“And I know I’m saying way too much stuff. I’m just confused. My life is a mess right now.” Patrick pushed the words into Charlie’s shoulder, so Charlie gave his neck a gentle squeeze.
What is the best-case scenario here? Patrick moves back to Small City and they fall in love and live happily ever after?
Yeah right.
A much more likely outcome would be Patrick moving back, Charlie falling for him, and then Patrick running away because he couldn’t stand being stuck in the middle of nowhere. And when that happened, Charlie would hold too tight, like always. He’d smother his lover in his own need for acceptance and support because he’d never gotten it as a child.
He refused to do that to Patrick. He refused to be the lead weight around another man’s neck.
It paid to be self-aware.
“I think I’m ready to leave,” Patrick said, once their silence had stretched on too long.
Charlie had been two steps behind during this whole conversation, but he had enough emotional intelligence to realize that taking Patrick back to his duplex was not the best idea. For either of them.
“Of course. Do you want me to take you home?”
“Home.” Patrick snorted. “Sure.”
Chapter 8
Patrick leaned his head against the passenger-side window and stared up at the night sky. The Milky Way stretched, clear and bright, across the great expanse.
Patrick missed the stars. The bright lights of the city always obscured them.
Charlie took the scenic route back to Patrick’s mom’s house, like he wanted to prolong their time together, and Patrick let him.
Patrick was being a drama queen. He knew that. It was so incredibly clear in his head, but he couldn’t seem to keep all of his feelings from spewing forth without a filter. He’d kept his mouth shut when it had become clear that his relationship with Richard hurt and was a horrible idea. He’d kept his mouth shut when his career in Chicago had begun to implode.
Well, he hadn’t been able to keep his mouth shut when it came to Charlie North. Instead, they’d talked in circles. He’d have loved for Charlie to say, “Wow! It’d be awesome if you moved back. You could take photos of patch burns and sunsets and the people of the Flint Hills. And we’d keep kissing, and maybe date, and maybe fall for each other, just a little bit. And your mom would be so happy to have you close. And so would I.”
So yeah. What fantasy world was Patrick living in?
Eventually, Charlie pulled into Mom’s driveway and cut the engine.
“Patrick, if you could shape your life, mold it into exactly the life you want, what would it be?”
He cupped Patrick’s cheek, and Patrick, embarrassingly enough, felt heat gather behind his eyes.
He leaned in, touched his mouth softly to Charlie’s, let his lips linger sweetly.
When he pulled back, Charlie said, “That felt like a goodbye kiss. I don’t want it to be.”
Talk about an arrow to his heart. Patrick could feel the prick, the pain, of Charlie’s words.
“I want a home that’s safe. And to find a place where I fit.”
Patrick kissed away Charlie’s response, and then he got the hell out of the truck, running away again.
The storm door slammed behind him as he rushed into his mom’s house, and he cringed when he realized she had already gone to bed. He should follow in her footsteps, take his hits on the chin and keep his head up. He’d learned from the best, and he was in awe of her strength, but instead, he settled in for a good wallow.
His sadness wasn’t Charlie North’s fault. This town had been a stricture around his throat for his teenage years, and for a minute, he’d thought it could be a balm instead.
Hello, Unreal Expectations. Meet Reality.
He stole one of his mother’s beers, grabbed his laptop and his camera, and settled into a metal chair on the back patio. Sunflowers danced in the darkness along his mom’s property line, and lightning bugs flickered among her flowerbeds. She’d decorated her yard with antique farm equipment that she’d turned into flowerpot stands and birdhouse holders. It was homey and cute, and only added to the pressure in his chest.
Thirty minutes later, he had the photos from his camera downloaded and was stuck on one particular image. The one he’d taken of Charlie in front of Minky’s Bar. His expression was cheerful but tempered with self-consciousness, with a shyness that made him seem sweet and approachable.
He scrolled through the pictures until he found one of Charlie on his back in bed, the morning sun striping his body and the crisp white sheets contrasting with his tan skin. But it wasn’t Charlie’s body, which was impressive, that held Patrick’s attention. It was his face. In the picture, Charlie’s mouth was open on a laugh, his cheeks flushed from orgasm. His features, from the crinkling of his nose to the wrinkles around his eyes to his wide smiling lips, were like joy incarnate. Joy distilled.
Patrick itched to crop and edit. This photo rivaled some of his best portraits. It exemplified what he was known for—drawing out the emotion on a person’s face, drawing out one moment, into a snapshot in time.
His mind was racing with possibilities, with a need to create.
“Nice night.”
Patrick jumped a mile and then swung around to see his mom standing in the doorway with a beer in hand.
“Hi, Mom.”
“That’s a beautiful picture of him.”
He flushed because this was a noticeably sexy picture, and there was no way to deny it. Charlie was obviously in bed and shirtless.
Rather than deal with his embarrassment, he simply said, “Thank you.”
“You’re pining. It’s weird.”
He chuckled as she sat beside him. “Well, look at him. Who wouldn’t pine?”
She tinked her beer can against his. “What’s going on in that big brain of yours, Pattie?”
“I’m twisted up over a boy. What else? Story of my life.”
Her eyebrows rose, and she took a drink. “I think it’s more than that. Maybe Charlie has you tied in knots, but something else secured the rope.”
“Just the normal existential life questions. Where do I belong? Where’s my home? What’s my purpose? Why is it a bad idea to sleep with your boss and ruin your career?”
“Oh, darling. Is that what happened?”
He shrugged and stared resolutely at his computer screen, clicking through the photos quickly. Some were not quite safe for work, especially the ones where it was obvious Charlie had snuck his hand onto his cock, but he flipped through them too quickly for his mom to see clearly. He ended on the selfie they’d taken together.
“That’s my son, right there,” Mom said suddenly. “That happiness and light. I want you to look like that all the time, and I don’t want it to be because of a boy or a job or where you live, but because your life is full. One thing, whether it’s a man, your career, a house, or a subject to photograph, is not going to make your life full, Patrick.”
“I know. I’m so tired of running when things get hard.”
“Then stop.”
He glanced at her sharply. “Stop?”
“Running. Do something for me.” She had a suspicious smile on her face, but he nodded reluctantly. “Okay, close your eyes. I saw this on Criminal Minds.”
He snorted a laugh. “I haven’t seen anyone serial murdered, Mom.”
“Whatever. Now listen. Imagine a home, the home you most want, the first one that appears in your heart. Think about its kitchen and bedroom and windows.”
“Okay.” He frowned.
“Imagine the outside. The street it’s on, the yard or courtyard or front stoop.”
Light cresting over a hill appeared in his brain. Tall grass and wildflowers. Low limestone fences. A sunset like a watercolor in the sky.
“Who is there with you?”
He smiled because in his head his mom’s cobbler was on the counter, and then that smile died as a dark-headed man with bedroom eyes, a dimpled chin
, and a beautiful heart walked through his imaginary kitchen.
“Where are you?”
Patrick opened his eyes. Here. He’d been here, in this town, with a man who he’d kissed goodbye tonight.
Charlie got home from the Alumni Cookout and Ice Cream Social and did the only thing he could think of. He called his best friend.
Suzy answered the phone, her mouth obviously full of food. “Hey, Nort’. Wha’ up?”
“You busy?” She was on shift at the firehouse, but he hoped it’d be a quiet night.
She swallowed, the gulp echoing through the phone. “Not right now. I’m eating some ice cream Ajay dropped off. He’s my new favorite co-worker, FYI.”
Normally, he’d chuckle at that, but he couldn’t.
“What’s wrong?” she said, suspiciously.
“I think I’m falling for Patrick Pearl.”
“No joke. That’s not exactly a surprise to you, is it? You’ve been wooing him hard since he got to town.”
“It was supposed to be a fling. I never once thought he’d actually want to stick around!”
She hummed. “Does he?”
“Maybe? God, I don’t know. He’s infuriating and weird and hard to read. I think mostly he wants a place to settle down. To be safe. He wasn’t safe and happy here as a teenager, and his heart hasn’t been safe in Chicago. He’s searching.”
“Maybe he needs to know he’s wanted?” Suzy said softly.
Charlie’s thoughts started spinning. Maybe everything he’d been afraid of—being pushy, coming on too strong, his own neediness—was exactly what Patrick needed to see.
“He needs to know he’s wanted, and not just by me. I’d never hold him here if it wasn’t where he wanted to be. He needs to see that Small City can be a place for him to come home to. To lay his head and rest, even if it’s not a forever type of thing.”
“You’re going to get hurt if you let him flit in and out of your life whenever he feels like slowing down for a second.”
“I know. But this isn’t about me.”
She snorted. “God, your heart is too big for your body, Charlie. Always thinking about other people.”
His phone vibrated with another incoming call. It was Nancy Kibbles—the head of the Alumni Weekend Planning Committee. She’d never called him directly.
“Uh oh. I’ve got another call. This can’t be good. I gotta go, Suze.”
“Okay, bye, loser.”
“Bye.” He flipped over to Nancy. “This is Charlie North.”
And she was off and running his ear ragged. Before he’d drawn a breath, she’d unloaded on him about the Tripper-Trapper Travel Agency and their feud with Dolly and Frank Verden and somehow strippers and the First Baptist Church were involved. Charlie’s head was spinning. In a nutshell, the Alumni Weekend Live Auction was ruined. Evidently.
“Nancy, hi, hold on,” he said, interrupting her. “So we’re short an auction item?”
“We’re short the auction item. It’s the one we’ve been advertising. A romantic getaway to a Flint Hills B&B, plus a historic homes and farm tour. I wanted the final auction item to be about local flavor. I don’t know what to do.”
“What about some art from Chase Gallery? We could see if Arnold could donate a piece from a Flint Hills artist,” Charlie suggested.
“But I’m not sure any art from the locals would pull as big of a bid as the getaway. Well, except . . .” She trailed off and Charlie smiled.
“Patrick Pearl.”
“Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “It’d be perfect. We could start the bid high, too, to make sure it hits its worth.”
“He’s in town this weekend too.”
“It’s like fate,” Nancy cried. “I’ll call Arnold Mikhailov now. Thank you so much for talking this out with me, Charlie. Are you still comfortable running the auction?”
His heart was already alight with what he wanted to say about Patrick’s art. “Absolutely.”
Chapter 9
Patrick was woken up that morning by a ringing phone. He answered it with by saying, “Huh? Yes. Hello?”
“Patrick Pearl? This is Arnold Mikhailov. I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?” Arnold owned the Chase Gallery, and his familiar Russian accent floated through Patrick’s cell phone.
Patrick ran a hand over his face and tried to shake himself into alertness. “No, I’m awake.” Now. “How are you?”
“Good. Putting out some small fires to start the day. I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Okay.”
“There’s an auction tonight at the Alumni Weekend Dance. I heard you’re in town.”
“I am,” Patrick said, immediately apprehensive. He didn’t want to get volun-told to do something, but he’d do about anything Arnold asked of him. Arnold had always believed in him and championed his work.
“One of the biggest auction items was withdrawn last night due to a tiff between the planning committee and the travel agency who was donating it. It’s a bunch of stupid small town politics, but regardless, the Alumni Weekend Committee called to see if I might have a piece from the gallery that could be auctioned. Since you’re going to be there, I was wondering if we could auction one of your photographs. It’d basically be a donation from you, so no pressure to say yes. The money from the auction goes to the town’s youth center.”
“There’s a youth center?” Patrick asked, kind of stunned. He was exactly the type of kid who would have benefited from a youth center back in the day.
Arnold chuckled. “Things change, Patrick.”
“Whatever you say,” Patrick said wryly. “Did you have a photo in mind? I’d be happy to donate a piece. You could choose whichever one has been in the gallery the longest without selling.”
“Always pragmatic, you are. That’s Aflame, I believe. Is auctioning it okay with you?”
Aflame was a large print of a Flint Hills pasture on fire at dusk. He’d taken it during prescribed burn season several years ago.
“Sure. That’s fine.”
“You’re a good man. When am I going to be able to talk you into taking over for me? I’m going to kick the bucket sooner rather than later. I’d like some time to RV with my wife before that day comes.”
This was a conversation they’d had many times before, but it’d always felt like a joke. Hell, it was a joke. But the ache in Patrick’s heart didn’t find it funny this morning.
“There have to be a ton of locals chomping at the bit to take over the gallery.”
“Sure there are. And none of them are you.”
“Yeah, yeah, old man. Thanks for thinking of me.”
“No. Thank you for donating the photograph. I’ll miss it picking up dust in the gallery.”
Patrick laughed, and they said their goodbyes. Suddenly, someone knocked loudly on his bedroom door.
“Jesus,” he hissed, flinching. “Yes?”
“Wake up! The parade starts in forty-five minutes,” Mom shouted through his door.
“Okay. I’m up. I’m up.” He fell back into his pillow, not at all prepared to face his last full day in Small City.
An hour later, Patrick had one overwhelming emotion: hate.
He officially hated parades. Crowds of people standing at least three deep in the noonday sun in freaking Kansas? Talk about a nightmare.
He’d yet to spot Charlie, which was blessing. He thought. It was definitely for the best.
Probably.
Mom appeared at his side suddenly holding two colorful snow cones with little umbrellas in them. He immediately lifted his camera up and snapped a picture of her. She laughed, so he took another. That was the best thing about the parade so far. He’d had plenty of opportunity to put his camera to work.
She handed one of the snow cones over, and he began devouring it before it had a chance to melt into syrupy soup.
A woman bumped into him suddenly, and he steadied her as she whipped around.
“Rachel! Hi.”
She waved at him. She was we
aring a straw hat, big sunglasses, and a yellow summer dress that looked fantastic with her dark skin. He held up his camera.
“Can I take your picture?”
She smiled. “Only if you let me take yours. I’m on photo duty for the Small City Gazette, and I suck at it.” At that point, he noticed a small camera in the palm of her hand.
“You can take my picture as long as I don’t end up in the paper.”
Rachel pouted, and he snapped her photo, which made a sheepish, shy expression creep across her face. Once their mutual picture taking was out of the way, Rachel slumped beside him and used her hat to fan her face.
“So you work for the Gazette?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m the editor. Our journalist who was supposed to cover the parade ended up with shingles on her face, so here I am.”
He peeked around them to make sure no one was listening in. Mom was deep in a conversation about currant jam and goat cheese with a man Patrick didn’t recognize, and everyone else in their vicinity was focused on the marching band stomping past.
“Can I ask you a serious question? It’s kind of personal,” he said.
She eyed him warily, and he wanted to smack himself. She’d probably had a million uncomfortable and inappropriate conversations start that way.
“Do you like living here?” he asked her, trying to put her mind at ease.
After a breath, she said, “I’m not sure I’d be here if it weren’t for Suzy, but I’m glad I am.”
“And you’re the editor for the paper. That’s impressive.”
“Yeah, there were a lot of people that weren’t happy about that, claimed I’d turn it into a liberal dish rag, which is partially true.” She laughed, her voice light and tinkling. “I get why people move away. I understand the impulse. I did it myself for a while, but small-town and flyover-state queers exist. We’re here, and the only way to thrive is to change our communities from the inside. Suzy and Charlie are really adamant about that.”
“And you?”
“I still check the parking lot at night before I walk to my car by myself. I still don’t talk to my grandparents. I sometimes get hate mail at the paper. And yet, this is my home, and I’m going to fight tooth and nail until the people that don’t think I belong here die, get voted out, or leave.”
Small City Heart Page 7
