Page 9 of We Could Be Heroes

“Oh. Will. Hi,” Ry said, even though at that moment, Will looked nothing like his usual self at all, and was in fact doing his best to embody a flame-haired femme fatale from the golden age of Hollywood.

“Hello, Ry.” Will broke out a smile that he hoped was dazzling but casual. “Who’s your friend?”

“Hi, I’m—” said Ry’s companion, his name lost to the noise of the crowd. He looked strikingly similar to Ry, which was to say not unlike Will himself—tall, dark, and on the verge of aging out of twinkdom; never let it be said Ry didn’t have a type—but with a thicker neck and deeper voice.

“So…” said Ry. “I see you’re still doing this.” He tilted his chin toward Will’s frock.

“Doing drag? Oh, yes. Our Lady Grace is still very much at large.” Will adopted a carefree tone, as if his penchant for putting on ladies’ clothes and dancing for homosexuals had not been a leading cause of his breakup with Ry.

Ry had seemed to find it amusing at first, as if Will had a silly but ultimately harmless hobby, like coloring books for adults. But it didn’t take long for that amusement to sour, for Will to get the distinct impression that Ry was tired of humoring him. And so, two months into the relationship, Will stopped talking about it in front of him, refrained from showing Ry sketches for his latest outfit or lip-sync ideas. His boyfriend seemed to like drag queens just fine when they were lined up on a stage being judged on TV. In his own life, though? Not so much.

Ry worked in financial law and spent every other weekend visiting his parents at their farmhouse in Kent, where he would post photos in his wellies with the family dog, Luna. Will was never invited to accompany Ry on those weekends, of course. So he hadn’t even been very surprised when Jordan forwarded him a screen grab of one such picture—a handsome, wholesome shot of Ry and Luna out for a Sunday walk—that he had found on Tinder.

Ry had denied it for all of five minutes.

“Can you blame me?” he’d asked. “I mean, I want to buy a house and build a life with somebody, maybe even start a family. I can’t do that with someone who’s out every night on the scene.”

“Out every night?” Will’s voice had reached a pitch never achieved onstage before. “I’m working!”

“No, Will. I work,” Ry had said, shaking his head like a disappointed teacher. “You play dress-up and call it work, and frankly it’s not funny anymore. It’s just…too much.”

Those words, Will liked to believe, were chosen in haste, in anger. Because while he and Ry had only dated for a short time, it was long enough for Ry to know how that would hurt him. It’s too much. You’re too much.

Margo, needless to say, had never liked Ry. She didn’t like many people, admittedly, but it had still eased the sting a little when Will called her post-breakup and her response had been: “He looks like a thumb. Pick up ice on your way over.”

And here Ry stood now, less than a month later, holding hands with a less effeminate facsimile. Will glanced downward and blanched at the sight of their matching pairs of New Balance trainers. Things must be getting serious.

“How’ve you been?” Will asked Ry over the din of the bar. “Bought a house yet?” Then, with a dash of sarcasm, “Had any kids in the last month?”

Ry’s smile faltered. Shit. They had split because Ry thought Will wasn’t enough of a grown-up, and here he was, proving him right.

“Nice to meet you,” said his replacement as Ry led him away. “By the way, your boobs are wonky.”

Will pretended not to have heard him; then, as soon as they were both out of sight, he turned on his chunky heel, barged through the crowd, dumped the tray of Skittle bombs at the bar, and hurried upstairs to the queens’ dressing room, where Raina was still primping.

“Blast, bollocks, and buggeration,” he hissed when he saw his lopsided chest in the mirror.

“Oh, honey,” Raina intoned, but the sympathy in her voice, Will knew, was just a top note. Right underneath it, like the flavor profile of a complex wine, was the tannin of mockery.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” he said, fiddling with his breastplate.

So much for his auspicious night. The planets really needed to get their act together.

Chapter 5

The call from Patrick’s manager came at 6:30 a.m. Simone was in Los Angeles, eight hours behind the UK, which meant she had watched the clock long into her evening to ensure he would be awake when she rang.

“I’m going to assume you know why I’m calling,” she said.

He did. He had been sitting up in bed since five, scrolling through pictures of himself onstage in the Village, grinning like an idiot as Tammy shoved a bottle of “room odorizer” under his nose. The images were mostly blurry, hurriedly captured on smartphones by drunk people, but not nearly enough to obscure what he was doing.

“I can explain,” he said.

“I’m sure it’s quite a story, and I’d love to hear it,” Simone replied, “but I’m rather busy at present guaranteeing your continued employment.”

“What?” Patrick frowned. It had been a little bit embarrassing, sure, but people more famous than him had been caught doing a lot worse.

“There is a morality clause in your contract,” Simone reminded him.

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