rochelle Challenger, where a surprise appearance from Art Donaldson ultimately led to a curious embrace between the two at the conclusion of the final match. Media reports at the time claimed that this represented a reunion following over a decade of separation.

Multiple sources with firsthand knowledge of the situation claim that Zweig had in fact been romantically involved with Donaldson’s wife, Tashi Donaldson née Duncan, prior to the debilitating injury that ended her own career as a tennis star. Despite this, Zweig has now been spotted in public with Art Donaldson multiple times, first leaving a house in London’s Kensington neighborhood and more recently at a popular shopping mall in Los Angeles.

Art puts the phone down. There’s more to read, but he’s feeling ill enough as it is. Kensington—what were they even talking about? The three of them had spent a week off Gloucester Road nearly six months ago as a reprieve from the media blitz that had dogged Art’s retirement. He can’t even bring himself to think of what they got up to there; he already feels too exposed, like some reporter can hack into his brain waves and broadcast what’s up there along with everything else. They barely even left the house. And somebody had seen them? Photographed them?

Tashi doesn’t need an explanation, because she never does. If there’s anybody who’s hacked into Art’s brain to pore over the contents, surely it’s her. “The London thing was very minor,” she says, taking her phone back and putting it face down on the bedspread. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. It wasn’t even a photo of any of us together. Just a blurry picture of you getting into the car and another one of Patrick. Only the freaks even noticed anything, and they didn’t even realize it was Patrick.”

It’s as much reassurance as she’s going to be able to muster, and not even bad by Tashi’s standards. But it’s not enough. The whole situation is too much of what Art hates. The celebrity thing was always incidental; he doesn’t think Tashi would have stayed with him this long if it had ever meant that much to him. But it had been easy enough to manage. Art Donaldson, squeaky clean. Perfect wife and beautiful daughter, and the tennis record to back it up. Nothing to see here. Easy to manage. Until now.

Tashi rolls over in bed to lie on her side and look at him, and after a moment, she pulls on Art’s shoulder insistently until he turns to face her. They’ve been in this position a thousand times before, though less often as of late: Patrick’s usually involved in the geometry one way or another. Not last night. He’d obligingly waited to get picked up from some frat bar down in Westwood Village, but he’d gone off to his own room even though Lily was long since asleep by the time they got back to the hotel. Patrick was mad.

They lie like that, just staring at one another. Ultimately, however, Tashi’s patience can only wear so thin. “We need to figure out what you want to do,” she says.

He doesn’t want to do anything, of course. It’s already gone much further than intended; the media of it all is manageable, yes, but it’s intrusive and incidental to the game. And now the game is little more than an abstract memory; in retirement, Art’s full-time job is being a celebrity. He squeezes his eyes shut at the very thought, like he can banish the image from his mind if only he can make himself see stars. “Is ‘nothing’ a workable answer?”

“No.” Not unkind, just matter-of-fact. And correct. “You can spill your guts to the tabloids and become America’s new face of polyamory, you can slow hand bits and pieces until anybody paying attention can piece it together, or you can tell Patrick he’s got to be our dirty mistress for the rest of time and hope he never cracks under the pressure. Your choice.”

Art groans and tries to bury his face in the pillow, but Tashi stops him, one hand under his chin to force him back to meet her eyes. The implication is clear: you’ve been a self-pitying bastard about this for long enough.

“I never want to hear the word polyamory ever again,” Art mumbles. The day that Patrick had discovered the word throuple was bad enough.

“Okay,” Tashi says. “That’s one down.”

Two left. And barely a choice at all. “Trying to keep Patrick out of it won’t work,” he admits.

“Correct.”

“So…”

“So we’re going to trickle truth out the bits and pieces.”

“Yes.”

“Just enough to get all the parts out there. So we don’t have to panic about keeping a narrative straight every time we go out into public.”

“Yes.”

“Which is exactly what I’ve already started doing, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Tashi says, looking distinctly pleased with herself. “Just checking. Because you’re going to be on board from here on out, right?”

Art sighs. “Yes.”

“Good.” She kisses him only for a second. “Because if you keep dragging your feet, you’re not going to have a relationship to come out about.”

Patrick eating room service lunch alone in his own suite, poking around at a soggy looking pizza. Art lets himself in with a tap of the keycard and throws himself down on the sofa next to him.

“Listen,” Art says. “I’m sorry for making you act like our dirty little mistress.”

Patrick puts his piece of pizza down and wipes his hand on his shorts. A muscle in Art’s jaw twitches. “I think I like that phrasing,” Patrick says. “You should keep calling me dirty.”

Art is trying not to let himself be amused. “You’re focusing on the wrong thing here.”

“Am I?”

“You should be appreciating my apology much more. There was a time when you couldn’t have dragged one out of me.” Especially to Patrick. Art hates apologies enough as it is; it’s hard for him to ever stop feeling aggrieved enough to be ready to extend one.

“How long did it take Tashi to get this one?” Patrick says, but he’s looking amused. He’ll never pass up an opportunity to make Art work for it.

“It hardly took anything,” Art lies.

Patrick has no response to that, just shifts his body so he’s leaning into Art’s personal space, pressing forward until Art’s feeling trapped between him and the armrest. “So what does that mean?” Patrick says. “You’re not going to throw a hissy fit the next time my hand grazes you in public?”

It had been more than a hand, but Art knows that as soon as he’s arguing the details, he’s already lost. “I’d still prefer to keep the PDA to the minimum, but no. Just be normal. We’re not trying to say anything. Just let people come to their own conclusions, I guess.”

He only has a moment to see Patrick grin before Patrick is kissing him. It never won’t take him be surprise, especially when Tashi isn’t here. Without her to force him to relax, it always feels wrong for just a moment, like he’s letting himself have a treat he never earned.

The problem is that Patrick is never not perfectly aware of where Art’s head is. He moves down to kiss along Patrick’s jawline and bites just a little too hard at the square of his jaw. “If I didn’t know how neurotic you are, I’d be offended,” Patrick says. “I don’t know how Tashi ever gets you out of your head.”

For the most part, she doesn’t—Patrick’s presence seems to be the delineating factor as to whether or not a given situation is an exception. Somehow Art doubts that that’s what Patrick wants to hear. “I’m glad I’m neurotic,” Art says instead. “Somebody needs to be the guardrails.”

“What’s that?” Patrick says. He’s pretending to hear an unseen voice. “You’re saying that deep down, what you actually want is to have sex in public, you just need me to be the one to cajole you into it? You want to do it at a public park? Art, there could be children there! But you’re the celebrity, so I guess we’ve just got to do whatever you say, huh?”

Art tries to push Patrick off him, but Patrick holds strong, and then it turns into a tussle. Barely one, but still enough to roll them off the couch and onto the ground. Patrick’s head nearly hits the edge of the coffee table as they do.

“Shit, are you okay?” Art gives up the fight to press a couple of questioning fingers against the side of Patrick’s head. It’s all Patrick needs to leverage his weight against Art’s and pin him to the floor once and for all.

“I’m fine,” Patrick says. “Lucky for you. You would have been the one cleaning my brains off the carpet.”

“Please,” Art says. “I have people I can hire for that.”

“You do, don’t you?” Patrick laughs into Art’s mouth. Art kisses him before Patrick can tease him again, and Patrick lets him. It’s leisurely; it’s comfortable. It doesn’t need to be anything more than that.

Lily wants to go to the beach nearly as much as she wants to go to Disneyland, but Tashi is eminently judgmental of their options. Nothing within a reasonable driving distance of Beverly Hills is up to her standards, so it’s time for everybody to decamp south, where the beaches are wider and flatter and the crowds are smaller.

Only so much smaller. They just happen to find themselves in the midst of preparations for a beach volleyball tournament—a real one, with stands and sponsors and the infrastructure necessary to put on a show. Bringing exactly the type of people sports-literate enough to potentially recognize Art Donaldson on sight.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tashi says. Back in the days before she’d completely devoted herself to tennis—when she was a child, that is—Tashi had dabbled in volleyball herself, and though she would never say so directly, she always liked watching it. Art’s been through enough Olympics with her to know. “It’s not starting for another couple of days.”

Art will do his best to believe her. It could be worse: they’ve got enough space to spread out the beach towels and umbrella with plenty of buffer room, and nobody so far has so much looked in his direction. You’re not that important, you fucking egomaniac.

It’s hardly Lily’s first time at the beach, but it’s been awhile since they were anywhere long enough for her to have a fall day of it. She toddles down past the berm to the water with Tashi’s mom. Art can’t bear to look at her and he can’t bear to look away. Lily is adaptable; she is flexible and resilient. Patrick barely registers as a person to her, just yet another stranger orbiting her family like they have her entire life. She doesn’t have any questions right now. What about in the future? When she’s older, and Patrick is still there? What is Art going to say to her? Is she going to be ashamed of him?

“You’re going to burn if you don’t put on more sunscreen.” Patrick is standing too close, blocking the sun and looming down at him.

“I put some on before we left,” Art says, still looking at Lily down by the waves.

“That was nearly an hour ago,” Tashi says, not looking up from the book she has propped against her raised knees. “Put some more on. It’s in my bag.”

Scowling, Art peels his eyes away from his daughter to rummage around inside Tashi’s bag until he finds the aforementioned tube of sunscreen, some Japanese formula that Tashi claims is better than anything they can get in the states. He does burn easily; one of the only good things about being off the court is that he no longer has to militantly put sunscreen on the backs of his ears. He squeezes too much of it out into his hands and starts working it into his face and down his neck.

“You missed a spot,” Patrick says, and then he’s kneeling down on the towel next to Art’s and rubbing a thumb along Art’s cheekbone, down by his ear and down to his throat. His hand is hot to the touch, but it doesn’t feel bad even in the summer heat. It doesn’t feel bad at all.

“On a scale of one to ten,” Patrick says. “How likely are you to slap me if I kiss you right now?”

They haven’t discussed exact parameters, but Art would like to consider this out of bounds. They can put themselves out there without being so obvious about it. “Tashi’s mom is right there,” Art says nervously.

“She already knows,” Tashi says. “So don’t worry about it. She’s not watching you, anyway.”

This is news to Art, though evidently not to Patrick, who he can see rolling his eyes beneath his sunglasses. “You told her?” he says, sounding more scandalized than he really feels.

“No,” Tashi says. “But she’s not a fucking idiot. You think she hasn’t noticed Patrick literally living with us for the past year?”

And no, Art’s not so pig-headed that he hasn’t already accepted that Tashi’s mom knows much more than she probably ever wanted to about Tashi’s sex life—one awkward hallway encounter with Patrick had been more than enough to obliterate any fantasy of that—but it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want to give her direct evidence of that fact.

Patrick is watching him like he can read his mind. Maybe he can. It certainly feels that way sometimes. “Aren’t you supposed to be done being ashamed of me?” Patrick says.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” Art says. “I’m ashamed of myself.”

“God, that’s pathetic,” Tashi says with a laugh. “Patrick, kiss him before he thinks he can get away with this shit.”

Patrick does kiss him, but almost chastely. No tongue. It goes on just long enough that somebody could pick up their phone and take a photo if they wanted to. If somebody noticed, they could do it.

“Nobody’s looking at you,” Patrick reminds him.

“They’re going to start looking if you don’t keep putting on that sunscreen,” Tashi says. “Forget your hangups, I’m not going out in public with you if you start looking like a lobster. Finish your arms and chest, I’ll get your back in a moment. Patrick, my turn.”

Art obligingly picks the sunscreen bottle up again and starts working on his chest. “Don’t forget your nipples, Art, I’d hate to see those get burned,” Patrick says, but Tashi is already pulling him in for her own kiss. Just as minor as Art’s had been, but this time, Tashi set the pace. She always does.

“Divorce,” she mutters. “Every fucking time anything happens, they’re always ready to hop on that little canard.”

“The tabloids are just surprised that anybody who got married in their mid-twenties is still together.” Instead of returning to his own beach towel, he’s lying half on the sand and half on Tashi’s. It’s amazing that she hasn’t already shoved him away.

“It’s not that,” Art says. This is a longstanding gripe, one that he can’t really blame her for.

“No, it’s because they think I’m a mega bitch. Lady Macbeth trying to rule through her husband.” Tashi slams her book closed with a snap. “It’s complete bullshit that they throw out there to appease Art’s fangirls.”

“Maybe it’s for his fanboys,” Patrick says teasingly.

“You’re probably right,” Tashi says. “It was never that bad until the gay rumors started.”

Art can feel himself glowing pink, and it’s not from the sun. Patrick is looking at him like he’s trying to extract information from him telepathically. The ocean is beginning to look like a very tempting option. Art can dive under a wave and stay there.

“It’s not just the hair,” Patrick says. He doesn’t say anything else until Art and Tashi both look at him. “That’s what you said the other day. It’s not just Art’s minimum bi-curious hairstyle that sparked the rumors. What’s the rest of it?”

This is the last thing that Art wants to talk about, possibly ever, but especially not here, not now, not when Lily could come back to the sand at any time, not when there’s a nonzero chance that somebody else could be listening in. But Patrick and Tashi are both fed up enough with him to press, and worse, Tashi already has the whole story. She can tell it with or without him.

“There was an incident,” Tashi says, looking at Art sharply.

He sighs. “In Rome.”

Patrick leans back on his elbows, settling in for story time.

Art had played poorly at the Italian Open, and Tashi was mad at him. That was the long and short of it. She’d also been pregnant, the early stages that left her nauseated and irritable, and so her patience for Art had been even thinner than it usually was. Art, infinitely more pathetic in those days even in his own estimation, had convinced himself that only a grand gesture could be his saving grace.

I’ll do anything, Art had said. Just tell me what you want me to do.

“We got another guy involved,” Tashi says. “And he tattled.”

“Really.” Art had expected Patrick to laugh, but nothing about him indicates that he finds this funny.

“Yeah,” Tashi says. “Luckily he was an idiot, and Italian, and the only papers who would print anything he had to say were such shit that nobody even noticed. Except for the freaks, a minority of whom won’t shut the fuck up about it.”

That’s really the long and short of it. It’s not a big problem, not really. Just annoying, a prickling feeling against Art’s skin that never quite goes away. It makes some things just a little bit more difficult. Like this.

Patrick is brooding too palpably to ignore. Tashi scoops up a handful of sand and dumps it on his head by way of warning; Patrick coughs and blinks grains of sand out of his eyelashes. “I’m already dealing with Art’s anxiety disorder,” she says. “Don’t make me deal with your jealousy, too. What, you’re mad that I didn’t call you up to give first dibs?”

“It would have been the polite thing to do,” Patrick says haughtily, but he’s already smiling despite himself. “I’ve had dibs on Art since, like, seventh grade.”

“You snooze, you lose,” Art says.

“The least you can do is give me the details,” Patrick says.

“Later,” Tashi says.

“Later?” But Patrick is looking at Art, not Tashi.

The entire conversation has already gone so much further past what Art wanted—but it had to, didn’t it? He’s either in or he’s out. Patrick is either part of this or he isn’t; that’s what Tashi had meant when she’d asked him to make a choice about what to do. Patrick isn’t going to stand for only being let in halfway. And Art can’t blame him.

“Later,” Art says with a sigh. He can see Patrick grinning out of the corner of his eye as he rolls over onto his stomach. Tashi said she’ll do the sunscreen on his back if he did what she said. He means to keep her to her word.

The next morning, it’s Patrick’s turn to hand his phone over for Art to look at while they’re lying in bed. It’s another picture, this one from the beach, but whoever published it did a bit of selective cropping. It’s Tashi and Patrick kissing with nobody else in sight.

Chapter Text

Even in the cropped photo, Art’s elbow is still visible. This is the version that’s getting the most play on Twitter, but Art is as present in the original picture as he was at the actual event. He’s looking at Patrick and Tashi, expression inscrutable with his sunglasses and the angle of his shoulder blocking his mouth.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the famous one?” Patrick says, plucking his phone back out of Art’s hands and looking at the screen with a frown, like he’s still in disbelief about what he’s seen.

“We’re way out of fan territory at this point,” Tashi says. She’s still cozied up in the blankets like she could fall back asleep at any moment, one leg thrown across Art’s torso’s and onto Patrick’s legs on the other side, but Art can hear in her voice that she’s been awake long enough to come to a full, irritated consciousness. There’s a spike of annoyance there; it’s always Patrick and Tashi, with Art the Johnny come lately trying to follow after and piece together what’s happening—but no, no, that’s not fair. Tashi always lets him sleep in when he can, and Patrick has long since picked up the habit. It’s not like he would have wanted to be woken up for this, anyway.

“This is such bullshit,” Patrick says, too loudly. And, yeah, it is. There’s nothing Art can add to that. He blinks up at the ceiling and wishes he was asleep again.

“They’ll be over it in a couple of days,” Tashi says. “They’ll find some other woman to call whore and forget about me. It’s a very boring cycle.”

Call whore. Her phrasing puts a lump in Art’s throat. Even when Tashi had cheated on him, Art wouldn’t have wanted that. Not from anyone.

“I’m sorry, Tash,” Art mumbles, but she flaps an irritated hand at him. Don’t start with that shit.

“I was the one who said fuck it,” she says. “Though I wasn’t expecting these fucking losers to just crop you out. It’s just so goddamn lazy.” Like the lack of finesse is the real problem. If Tashi was going to slander someone, she would have done a much better job.

Patrick puts his phone face down on his chest, like a dog putting its face against the wall in the hopes it’ll be rendered invisible. Tashi is irritated, and Art feels mildly shellshocked, but Patrick’s mouth is twisting in frustration and his brows furrowing with anger. Art has the sudden urge to grab Patrick’s phone and hide it away before he’s inspired to use the internet for something rash.

“Maybe I should just go away for awhile,” Patrick says. “Go back to dirty mistress territory for awhile.”

“Don’t start with that shit,” Tashi says, out loud this time. “That’ll just make it look like we have something to hide.”

“Maybe we do have something to hide,” Patrick says. “Or, I don’t know. Life would be easier, at least.”

“What,” Tashi says, “you’re ashamed of us now?”

“I’ve never been ashamed of anything in my life,” Patrick says. That’s probably true. “I’m just saying. I don’t really know what we get out of letting the tabloids label Art as king of the cucks.”

It’s not the first time it’s happened, but it still feels very surreal to have two people arguing quite literally over him. And it’s not that he minds. It’s easier, usually, to let Tashi take the reins, and now for Patrick and Tashi to take the reins in tandem. Art Donaldson, along for the ride, a jellyfish riding the tide of his own fame.

Until now. “I don’t care anymore,” Art says, and surprises himself by finding it to be true. He’s not numb, shocked, or coping. It’s like the fight in him was a balloon, swelling with every conceivable grievance, and this picture was the pin to pop it once and for all. The narrative has officially gotten away from him. There’s no PR statement, or staged pap walk, or longterm media scheme that will put any of this back in the bottle. It simply is, and Art simply doesn’t care. They’re words on a screen. He’s still here in bed, and nothing has changed.

“Sure,” Tashi says, raising her head slightly to look at him with squinted eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t care,” Art says. “I don’t care. Why would I care what some—some—”

“Unwashed losers,” Patrick supplies helpfully.

“—unwashed losers have to say about us online?”

“Uh-huh,” Tashi says.

“I mean it.”

“They finally broke him,” Patrick says with a sigh.

“How long do you think this will last?” Tashi says, smirking into the pillow.

That’s enough to make Art sit up in bed, dislodging the other two in the process. “I’m not a child,” he says. “I’m not just being petulant.”

“We know,” Tashi says. She presses a kiss to his shoulder, and Art is slightly mollified. Slightly. “But not caring isn’t really your M.O.”

“It can be my M.O. now.”

“It wasn’t that long ago that you got mad because I kissed you in front of the driver,” Patrick says.

“So I changed my mind.”

Patrick and Tashi are once again silently conferring over him.

“I’m serious,” Art says. “What the fuck is the point of being retired if I still have to care about this shit?” He’ll never play at another open; give another post-match interview; show off for corporate sponsors; see Tashi in the stands watching him, play against Patrick for anything other than fun. It was his choice. He wanted it. He was ready for it to be over. But there are supposed to be tradeoffs in kind, and this is supposed to be one of them. Art Donaldson’s fame is a falling star, fading in the light. It won’t be that long until nobody cares about him or his wife or his…boyfriend. His whatever. He’s ready to jumpstart that process.

“Okay,” Tashi says. “We can operate that way for now.”

“You can always change your mind.” Patrick kisses his temple, which feels enormously condescending, but that doesn’t mean that Art won’t accept it. It’s worth it. From both of them.

Art has decided to set his intention, and his intention is that he is not going to change his mind. He won’t. It’s gotten into his stubbornness now, sitting in the clench of his jaw, and he’s determined to keep it there.

There’s only one thing that has even the slightest chance of complicating things: Lily.

His beautiful daughter, sweet and oblivious, as she should be. Her world is circumscribed to her immediate reality, but it’s only expanding with every passing day. She barely knows what the internet is, thank god. That won’t last for long. Lily will be older one day, and after that she will be an adult, capable of searching her own name online, her father’s, her mother’s, and maybe even Patrick’s, if she has a reason to. Somebody may give her a reason to, one day. Art doesn’t want it coming from an outside source.

They’re having room service for breakfast, as they always do, but it’s a beautiful day, so Lily asked to eat outside on the little patio attached to their room. Art is sitting across from her, trying and failing to stop her from throwing pieces of her waffle to the seagulls hovering down below.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Art says. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“No, Daddy,” Lily says dreamily. “The birds are nice, see? Don’t make them go away.”

Maybe it’s a good thing that she’s distracted. “Lily,” he tries again. “What do you think of Patrick?”

“Who’s Patrick?” Lily says.

“You know Patrick,” Art says. “He’s inside eating breakfast with Grandma and Mommy.” Patrick sneaks back into his own suite every morning so everyone can mutually pretend that Tashi’s mom doesn’t know what’s happening and Lily can be shielded for the finder details. But he’s always back for breakfast.

“Oh yeah,” Lily says. “Patrick.”

“Yeah,” Art says. “Do you like him?”

“Hmm,” Lily says. Art’s heart sinks. “He’s okay.”

“Just okay?”

Lily’s nose wrinkles. “He’s funny.”

“And that’s not good?”

“No, that’s good,” Lily says. She picks up her waffle like she might throw the whole thing to the seagulls this time. Art gently pries it from her fingers. “He should buy me a present.”

Art has to stifle a laugh. He tries not to laugh at what she says, remembering his own indignation as a child when he was being entirely serious and the adults around him found it cute, but sometimes it’s just too difficult.

“He’s not going to buy you a present,” he says. There have been enough conversations with Tashi about trying not to raise the most spoiled child on the planet for that. “You’d like him if he bought you a present?”

“Maybe,” Lily says, giggling wickedly and grabbing a strawberry off of his plate. “He should try it out.”

“So you don’t mind him being around?” Art presses.

“No,” Lily says. “I told you, he’s funny.”

“Okay,” Art says. “Because Patrick is going to be around more from now on.”

“He’s always around.”

True, but it’s a bit of a dagger to the heart to realize that all of their attempts to obfuscate that fact have utterly failed. “He is. And he’s going to keep being around. You don’t mind, Lily?”

“I already told you, Daddy.” She’s getting that look of consternation that reminds him of Tashi and Tashi of him. “Don’t you want to go watch Bluey right now?”

Once Bluey has entered the equation, there’s no distracting her. This conversation is going to have to be good enough for now. And it is.

If there’s one thing that the promise of Bluey can’t push out of Lily’s mind, it’s Disneyland. She’s latched onto that yes and brings it up every day since. They’re not actually doing anything, just lazing around, waiting until Art has another event or they feel like figuring out what going home means. So they might as well. It’s Disneyland. And they promised.

Tashi’s mom takes this opportunity to tap out, take a break from babysitting and spend the day on herself for a change. Art is acutely aware and acutely guilty about just how much his mother-in-law is raising his daughter, so they give her custody of the driver for the day and Art’s express reminder to put however much crap on the credit card as her heart desires. They book her a room to herself for a couple of nights, at a nice place in Santa Monica with a spa and a restaurant with a couple of Michelin stars, and book themselves a couple of rooms in a monstrous Disney property that looks like a simulacrum of a Mammoth Mountain ski lodge.

Art has never been to Disney. Disney is gauche, and his childhood was many things, but never gauche. The supposed middle-class vacation dream, but more expensive than a family trip to Europe. The calculation doesn’t make sense. He enters the park fully prepared to hate it—planning on hating it, in fact. And he sort of does. At first, especially, walking down Main Street USA with a look on his face like he just smelled horse shit.

“Cheer up,” Patrick says. “You’re supposed to try to have fun.”

“Don’t ruin Lily’s day with your fucking pouting,” Tashi says.

They’re both right. And it doesn’t matter, anyway, because Lily loves it, scampering too far ahead of them with a grin on her face, or eyes wide in wonder as they ride a little boat through the mouth of a whale. It’s easier to love it when he can see her loving it. And it’s easier to concentrate on that instead.

Because every bit of anxiety that Art had decided that he was over has come roaring back to the surface. It’s easy to be brave while lying in bed, ensconced in several layers of mitigating protection from the world. But now they’re right back in it. Baseball caps and sunglasses can only hide so much. It’s crowded. There are people around, people with cell phones and cameras and a never-ending scrutiny of the world around them. Art feels trapped in the crosshairs. Again.

After the little boat ride (“Storybook Land,” Lily insists fanatically), Tashi and Lily go to claim an outdoor table while Art and Patrick wait in the interminable line snaking through the little Bavarian themed restaurant.

Patrick is looking at him, contemplative in a way that never brings anything good. “I’m going to buy you some mouse ears,” he says finally.

“Ha ha,” Art says, not laughing.

“Come on, Art, you’d look so cute in a little Mickey Mouse hat. You can even get your name embroidered.”

“You can buy it,” Art says. Far ahead of them in line, a man has been ordering for over five minutes, changing his mind at every turn. Art can feel his blood pressure rising. “I’ll just throw it in the trash as soon as you’re not looking.”

“Disgustingly wasteful,” Patrick says. “What kind of example are you making for Lily?”

“We fly private charter,” Art says. “The wastefulness ship has already sailed.”

He’s too close, as he always is, too intimate, leaning into Art’s personal space with one hand on the small of Art’s back and the other tracing little patterns on the inside of Art’s wrist. “Do you want me to stop?” Patrick says, smirking, leaning closer so his breath tickles the side of Art’s neck.

Yes, Art thinks. And no. “I wouldn’t call this the best place for PDA,” he says.

“True,” Patrick says. “Which is why I haven’t kissed you.”

Art’s eye roll is entirely involuntarily. Patrick throws his head back and laughs loud enough to make a couple of heads turn in their direction.

“I should have made you stand in line alone,” Art says.

They advance slowly. Art has been mentally reciting Tashi and Lily’s orders for so long that he’s afraid they’ll be repeating through his mind for the next week whenever he’s trying to fall asleep.

“Hey,” Patrick says. “You don’t mind, right? You’re not bothered right now.”

“You’re definitely bothering me,” Art says.

“Really, though. You’re not bothered right now. Because you don’t care anymore. Right?”

It’s like Patrick is trying to make him care again, but that’s not really it. He’s needling because that’s what he always does, but Art knows better than to think it’s not a genuine question. “I’m not bothered,” he says. “Operation Not Giving a Shit is still a go.”

Patrick puts his hand on Art’s jaw to turn it, just a little bit, and kisses him ever so chastely. Fucking liar. Art should have known it was coming. “Oh good,” Patrick says. “I was worried I wasn’t going to get you to blush.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Art says weakly, but down by his side, he lets Patrick take his hand.

The impasse, long awaited, comes exactly where Art had already known it was going to come.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Tashi says, petting Lily’s head. “But I’m not going on It’s a Small World with you.”

Lily turns to Art expectantly.

“Oh no,” Art says, alarmed. Even the cuckoo clock exterior of that one gives him a headache. The garish colors are blinding in the summer sun, repelling Art like a forcefield designed specifically for him. “Don’t you want to ride the teacups again?”

“No,” Lily says. There’s a tremulousness in her voice that indicates a storm on the horizon.

“I’ll take you,” Patrick says suddenly. Three surprised faces turn to look at him. He’s looking sheepish. “I could use a trip around the world. Your mom and dad have already seen it all, but you and I still need to see the sights, right, Lily?”

“Right,” Lily says, beaming.

He takes Lily’s hand into his own, just like he had done with Art, and then they’re on their way to thread through the very, very, very long ride for the line.

“Do you think we should wait in line with them?” Art says.

“Fuck no,” Tashi says. Art could have loved her enough for that alone.

There’s a shaded place to sit not that far away, with fans blowing and piped music warbling vaguely in the background. Tashi gets a frozen lemonade and takes delicate bites, savoring it. Every once in awhile she takes her spoon and raises it to Art’s lips, and he allows her to feed him. The lemonade is cold and blindingly sweet. It tastes better than it has any right to.

“So,” Art ventures. “We’re okay with this, right? Patrick spending time with Lily solo.”

Tashi raises an eyebrow. “Kind of late for that, don’t you think?”

“Well,” Art says. “I mean, again. After this. Patrick and Lily spending time together.”

“They’ve already been spending time together, Art. If I had a problem with it, you’d already know about it.”

She’s right, which Art already knew, but it’s also not quite it. He’s not saying what he means, though he doesn’t know what he should be saying instead. Before he can say anything else, Tashi waves her spoon in front of him again, and Art obligingly opens his mouth.

“Do you have a problem with it, Art?”

He almost chokes on the lemonade. “What? No, of course not.”

Tashi raises her other eyebrow.

“I mean,” Art says. “No. Obviously I don’t have a problem with it. Obviously. I just…I don’t want Lily to grow up one day, look back, and realize that she has a problem with it.”

“Do you think that’s going to happen?” Not accusatory, just curious.

“I don’t know,” Art says. He wishes more than anything that he did. “I just can’t stop thinking about her growing up one day and reading all this shit online about us.”

“Hmm,” Tashi says. “And you think that would be all it takes to make her stop loving you.”

The words are like a slap in the face because they are, of course, correct.

“I’m being stupid,” Art mumbles.

“No,” Tashi says. “Well, yes, obviously. But I’d assume you’d been bodysnatched if you weren’t worried about it.”

“So you think I should be worried.”

“Did I fucking say that? Jesus, Art. I don’t think you need to be worried.”

Her reassurance alone should have been enough, but it wasn’t. “Really?”

“Really. Don’t you think she’s already noticed how much happier we are? She’s doing better too. I know you’ve noticed.”

It’s true. They’ve always lucked out with Lily being a relatively placid kid, but she’s been brighter lately, bolder, asserting herself and making herself known with that mischievous look on her face. It makes Art’s heart hurt, but in a good way. “She has been doing good,” he admits.

“It’s a lot easier for kids to be happy when their parents are happy.”

Art puts an arm around her waist and draws her just a little bit closer.

“Besides,” Tashi says. “It’s not like we ever have to go into any kind of detail. With her or anyone.”

“You think so?”

“Art,” she sighs. “I know this tabloid shit has you worked up, but it’s just a blip on the radar. They’re going to forget about us, and they’re going to keep forgetting about us.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

“We’ve got a lot of life left to live, Art. And enough money to tell anyone to fuck off if we want to. We can tell everyone to fuck off. We can do whatever the fuck we want.”

And that much is true, at least. True enough to make him squeeze her waist and pull her in for a kiss to the side of the head. It would have been the perfect romantic gesture if Tashi had been expecting it at all, but she hadn’t been. She loses her grip on the lemonade and it tumbles to the ground, blessedly avoiding their clothes and shoes but spilling all over Tashi’s hand.

“Ugh.”At first she’s shaking the lemonade off, but then she stops and looks at her fingers, and a diabolical smile spreads over her face. “Hey,” she says, pushing her fingers against Art’s mouth. “Clean this up for me.”

He does as he has been instructed to do, one finger at a time. There are people all around them. Anybody could be watching, could be taking a picture and formulating their stupid tweets with great glee. And maybe they are. But Art has gone past not giving a shit and moved into let them fucking watch territory. Or at least he’s trying. It’s where he wants to be. This can be yet another step.

After far too long, Patrick and Lily return from It’s a Small World. Patrick is carrying her in a piggy back ride, and Lily’s legs are kicking back and forth with glee.

“How was it?” Art asks.

“Amazing!” Lily cries.

“Shockingly racist,” Patrick says.

Tashi snorts and looks away.

The sun is getting lower now; still blindingly hot, but they’re moving into late afternoon, and even the stimulation of a theme park isn’t enough to stop Lily from getting sleepy. Art, too. Without the tension in his chest to keep him going, he finds himself surprisingly exhausted.

“We have another day here,” Patrick says. “We should go back to the hotel and rest.”

So they wind their way back to the entrance of the park, the three of them in a row and Lily dozing on Patrick’s back. They’re silent, not because they’re uncomfortable, but because there’s nothing else to say. They don’t need to say anything. It’s understood. It’s already been done. They’re in the aftermath.

They’re almost to the front gate when Art hears a voice behind him. “Excuse me, Mr. Donaldson?”

He turns around, heart back in his throat, to find a reedy, nervous looking teenager standing behind him with his phone out. Somebody has found him at last, or maybe they’d found him all along. Another day’s worth of gossip to feed to the rumor mill and churn out in a spectacle of humiliation.

“Oh wow,” the kid says. “I didn’t really think it was you.”

“Um,” Art says. “Can I help you?”

The kid looks like the dog that caught the mail truck: his objective achieved, and absolutely no idea what to do next. “I’m so sorry to bother you, sir,” he says, swaying anxiously back and forth. “But—but—I’m just such a huge fan of yours! I actually saw you play at the Open last year—couldn’t get tickets to the finals, of course, but I saw you in the quarters, and you were amazing. I’m a tennis player, too—not as good as you, obviously, I mean, duh, that goes without saying—but I qualified for the Junior Open this year, and—”

“Hey, kid,” Tashi says, holding out her hand. “Want me to take a picture of the two of you guys?”

The kid is so relieved that it takes him a moment to realize who he’s talking to. “Yes,” he whispers. “Please.”

Art takes a few pictures, sunglasses and hat off, so nobody can say it wasn’t actually him. He signs a couple of things, too, including a set of mouse ears. Patrick finds that particularly amusing.

By the time he’s freed himself from the ironlike handshake of the kid’s grateful mom, a couple of other people have recognized him and are crowding around to wait to speak to him. He takes pictures with them too, until finally the last of them are gone and Patrick and Tashi are tugging him away before anybody else can show up.

“I’d like to see TMZ post those,” Art says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Way too boring,” Patrick says.

“Yeah, nobody cares if you act like a normal celebrity,” Tashi says. “That doesn’t get you the clicks.”

They’re right, and Art couldn’t be more grateful for it. It’s not what he would have chosen for himself, not at all, not anywhere near it—but it’s what comes with the life he wants to have. The life he gets to have. That has to be good enough. And it is.