Page 8 of Small City Heart
“How often?”
“Maybe once or twice a month. Usually when I can’t remember online passwords.” Patrick reluctantly laughed, and she smiled. “Sweetie, have you talked to him? I’m sure he’d like to hear from you.”
Patrick’s laugh died in his throat. No, he hadn’t talked to his dad besides a few texts here and there. He wasn’t ready yet.
“Mom, he cheated.”
She gasped and put her hand to her chest in fake horror. “Hewhat?” Patrick rolled his eyes. She was laughing like this was the funniest conversation ever. “Yeah, he cheated, and it sucks. But I’m fine. Don’t cold-shoulder him on my account. Our divorce doesn’t change the fact that he’s your father, and he loves you.”
“I know. I’m not ready to forgive him yet.”
He bit his lip and stared down at his lap. Having parents get divorced was probably hard on a kid at any age. It definitely sucked at twenty-eight.
“Don’t wait too long. Grudges aren’t good for the soul, sweetie. I’m learning that the hard way, but I don’t want you to be a bitter old bitch like me.”
“You’re holding a grudge against Dad?”
“No, I’m talking about that dick at the coffee shop down the road. He started selling pie this year. I don’t like competition.”
Patrick laughed and gave his mom a side hug. “What kind of pie? I like pie.”
“Don’t make me write you out of the will.” She leaned into his side. “Seriously, though. Bitterness will give you wrinkles. Don’t let too many suns set on your anger. Yada yada.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll remember that. God forbid I get wrinkles.”
“It would be a tragedy. Now!” She clapped her palms together like she was planning something. “Let’s talk flirtation game plan for tomorrow night. How much do you want Charlie North drooling over you?”
Patrick stood up. “Nope. Charlie North barely knew I existed in high school.”
“That’s not what he told me!” she called behind him as he waltzed out of the room.
He wasn’t quite able to hold in his smile at that bit of information.
* * *
Patrick had stalled out in the parking lot of Minky’s Bar, too nervous to walk inside. Who actually enjoyed their ten-year reunion, anyway? No one, surely.
It wasn’t that he minded social situations, exactly. He could waltz into any gay bar in the country and find someone to talk to, or go home with, but the thought of arriving at Minky’s alone made him nauseous. Everyone else was probably showing up with spouses, or significant others, or old friends.
He hadn’t kept in touch with anyone from high school. His friend group hadn’t been so much a friend group but a herd of kids trying to get through the torture without drawing attention to themselves. They had been connected by their mutual desire to blend in and not make waves.
Except Patrick had always made waves. Whether it had been his eyeliner phase, or his love of fingernail polish, or simply the way he moved, he’d been different. Different could be great, or it could be isolating.
He couldn’t help but worry the isolation would follow him into adulthood, into Minky’s Bar, into his high school reunion.
He stared up at the bar from the parking lot before turning around and gazing toward the horizon. The sun was low in the sky, dusk close to settling around him, and lightning bugs flashed under the trees across the street. Beyond that were hills. Hills that he’d missed like a piece of his heart had been scooped out with a dessertspoon. His fingers itched to ditch this whole shebang, walk through that field, and capture the perfect sunset with his camera—the sun painting the peaks of the hills pink and purple, muted wildflowers dusting the valleys between, gray clouds slashing across the colorful sky. It was perfect. Magic. He took a step that direction. Then another.
No one would know he’d ditched. He could lie to his mom.
“Patrick.”
That voice.Shit, that voice hit him right in the gut. He spun around.
Charlie was standing at the door of Minky’s, and he was even more devastating in tight jeans and a dress shirt than he’d been in his firefighter station wear.
“Are you okay?” Charlie asked, and Patrick nodded automatically. “I was watching you from the window upstairs. Were you going to leave?”
“I was.”
