Page 53 of After Hours at Dooryard Books
Patrick snorts. “Nathaniel’s just being territorial.”
“Is he, now?” Eleanor, in a shawl tied around Susan’s back, tries to grab every book that comes within reach of her chubby fingers. “Is Captain America waiting for you to make a move?” Susan asks.
“I can’t get a read on what he’s doing. And he’d be a lot of trouble, anyway.”
“How so?”
“Look at him. That is a man who’s voting for Nixon. He’s probably deep in the closet, probably hates himself a little. And I’m sorry, but I can’t fuck someone who doesn’t think we deserve to fuck legally and without feeling bad about it.”
“How can you tell?” Susan asks. “His hair? His clothes?”
“You get to know the type.”
“Is Nathaniel that type?”
Patrick hesitates. “Used to be.”
They both glance over to where Nathaniel has stopped tailing John and is instead lightly flirting with a pair of elderly women in a way that Patrick can somehow identify as distinctly gay.
Patrick lowers his voice even more, nearly to a whisper. “He was married.”
“I thought so. The two of you…”
Patrick hasn’t mentioned anything to Susan about him and Nathaniel. For one thing, it’s only been two kisses. But mostly he feels like he’d need to run it by Nathaniel first; Susan’s his friend too. And he can’t figure out how to ask whether he’s allowed to tell his friend about two kisses without it sounding extremely junior high.
But he also isn’t going to lie to Susan. “How bad is it that he works for me?”
“He can get work as a session musician whenever he wants, earning more than you pay him, and he knows it. He also knows he can have my spare room if he ever needs it.”
“You’ve talked about this with him?”
“I’ve talked about thisathim.”
They’re friends; of course Susan is looking out for him. But a few months ago she could barely take care of herself, and a few months ago Nathaniel didn’t have anybody in the world. And now they all have one other, a thought that ordinarily would be too sentimental for Patrick to entertain, but it’s been a long and dramatic day, so he kisses Susan’s forehead and Eleanor’s cheek.
* * *
Patrick isn’t surprised to find Nathaniel awake late that night. He’s lying on the sofa, his head on the armrest, a book face down on his chest and the flashlight dangling from his hand. When he sees Patrick, he tucks his legs up. Patrick sits and hauls Nathaniel’s legs onto his lap. He’s being a little touchier than he’d usually be, but he feels like they crossed some kind of Rubicon that morning.
“Want to watch television?” Patrick asks.
“It’s nearly one. There won’t be anything on.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not at all,” Nathaniel says. Patrick squeezes his ankle. The book Nathaniel isn’t reading isAlpha Centauri or Die!, Patrick’s own paperback copy from the shelf a few inches from Nathaniel’s head. From the looks of it, he hasn’t gotten further than the title page.
“I’m starving,” Nathaniel says a few minutes later.
“There’s still some fried rice downstairs,” Patrick says, not feeling particularly thrilled about cold rice and even less thrilled about heating it up.
“I don’t want fried rice. I want pancakes.”
“Pancakes,” Patrick repeats, his mouth watering at the thought. “We might have ingredients.” He tries to remember if he’s ever bought flour. Probably not.
“Having to make them ourselves would ruin it.”
Nobody has ever been more correct about anything. “We could go out. The Waverly is open.”
