Page 43 of After Hours at Dooryard Books
“Who’s surprised? I always like being with you,” Patrick says, simply enough that Nathaniel couldn’t doubt it if he tried. “But I don’t think you had a good time.” He holds out his hand for Nathaniel’s jacket, then hangs it up on a hook by the door next to Patrick’s own jacket.
“I always like being with you,” Nathaniel says, and it shouldn’t feel like such an admission, not after Patrick said it first. The light switch is right beside the coat hooks but neither of them reach for it.
Instead Nathaniel heads toward the back of the shop and puts on the kettle. As Patrick reaches for the box of tea bags, his hand lands on Nathaniel’s hip, just a careless motion to steady himself. But Nathaniel’s spent weeks paying attention to the way Patrick touches him and he thinks all these little gestures are questions, all easily ignored if Nathaniel didn’t want to be asked, didn’t want to answer.
Nathaniel puts his hand over Patrick’s, keeping it there on his hip. The abyss—the fucking abyss—of course he couldn’t do this without feeling like he’s plunging into shark infested waters. The fact that he wants it is, naturally, irrelevant.
He interlaces their fingers, probably gripping too tightly, erring on the side of seeming decisive. Patrick puts the box of tea on the counter and steps closer, close enough that Nathaniel can feel the heat of him along his back, solid and safe and familiar. To hell with shark infested waters. The only people in this kitchen are him and Patrick. No sharks here.
He lets go of Patrick’s hand and turns, and now Patrick has a hand on both Nathaniel’s hips. They’re close enough that Nathaniel has to look up to meet Patrick’s eye. He watches as Patrick’s gaze drops to his mouth.
Nathaniel could lean in, close the gap. But he wants Patrick to do it. He wants to be the one who’s kissed. There isn’t much he’s sure of, but he knows that much.
“I want you to kiss me,” Nathaniel says. Shaping his mouth around the words feels like swimming upstream, like each sound costs something. “Just a kiss,” he adds, more for his own benefit than Patrick’s, a reminder that the line he’s crossing isn’t even a terribly significant one, or at least it doesn’t have to be.
Patrick lets out a breath and nods his head—once, quick, message received. Slow, he lifts a hand and pushes a strand of hair off Nathaniel’s face. Nathaniel had been thinking that a kiss was the smallest denomination of affection, that he could start with a kiss and build up his tolerance. But that touch already overwhelms him, those few fingertips lighting up his nerves and sending his thoughts careening.
“Okay?” Patrick murmurs. His hand is on Nathaniel’s shoulder, heavy and warm through the thin layer of cotton.
“Okay,” Nathaniel says. Patrick leans in. His lips are soft and his beard is scratchy. He tastes like whiskey and bitters. They’re barely touching. It’s the first kiss Nathaniel’s ever wanted, and they both know it.
Patrick pulls away, but keeps his hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder, his thumb moving back and forth, soothing.
“Thank you,” Nathaniel says.
Patrick snorts, and whatever tension was snapping between them breaks. “Any time, happy to help.”
They get ready for bed the same way they have for the past three months, as if the kiss hadn’t happened, as if it didn’t matter, except when Patrick says good night, he reaches for Nathaniel’s hand and gives it a squeeze.
III
A City Invincible
Patrick
13
Somebody gave Mrs. Kaplan two tickets to tonight’s Mets game, and she—inexplicably a Yankees fan—foisted them off on Patrick. Patrick in turn tried to give them to the Valdezes, but it’s a weeknight and Mrs. Valdez won’t let the kids go out. Mr. Valdez is working. Patrick thought Susan and Nathaniel might want to go, but Susan says she’s managed to live this long without seeing any professional sports and isn’t quitting now.
“Do you want to go to a Mets game?” Patrick asks Nathaniel. Patrick doesn’t particularly want to watch a baseball game, and he doubts Nathaniel does either—he doesn’t read the sports section of the paper and when the sports reporter comes on the eleven o’clock news, Nathaniel picks up a book.
“With you?” Nathaniel asks, letting the hammer fall to his side. The other day, Nathaniel found some framed botanical prints in one of the more derelict corners of the second floor, and now he’s hanging them downstairs on the few patches of wall that aren’t covered by bookshelves. He’s standing on a chair, and Patrick has to resist the urge to remind him to be safe.
“Yeah, with me.” Patrick’s not sure if this is a deterrent. It’s been a few days since they kissed, and Nathaniel hasn’t made anything resembling another move. Patrick isn’t chasing after an employee, so that’s that, then. Presumably, Nathaniel wanted to prove to himself that he could kiss a man, and now he’saccomplished that: excellent work all around, Patrick’s job here is done.
But even before the kiss, things between them had been—not strained, exactly, but careful. Especially after the trip to the radio supply store. Sometimes he catches Nathaniel watching him. Patrick feels exposed, like he typed up a list of his weaknesses, an illustrated guide to his worst moments, and stuck it on the bathroom mirror for Nathaniel to reference.
“They have hot dogs and beer,” he adds, as if that’s any kind of incentive.
But Nathaniel smiles, just this quirk of one side of his mouth that Patrick’s coming to realize is Nathaniel’s version of a full-blown grin. “I’d like that,” he says.
“We should leave at six. God knows how long it takes to get to Shea Stadium.”
“Where is it? Queens, right?” He steps down from the chair, using Patrick’s shoulder to steady himself, then goes over to the subway map.
Before Nathaniel agrees to go anywhere, he needs to find it on the map, needs to see his route laid out in front of him. At first, Patrick thought this had something to do with Nathaniel’s nervousness about going outdoors, but now he wonders if Nathaniel’s just the kind of person who likes knowing exactly where he is in the world.
Patrick puts his finger on the Willets Point subway stop. “You’ve been to Queens. Mrs. Kaplan’s house isn’t even that far from the stadium.”
