Small City Heart

by Erin McLellan

  A black woman, who Patrick couldn’t immediately place, laughed at their little flirtation, and Patrick blushed. Charlie’s hand trailed off his shoulder like a caress as he turned to go to the bar.

  “Hi,” Patrick said to the woman, a bit embarrassed. Now that he was facing her, a tiny thread of recognition swept his brain, but he was having trouble grasping it fully.

  “Hi Patrick.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m bad at this, but I don’t recognize you. I should have studied my yearbooks first.”

  “That’s okay. I was several grades below you. My name’s Rachel Michaels. I’m married to Suzy Michaels.”

  “What!” He hadn’t known that, for one, Suzy was queer, or, two, that she was married. He obviously needed to start bugging his mom about Small City gossip. “That’s awesome! How long have you two been married?”

  “Less than a year.”

  “Well, congratulations. What’s your last name? Or, at least, what was your last name? I feel like I should remember you.”

  “Coin.”

  He recognized her now, recognized that she’d transitioned. Maybe she could read his realization because she bit her lip and glanced at the table.

  “Hi Rachel. I am so glad to meet you.”

  “Back atcha. You look different than in high school,” she said. “Cuter.”

  He laughed. “I’d hope so! I don’t want to be one of those unfortunate souls who got ugly after graduation.”

  “Same.”

  They were both laughing when Suzy and Charlie reappeared. Suzy gave Patrick another hug after plopping a pitcher of Blue Moon on the table and kissing her wife.

  “So, tell me all about your life. I know you’re selling your art, but do you have another job? Anything else you’re doing?” Suzy said, after making sure Patrick had been introduced to Rachel.

  Patrick tried not to clench his jaw. “I’m between jobs at the moment.” That wasn’t strictly true. He was using up his last vacation days, and then putting in his resignation letter when he returned. “I was managing an art gallery in Chicago, but it wasn’t a good environment for me. And I have two photography businesses: the photos that I sell under my name, and I also occasionally do wedding photography under Precious Pearl Photography.”

  “Wedding photography? Really?” Charlie said, clearly surprised.

  “Yeah. For about six years now. It’s not my main squeeze, but it helps pay the bills.”

  “Your mom’s never mentioned that,” Charlie said.

  “It’s my least active venture. I do a handful of weddings a year, normally referrals from friends. I like it, but the lovey-dovey stuff kind of rolls my stomach.”

  “Wish you lived here,” Suzy said. “We had to hire a photographer from Wichita for our wedding. There’s not anyone nearby that does it as more than a hobby, and it would have been nice to know the photographer was queer-friendly without having to go digging for the info.”

  Warmth and a weird longing hit him in the chest. He would have loved to shoot their wedding.

  The conversation quickly moved on, and over time, a lot of his former classmates stopped by the table, mostly to talk to Charlie. No one seemed surprised that Charlie had parked himself at what was obviously the rainbow table, but Patrick was surprised by Charlie’s ease.

  A couple of people said hello to Patrick, asking him how Chicago was, which he lied about, and then told him about their kids or their jobs or their illnesses. After an hour, and one glass of Blue Moon, Patrick realized that he was having fun.

  Some things were exactly as he expected—the rude girl he’d avoided in high school tried to sell him on a diet pill pyramid scheme, a number of guys acted like he was invisible, and everyone still wanted to be Charlie’s best friend.

  But no one was overtly rude to him. He also wasn’t the only person who’d run away and made a new life outside of Small City. The salutatorian of the class—a girl that had been all prim, proper and, honestly, a little judgy in high school—now had a buzz cut, lots of visible tattoos, and was a huge proponent of polyamory. The preacher’s son was a speechwriter for a prominent Californian Democrat and wasn’t on speaking terms with his dad.

  And then there was Charlie.

  He was like a new pod person, someone that was both the same and completely different than the boy Patrick remembered from high school. And why the hell had he attached himself to Patrick? They weren’t friends. Never had been. Sure, there had been some weird flirting at the diner yesterday, but this was too much.

  When Charlie was showing off a tattoo on his ribs to the guys from the football team—two crossed axes with a firefighter helmet in front and a pride flag behind—Patrick decided he needed a breather.

  He snuck into a dark corner by the back windows with a fresh Arnold Palmer and tried not to think about Charlie’s glorious abs. Or the way they’d taste if he ran his tongue all over them.

  Ten minutes later, a light illuminated the stage and Charlie jogged into the spotlight. It gilded his high cheekbones, making him glow.

  “Hi everyone! Thank you all so much for coming. We have a couple of awards to give out, then the slideshow, and the pool tournament. Now, on to the awards! If you didn’t sign in when you first arrived, well then too bad. You missed your chance to enter. The Longest Distance Travelled Award goes to . . .” Patrick’s heart jumped into his throat. If Charlie called his name, he was not walking up there. “Vickie Pearson! All the way from Maine. Thank you, Vickie.”

  Charlie handed out several awards, all silly things, like Most Pets, Newest Newlywed, and Most Tattoos. Next came the slideshow. He could see the projector screen from here, and he doubted there would be anything for which he’d want to get any closer.

  The slideshow began with pictures of their class from elementary school, accompanied by music of the time. There were some class pictures where he caught sight of his toe-head, but none of him up close. There weren’t any photos of him in middle school, but then, when the high school portion began, he jolted.

  The first photo was one of him holding an enormous school-issued camera. In the picture, he was crouched down and taking action shots at a basketball game. It’d been an assignment for yearbook. He’d never seen that photo of himself though. It was kind of meta—a picture of him taking pictures. He’d probably been a junior or senior, and he was wearing pink jeans and had a blue streak in his hair. But that’s not what caught the breath in his throat. It was the Awwws from the crowd, and the happiness on his much younger face. He couldn’t remember ever feeling as content as he appeared in that photo when he’d lived here.

  The slideshow ended with an In Memoriam section, which sent another pained shockwave through him. They’d lost two men from their class—one to suicide and one in the Iraq War—and he’d had no idea. He hadn’t been close to either of the boys, but he was surprisingly shaken by it.

  Once the slideshow ended, the mood in the room was melancholy, but as people started to mingle again, the oppressive sadness began to lift. Patrick sunk back into his corner.

  The pool tournament was about to begin, and some of his classmates were taking their leave. It’d be a good time for him to sneak out.

  “There you are.”

  Patrick jumped and sloshed Arnold Palmer down his wrist.

  Charlie caught his hand and set the drink aside. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “You didn’t,” Patrick lied. His heart was rattling around in his ribcage, pounding so hard he was surprised Charlie couldn’t hear it.

  Patrick had been hoping this weekend would lend him some clarity on what his next step should be, what new destination he should aim his ship for. He’d thought it’d help him press reset and start over. But instead, all he could focus on was how long he’d been gone, and how much he’d missed.

  Charlie held Patrick’s wrist and sopped up the spilled drink with a cloth handkerchief, which was so precious it made Patrick want to cry.

  “I love that picture of yo
u,” Charlie said. “The one where you’re Mr. High School Sports Photographer.”

  “I looked like a weirdo.”

  “Still do,” Charlie said with a laugh. “I like that about you. Always have.”

  Patrick glanced down at his clothes. He was wearing black jeans rolled up to the middle of his calves, which showed off the tats on his legs, and hunter green tennis shoes. His short-sleeve button down was black with a muted floral pattern.

  Charlie’s fingers tangled with his, and Patrick almost jerked his fingers away in surprise before he realized Charlie wasn’t trying hold his hand, but examine it.

  “You took your fingernail polish off. Yesterday it was blue.”

  The fact that Charlie had noticed, that he seemed to notice everything, was too much to comprehend at the moment.

  “Yeah, I didn’t want to look like a weirdo. Thank you.” He leaned his head back against the wall behind him.

  “I liked it.”

  “You’ve been coming on pretty strong, Charlie. What’s your goal here?”

  Charlie glanced up sharply and dropped Patrick’s hand. “I’m sorry . . . uh . . . I’m not—”

  “Cat got your tongue?” Patrick said with a small smile, echoing Charlie from yesterday.

  “I had a crush on you in high school.”

  “You acted like I didn’t exist in high school.”

  “I know. I was scared. I’m gay, and I didn’t want anyone to know. And also, I was obsessed with the most beautiful kid in my class, and I was nervous he’d realize and laugh at me.”

  Patrick shook his head. It was too hard to believe.

  “And you’re out now.”

  “I am.”

  “And you evidently have coffee with my mom all the time.”

  “I do,” Charlie said with a laugh. “My family is a mess, and your mom’s been good to me. She . . .” He frowned. “She makes me feel like I’m not carrying all the heavy stuff by myself. Like someone else cares.”

  “Your family—is it because you’re gay?”

  “No. My parents—it’s alcohol. It’s been alcohol, or drugs, for as long as I can remember. They’ve always been too distracted by that to be interested much in me. I hid it for a long time. We don’t really speak anymore.”

  Patrick took a step off the wall in surprise. He tried to remember what Charlie’s parents looked like and couldn’t. How was it that in a small town where everyone was in everyone else’s business, Patrick had no idea who Charlie’s parents were? It must have been a horrible secret to bear on top of everything else.

  “That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

  “It is what it is. I’ve sometimes overcompensated.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Charlie scrunched his nose up. “My therapist has all kinds of theories. I’ve searched for that attention and affection I was denied in other places, normally the wrong places. Been demanding and needy and ridiculous with past boyfriends. I’m a mess, basically, and also an open book tonight. Yikes.”

  Patrick had no idea how his hands ended up on Charlie’s shoulders, only that suddenly he was touching him, his hands sweeping and trying to soothe.

  “I didn’t tell you that to trick you into touching me,” Charlie said.

  “Fuck, I know. Do you feel this?” He pulled Charlie’s hand up and placed it over his hammering heart. “It’s not only my heart beating like a hummingbird, is it?”

  “God, of course it’s not, Patrick.” Charlie slid his hand from Patrick’s chest, up to cup the side of his neck. “I know you’re only here for a weekend. I know you only came so your mom wouldn’t have to go alone. I know this stupid, small town is probably the last place you want to find someone to—” He cut himself off and shook his head.

  “What? Find someone to what?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Hook up with? Spend a night with? I’ve imagined this weekend for months, since your mom told me you’d be here, but it can’t be anything real, right? That’d be ridiculous.”

  Why would that be ridiculous?

  Because Charlie couldn’t imagine being with someone like Patrick, someone who was artsy and moody and weird? Because Patrick would never fit in here? Or was it because Charlie thought he was tied to Chicago with no desire to change?

  Patrick wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to that question.

  “What did you imagine?” he asked instead.

  “Kissing you.”

  “Do it.”

  “Here?”

  Charlie’s hand tightened in Patrick’s hair, and Patrick shrugged, daring him. They were isolated at the back of the room, all alone. It was dark and hot.

  Charlie crowded him farther into the corner until their bodies were so close they could feel the other’s breath.

  Their lips touched, just a brush, and Patrick gripped Charlie’s biceps to hold himself steady, to keep on his feet, because that barely-there kiss was earth-shattering. The next kiss fell on Patrick’s chin as Charlie tipped his head back, his fingers deep in Patrick’s hair. He mouthed his way across Patrick’s jaw to his ear and back, and by the time their lips brushed again, Patrick was coming out of his skin. Full-body shivers wracked him, and he was aching.

  Their lips never pressed fully together, so when Charlie pulled back with bright eyes and a shocked expression, Patrick wasn’t sure if that was his best kiss ever or not a kiss at all.

  “This whole reunion has me shaken up,” Patrick whispered. He hadn’t been home since his dad moved out, so that was weird in and of itself. But now he was suddenly wondering if he could fit here, and everything seemed to have extra meaning and purpose.

  He wanted it all out of his brain. He wanted to feel.

  “What do you need?” Charlie asked.

  “Take me home.”

  “Oh. Okay. Can you not drive? Wait. How much did you have to drink?”

  “Take me to your home. I’m real fucking sober.”

  Chapter 4

  Charlie watched from his front step as Patrick hitched himself off his motorcycle. They’d left the reunion in a daze of rushed goodbyes and half-planned logistics, but now that they’d arrived at Charlie’s duplex, all of their pent-up energy and urgency seemed to disappear.

  Yeah, now, it was awkward.

  Especially once Patrick noticed the large photography print of the Tallgrass National Prairie Preserve over Charlie’s couch.

  “That’s mine,” Patrick said.

  “Well, technically, I bought it.”

  Patrick whipped around and stared at him. “Where did you get it? The Chase Gallery?”

  Charlie nodded. “Mr. Mikhailov called me when it came in. He knew I wanted a larger print.”

  “You’re blowing my mind.” Patrick collapsed onto the sofa and held his head in his hands. “I can’t believe you own one of my photos.”

  Charlie owned several of Patrick’s photos, but he wasn’t going to admit it out loud. He’d already opened a vein for Patrick’s observation at the reunion. He didn’t want to scare him away at this point.

  “I like your Flint Hills stuff.”

  “I haven’t shot out here in several years.” Patrick shook his head. “I’ve tried to tell people in Chicago what it’s really like in this part of Kansas, and no one believes me. I’m not sure people who aren’t connected to the land in some way can truly appreciate it.”

  “Do you miss it?” Charlie sat beside Patrick and pulled his hands off his face. “Kansas, I mean.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Why? Because of your parents’ divorce?”

  “Yes. And because this was never exactly a happy place for me. I always felt apart from everyone else, and I’m not sure if that was my fault or something out of my control. But I miss the landscape. I miss the hills. I miss the controlled burns. I miss my mom. And Chicago isn’t . . . well, it’s not exactly what I expected.”

  “You said you’re between jobs. What happened?”

  Suddenly, Charlie’s lap was fu
ll of Patrick as he straddled him.

  “I’ll tell you, but then we move on. I want to screw.”

  Charlie laughed and grabbed Patrick’s hips.

  “Deal.”

  “Okay.” Patrick took a deep breath and stared at a spot over Charlie’s shoulder. “I fucked my boss. For about a year. He’s got a lot sway in my little circle of the Chicago art scene. And it was stupid and toxic, and it ended, so now it hurts to go to work. He’s made it difficult, and he’s got the power, over more than just my gallery job. It’s untenable to stay there.”

  “Shit. Patrick.” Charlie reached up and cupped Patrick’s face, pushing the stray curls out of his eyes.

  “I knew better. It’s my fault.”

  “Hey. Look at me.” Patrick finally let his gaze drift to Charlie’s face, and there was a world of secrets, discomfort, and pain in Patrick’s eyes. “You didn’t deserve that, and it’s not your fault. That’s the definition of an abuse of power. When did this happen?”

  “Uh, it all fell to hell about two weeks ago, but it’s been a long time coming. Once it started, I realized how bad it was going to be if I ended it, so I held on too long.”

  Whoa. That was recent.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” Charlie gestured between them.

  When he and Donovan, his last boyfriend, had broken up, it’d taken him a few months to want to touch someone else. Of course, he’d clung to that relationship, scared to let go. Needy and demanding.

  Patrick nodded and then pressed a thumb to Charlie’s chin, right on his dimple. “This feels unreal. The hottest, friendliest guy from my high school class now wants to bang me? He has some of my art in his house? And admits to having a crush? I keep searching for the hidden cameras. Or the scriptwriter. It’s bizarre.”

  “It is real, though.” At least for the night. Tomorrow morning Patrick might decide he’d had enough of this townie, but tonight it could be real.

  “Then yes. I want this. I want to feel you on top of me. I want your sweat on my tongue. I want you to turn me out so spectacularly that neither of us knows our own name. I want to scratch and claw and come. And then do it over again until we can’t move.”