Will & Patrick Wake Up Married (13 page)

He pockets his hotel room key and heads for the door. He’s getting out of this room because at least he still has
that
option open to him.
 

It’s cold as a witch’s tit, and Patrick shivers in his business shirt and light jacket. When he left Atlanta, he packed for autumn in Nevada, not for this trip to hell, which has officially frozen over. He wanders around something called Old Healing, which takes him all of about ten minutes. There’s a pharmacy and a bookstore, both with elaborate Christmas displays in their windows, followed by a shop displaying wedding gowns with holiday-themed bridesmaid dresses and accoutrements. Based on all the Patterson/Molinaro marriages and divorces alone, Patrick’s betting weddings are a big business in this town.

The next store he passes is a sports utility place, with red and green canoes, camping gear, and Gore-Tex jackets on display in the window. Patrick heads into the warmth of the store and locates a shopping cart immediately, steering it to the winter coats and gloves. With the help of Google and his phone, he pulls up a suitable list of brands and requirements for cold-weather gear. He chooses a maroon-colored matching set of coat and gloves, and then he heads over to the boots department. There’s a dark grey pair with lug soles and good insulation.

He grabs a box with his size and sits down on the floor to try them on. No salespeople appear to help him out, a fact he’s glad for. He prefers to make his own choices without being talked at. The boots are suitable and lightweight enough to ship back to Atlanta, or wherever he ends up when this is all over. In the meantime, his toes won’t fall off. The weather forecast on his phone is calling for lows near zero, possibly dipping below in the next few weeks. He takes the boots back off and shoves them haphazardly into the box, dropping it into the cart with all the rest.

Next he chooses some good wicking socks in gray and black. He grabs a dark maroon fleece and a navy hoodie, along with some sweat pants for lounging in the hotel room. His eye catches a pile of colorful rolled up yoga mats and he makes a detour to grab a couple of those too.

He takes the cart over to the register. “Charge it to Will Patterson’s account.”

The floppy-haired boy behind the counter stares at him. “Uh, who are you?”

“Dr. McCloud…er, Patterson.” He sighs, presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, and says, “Listen, does Will have an account here or not?”

“He does.”

“Great. Charge it. I’m his husband.”

“Oh!” He flips his hair. “I heard he got married. My girlfriend told me.”

“Your girlfriend? How would your girlfriend—? Never mind. I can guess.” The town’s electricity is probably powered by gossip. “Just bag up this stuff and I’ll be on my merry way.”

The boy does as he’s asked and Patrick wonders how bright the kid is. Could anyone walk in here claiming to be some townie’s new spouse and walk out loaded down with charged goods? The kid hasn’t required any kind of proof. He hasn’t even called Will to check on Patrick’s story. Maybe this town is full of feeble-minded, gossipy, sex addicts.

“Here you go, Dr. McCloud-er-Patterson,” the boy says. “Congratulations! I hope you and Will are super happy together. I mean, I don’t like guys myself, but I’m really glad your type can get married now. My dad said it’s only fair.”

Patrick starts to say something cutting but can’t be bothered. He takes the bag containing the yoga mats, pulls on the new coat and gloves, and heads out of the shop.

“Come back soon!”

Patrick rounds the corner and he’s back where he started next to the pharmacy and a tall, tinseled Christmas tree. Bored with shopping and ready for some caffeine, Patrick heads into a place named Brown Gargle and peruses the pastry case.
There are gingerbread men, women, and snow-people, and brightly colored iced cookies in the shape of elves, Santa, and Mrs. Claus. He’s amused by the sight of an entire nativity cookie set—Joseph, Mary, Wise Men, and Shepherds, and a tiny Baby Jesus. They all look good, but they’re not exactly what he’s looking for.

Then he spots it.
A lone, fat doughnut, jam dripping from its side. His stomach gurgles and saliva floods his mouth. He begins to place his order, but to his horror it’s snatched from the case, put on a plate and handed to a tiny blond woman.

Patrick splutters. “Hey, that’s my doughnut.” The barista doesn’t seem inclined to agree, taking money from the woman and grinning as she deposits an extra folded dollar into the tip jar.

He slams his hand down on top of the glass display case. “I was just about to order that.
She
just walked in and hasn’t said a word.”

The barista raises an eyebrow, then pointedly looks down at Patrick’s hands splayed on the glass. “Hands off, please. It’s fragile.”

Patrick yanks his hands away and bites out, “Well? That’s my doughnut.”

“She’s a regular. This is her usual.”

“But I was here first.” It doesn’t matter that he had doughnut holes that morning; it’s a matter of winning now.

The woman’s red sweater stretches over her ample chest as she puffs it up. “There are other doughnuts,” she says, shifting her blond ponytail to the side and staring up at him like he’s grown an asshole where his mouth should be. “Glazed, chocolate, sprinkles. Why don’t you just pick another one?”

“Why don’t
you
just pick another one?”

“Because I like the jam.” She lifts her brows and stares at him with wide, innocent blue eyes, belying the sass in her tone. She cocks a hip, little black pencil skirt hugging her curves, and one shiny black dress shoe tapping ominously on the clean, brown tile floor. Luckily, Patrick isn’t impressed by pretty women. Being gay is sometimes a tactical advantage.

“Well, so do I.”

“Ladies before gentlemen.”

Patrick snorts. “Lady, I’ve been accused of being a lot of things but never a gentleman.”

She puts her hands on her hips and tilts her pointed chin up. “Oh my God, what is wrong with you? Just let me have the doughnut!”

“No!”

A sudden wailing cry pierces the air and the woman turns to bend down to the stroller Patrick hadn’t noticed before. She picks up a baby and cuddles it close. “Hey, hey, baby,” she murmurs. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

Patrick turns back to the barista while she’s distracted. “I’ll take that doughnut now.”

“Hey!” The woman punches him on the shoulder, surprisingly strong, especially for someone holding a baby in her other arm.

Patrick sighs. He hates to admit defeat, but the baby is staring at him, stopped mid-wail as if waiting to see what Patrick is going to do. “Fine. Split it?”

The woman cocks her head at him, evaluating him narrowly, and then she smiles. “Sure. Why not? It’s a much more civil solution than fighting about it, isn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“If you’d led with that suggestion, then maybe—”

Patrick interrupts her to order an extra glazed doughnut and a latte, refusing to call it by its ridiculous menu name: the Calamalatte Jane.

Patrick takes the plate of doughnuts over to a table, splits the jam one and holds half out to the woman who has followed him. She puts the baby back into its stroller, and Patrick waits to hear howls again, but nothing comes. A quick glance shows that the child’s somehow fallen asleep.

Patrick waits. The woman takes the doughnut but doesn’t leave. In fact, she sits down, apparently deciding that since they are splitting the doughnut, they’re also splitting a table. She takes a bite, the jam leaving a dollop on her pink lower lip. She licks it off.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“My name’s Jenny. And this little guy is Dylan,” she gestures to the baby.

Patrick grunts.

“And?” She motions at him, rolling her hand in a circle.

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”

Patrick wonders for a moment what she would say if he declined the invitation to socialize. “Dr. McCloud,” he says tersely, returning to his doughnuts, hoping she’ll take the cue and move along to another table, or, even better, leave the shop altogether.

She polishes off her half of the doughnut and sighs contentedly.

The barista brings over Patrick’s latte. It’s beautifully made with a Wild West pistol design in the foam. He tastes it and moans. He supposes the baristas in Healing must have nothing better to do than perfect the best-tasting lattes in the world.

As the barista turns to go, Jenny touches his arm, ordering a coffee and another doughnut with sprinkles. Then she settles in at the table, putting away her purse and diaper bag and covering the baby with a blanket.

Patrick raises one eyebrow. “By all means,” he says sarcastically. “Feel free to join me.”

Jenny smiles warmly. “Thank you. I will. So,” she says, leaning forward. “Healing’s a tiny little place. Everyone knows everyone else. And you’re a stranger around here.” She grins, white and toothy. “What brings you to town?”

Patrick sighs, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the table. He’s not quite sure how to answer that question or what Will wants him to say. “I’m a neurosurgeon.”

“Oh! So you’re here for the neurology unit at the hospital!”

“I’ve heard good things about it.”

“You have?” Her eyes shine at that news. “We’re all hoping that the expansion of Healing Regional is going to be great for us. For the whole region, really.”

Patrick nods and shoves a bite of the glazed doughnut in his mouth, hoping she’ll go away if he doesn’t engage her further in conversation.

“We’re all excited to meet the doctors and nurses they’re hiring to staff it. Someone told me there’ll be a lot more travel nurses who’ve worked contracts all over the country, sometimes the world! Can you imagine the stories they must have to share? It’ll be so enriching to our community to have some new blood.”

Patrick isn’t much for discussing other people’s life experiences. Unless it’s filthy, dirty gossip, and then he’s all in. But prideful tales of other people’s self-actualizing hike up the Alps? Pass. Give him a remote control and an episode of
Alaska: The Last Frontier
instead. Now that’s some life experience he can enjoy from the comfort of his sofa—no social interaction needed.

“Anyway, are you here for the head of department position?” Jenny asks, obviously still excited by his ‘new blood’-ness despite his surly demeanor. “I know they’ve been looking for someone.”

Be discreet
. He hears Will’s voice in his head. “I’m not sure what my plans are just yet. It depends on a few things.”

“Oh.” Jenny’s face falls. “That’s a shame. I can put in a good word for you. Don Knife, the chief of staff, is an old friend of mine.”

“Don
Knife
?”

“Sure. Good traditional Lakota surname.” She grins. “We have some pretty great ones around here. Kills Enemy is a favorite of mine. And Jax back there behind the counter has a fun last name too.” She nods toward the barista preparing a tray to bring over her coffee and doughnut. “He’s Jax Taken Alive.”

“Taken Alive, huh? I can relate.”

She laughs. “But, seriously, I’ll take you on over to the hospital after we finish here and give you a personal introduction to Don.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. Jax arrives with her coffee and she says, “Put it on my tab, hon.” He winks at her before walking away.

“It’s not like I’ve been very nice to you.” Patrick takes another sip of his latte. It really is too delicious to be true. He breathes in the warmth of its steam.

“That’s okay. You’re not from around here. Everyone knows that people from other places are assholes.” She laughs and shoves his shoulder again. “Right? Don’t you think outsiders are always assholes back wherever you’re from?”

“Maybe.”

“Where
are
you from?”

“Atlanta.” By way of Alabama, Kentucky, and Connecticut, but she doesn’t need the details. “As for meeting Dr. Knife—” Patrick can’t hold back a snort. “Well, I should probably let my husband do the honors.”