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According to an ancient Greek legend, Theseus had a warship that was preserved as a historical relic by the Athenians. Some of its boards rotted and had to be replaced. After many, many years, many such replacements occurred. Eventually, none of the original boards were present. Philosophers could then debate whether it was the same ship that Theseus had used, and if not, when it had ceased to be so.
The Ship of Theseus, Wikipedia, 2003.
How much can you change
and get away with it, before you turn into something
else, before it’s some kind of murder?
R. Siken, ‘Portrait of Fryderyk in Shifting Light’, (2015).
The Ship of Theseus, also known as Theseus’s Paradox, is a thought experiment and paradox about whether an object is the same object after having had all of its original components replaced over time, typically one after the other.
The Ship of Theseus, Wikipedia, 2024.
***
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***
It was the first time Patrick would be coming to their house, and Tashi was so stressed you’d think it was her cooking the three-course meal she’d gotten in her head as being necessary.
“Does Patrick eat meat?”
They hadn’t seen Patrick since New Rochelle. They hadn’t heard from Patrick at all for close to two months, but he had messaged Tashi on LinkedIn of all fucking places, like he was a stray dog pawing at a restaurant and hoping to be let into the warm. The ease with which he had sent the message, the fact that it was, though embarrassing, ultimately simple for Patrick to find one of them online and send out a quick so are we all going back to pretending i don’t exist or made Art so angry he had gone for a run and was out of the house so long that Tashi had texted him asking where the fuck he was. He felt fine by the time he got back, but then had seen a proof of an interview Patrick had done with Tennis Magazine and flashed so hot with anger he’d had to take a freezing shower to try to relieve himself of the feeling. How the fuck had he got an interview with Tennis Magazine? Why the fuck was it on the desk in the office? When was Tashi going to finally tell him that she had been seeing Patrick, professionally or otherwise? Did she think he was stupid? Did everyone?
“Art.”
“What,” he says, but then glances up. “Oh -- yeah, he’ll eat anything you put in front of his face.”
She scowls. “Could you at least try to care about this?”
He laughs, incredulous. “He’s Patrick.”
“And?”
“And,” he says, “he’ll eat anything, sleep anywhere. He’ll be content with anything. You know, in sophomore year, he slept for a week in the gymnasium. Like on the floor. On a gym mat.”
Tashi makes a face, and Lily, next to him says, “Can I sleep on a gym mat?”
“No, Lils,” Art says, ruffling her hair. “It’d hurt your back, you need support from a mattress. Uncle Patrick isn’t always the best example, okay?”
Tashi adds, “He’s not house trained.”
Lily, who had recently visited Tashi’s college friends who bred cats, says, “Mom, you said we couldn’t have that cat because it wasn’t house trained. How come we can take Uncle Patrick home?”
“He’s your dad’s oldest friend, honey,” Tashi says. “We’re making an exception.”
“Why can’t Murray be an exception?”
Art feels his brows raise and he looks to Tashi. “The cat’s name was Murray?”
“Cats are different from people, sweetheart. We’d have to take care of a cat, but Uncle Patrick can do lots of things for himself,” Tashi says. “And yeah,” she adds, looking to Art, “Meg had named them all after players.”
“There wasn’t a Donaldson?”
“She’d already been adopted.”
Art huffs a laugh. “Right. You done with that, Lils?”
“Uh --” Tashi interrupts, leveling him with a quick glare. “You think you can have another piece of broccoli, sweetheart?”
***
He doesn’t realize Tashi is watching him in the mirror until she says, “The dark blue looks better.”
He glances back, trying to keep the shock out of his movements. “You think?”
“Makes you look younger,” she says, slipping forward to rub a hand against his bad shoulder, soothing. And then she frowns. “I thought you weren’t nervous.”
“I’m not,” he says, though as soon as he says it, it’s clearly a lie.
She watches him for a moment. “It’s just Patrick.”
He laughs lightly, but not because it’s funny. “Yeah,” he says. “Just Patrick.”
She nudges him so that he’s looking at her, searching his eyes. “You’ve known him longer than anyone,” she says, clearly thinking this will calm him. “It really is just Patrick.”
“I don’t know,” he says, the truth overspilling. “I haven’t spoken to him properly in years. We knew each other when we were kids.”
“You haven’t changed much,” she says, gently, “from the first night I met you. Why do you think he has?”
“Of course I’ve changed,” he says, incredulously. “I’ve changed in -- in so many ways.”
She tilts her head. “Maybe in some ways,” she concedes. “But not… You’re the same in here,” she says, resting her hand over his chest.
It startles a laugh out of him despite himself.
“What the fuck are you talking about,” he says, smiling gently. “You don’t believe in shit like that.”
She rolls her eyes. “I was trying to be fucking sincere, dickhead.”
“No, no,” he laughs, bringing her hand back to his chest. “It’s nice,” he says, smiling, “just unexpected.”
“I don’t know,” she says, resolutely. “But -- you can’t look at your match in New Rochelle and tell me you’ve changed like -- fucking, irrevocably -- since being a teenager. Your best tennis is when you get back to your heart.”
“And that’s -- what, when I’m playing with Patrick?”
Her gaze is heavy when meeting his. “Isn’t it?”
“Tashi --”
“You know,” she interrupts, “I’d only cheat on you with Patrick.”
He blinks, whiplashed. “I thought we’d agreed not to call it cheating,” he says.
“We can call it whatever you want,” she says
“You’re not --” For some reason, the thought of Tashi and Patrick tonight, under his roof, them together while he’s relegated to some other room, is unbearable, “not tonight, though, right --”
“No,” she says, smiling. “I’m just -- Patrick doesn’t count, does he?”
He looks at her. “Am I missing something?”
Her mouth twists. “If I say something,” she says, “do you promise not to freak out?”
“Uh,” he says, his mind stuttering to a halt, “no?”
“Art.”
“Fuck,” he says, “fine.”
She takes a breath. “You missed Patrick a lot.”
It’s not a question. It’s barely even an observation, more a statement of fact. You missed Patrick a lot. It’s like she’s speaking his missing of Patrick into being. Like as soon as she says it, it becomes real in the air in front of him. Creating something out of nothing. It certainly seems like an ability Tashi would have.
It’s infuriating, but at the same time, she’s not wrong. He tilts his head slightly in admission, and says, “Yes.”
She nods. “Before me,” she continues, “there was nobody you were closer with than Patrick, not even anyone who came close.”
“I don’t know where you’re --”
“Yes or no, Art?”
“Fine,” he says. “Yes.”
“What you and Patrick had,” she says, finally, “was more than friendship.”
It’s like she’s shone a flashlight over a dark spot inside him.
“Tash --”
“Am I wrong?”
He thinks over the years he had with Patrick. Every summer night when it was just light enough for him to squint through the dark to watch Patrick sleep. Every match. Every breakfast where Patrick grabbed them coffee and he grabbed them toast. Every shower they took side by side. Every dorm room party where he’d half-open his eyes while making out with a girl across the room from Patrick, and find that he was already being watched. Every time Patrick opened his eyes while making out to find him. Every high five -- every fleeting touch they shared. Every time they slept in the same bed, which was really just every anniversary of his mom’s death, when Patrick would shuffle into his twin bed to hold him, quietly, his soft breaths fanning over the back of Art’s neck, no words needed. Every time he’d looked at Patrick, heart young and his whole body singing and wondered. Every time he’d felt every inch of himself turn to dust at the thought of voicing anything at all.
He didn’t have the language for it then. But not knowing how to name a thing doesn’t vanish it out of existence.
He thinks of the years without Patrick. How the need for him never really left; his life just grew around the empty space. The first time he got high without him and kept saying things out loud, waiting for a response from the air beside him. The first time he kissed someone who looked like Patrick, but wasn’t Patrick. The way he was drunk and upset and stupid outside a bar, thinking over and over that it just tasted wrong, barely allowing himself to admit what would have constituted as right, until he’d just given up and chainsmoked until the taste in his mouth was close to what it had been two years ago in a hotel in Flushing.
For a long time he lived with a purpose of just -- looking for him. Something to fill the gap. It hurt less when he stopped looking. Some things can’t be replaced by anything but the thing itself.
“No,” he says. “It was -- No.” He doesn’t lie to Tashi. “You’re not wrong.”
She nods, as if satisfied. “Okay,” she says, and then she repeats, “I wouldn’t cheat on you with anyone other than Patrick.”
It clicks.
He softens into a light laugh. “Tash, it’s just dinner.”
She raises a brow. “And he’s staying in the area for a while.”
“And we haven’t spoken properly in twelve years.”
“And you’re still in love with him.”
“I --” He flounders, mouth open and shut. “I don’t even know if that’s the right word to use.” There’s nothing else to explain any of it away, so he says, honestly, “I haven’t thought about it in a long time.”
She smiles. “But now you are,” she says, like she’s reading something encoded in him and drawing conclusions, “and it’s freaking you out.”
“It’s not freaking me out,” he says, defensive. “I just -- I used to be better practiced.”
“At what?”
“I don’t know,” he says, feeling crowded. “Hiding it, I guess. Or -- not hiding it, exactly. But living with it, anyway. Which might have been the same thing as hiding it, really.”
“Hm,” she says. “I don’t think you need to.”
He lets himself smile, a wry thing. “Tashi,” he starts, “I -- Even if I wanted to. I wouldn’t know any other way to be. I’m okay with not acting on it,” he adds. “I’ve -- you know. Never not felt that way about him. So it’s not like it’s going to be hard for me to act normal. This is normal for me.”
She smiles slightly, and tilts her head, assessing him. He knows she gets a kick out of that; that she’s the only one he can be open with, that she’s the only one who knows how he works. He wonders if Patrick could get to know him like that again. If there’s even a chance of it.
“I’m just saying,” she says, finally. “You can do anything you like with Patrick. Besides,” she adds, with a shrug, “he had you first.”
“Anything,” he says, teasingly, “is a very big word.”
Her smile deepens.
“And,” he adds, “I’m not a thing to be had.”
She grins, now, wolfish. “Aren’t you?”
He raises a brow. “We’re not fucking before dinner.”
“Aren’t we?”
***
The first five minutes of the dinner are excruciating, until Art says, “so… how was the drive?” and Patrick laughs so hard Art moves to perform the Heimlich.
Even this, he thinks, selfishly, is a nostalgic action. His mind provides similar occasions of them at thirteen, fifteen, seventeen, him holding Patrick and molding his body so it doesn’t hurt him. Nudging him so his temple misses a stray ball hurtling bullet-fast towards them. The way it was Art, not Patrick, who smoked first -- the way he’d shotgunned into Patrick’s open mouth until he was used to the sensation. Pushing an unconscious Patrick onto his side so that he wouldn’t choke on his vomit in the night.
Dinner is fine. He just wishes he was giving Patrick a kinder entrance into their lives. He wishes it could have been different, this time. He wishes he could be given a nice thing and not want more, always more, for once.
***
Afterwards, Patrick begs off for a smoke break round the corner of the house. When Art doesn’t immediately follow, Tashi levels him with a stare and says, almost impressed, “Jesus, are you gonna make him beg for your company?”
Which, well. From Patrick, Art can’t say he would mind a little begging.
“So,” Patrick says finally, when it’s obvious Art isn’t going to say anything, just stare blankly at him in a way that would be rude if they hadn’t known each other since they were twelve, which was a little like knowing each other since they were born, because people younger than twelve are still learning how to be people and really don’t count when you are only considering those with consciences. “When did you quit?”
Art’s mind immediately flashes through a slideshow of what his life would look like in a year when he will, in fact, quit tennis. “What?”
Patrick sucks in a breath, and waves his cigarette between two fingers, before expelling a flume into the air, direct and precise like one sharp line.
“Oh,” Art says, mind lagging. “When Lily was born.”
“Oh,” Patrick echoes, before taking another drag. “I figured it would have been earlier.”
“Why,” Art says, dryly, “because you thought I only smoked when you were around?”
Patrick shrugs, one shouldered. “I mean,” he says, “I don’t think you ever bought your own cigarettes in the six years I knew you.”
“You’ve known me eighteen years,” Art corrects, instinctively.
Patrick shrugs again.
“I was a cheapskate,” Art says, because he was, and he really has no filter at all with Patrick. “You had so much money it was like a drop in the ocean.”
“Ha,” Patrick says.
“Hey,” Art says, mildly. “I said had.”
Patrick barks a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, amused. “I guess you did.”
“Anyway,” Art says, because when he opens his mouth he can’t seem to shut it, ever, “it’s not like everything’s going so terribly with you now, is it? I saw your interview with Tennis.”
Patrick’s eyes flick to the ground. “I hope you didn’t read it,” he says.
“Why,” Art says. “Is it bad?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Because I had some bad interviews,” Art says, honestly. He doesn’t really know if he’s trying to appease Patrick, or reassure him, or stick his nose in the success of Art’s career, or what. “Like, reams of them. And like, TMZ. TMZ creepshots. It’s normal, man.”
“It’s not bad,” Patrick says. “I guess I’ve just never had to read back what I say. I think I just sound like a dick in it, that’s all.”
Art blinks. “Well, yeah. If it’s you speaking, yeah.”
Patrick laughs again, real and explosive.
“You’re such a piece of shit,” Patrick says. “You really think you can say anything to me and get away with it, don’t you?”
“I mean,” Art says. “Can’t I? You fucked my wife. I think I can say whatever I want to you.”
Patrick’s grin dissolves to a smaller smile, and he nods in concession. “Alright,” he says, finally. “Well played.” He holds out his cigarette like a white flag, until Art takes it, and then he lights another. “Since you’re clearly not going to ask for it,” he says.
Art slips it in his mouth easily, and when he takes the first drag, Patrick’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“It’s a shame you quit,” Patrick says, finally. “You’re hot when you smoke. Always were. ”
For a moment, Art can’t think of anything at all to say. His mind goes completely blank while his body ignites, his heart leaping toward his throat.
“What,” Patrick says, after a moment, mouth going wry, “too much? We still not talking about… whatever?”
“I don’t know what whatever is referring to,” Art says, mind lagging. “Sorry. You just shocked me.”
Patrick laughs, but it’s thin, and he says, without looking at Art, “Yeah? I didn’t know I could still do that.”
Art feels his brow crease. “What? Of course you can still do that.”
“Didn’t think there was much of me left to learn,” Patrick says. “I’m like an open book.”
“Yeah,” Art says, incredulous. “Maybe you were. In 2005.”
“Oh, come on,” Patrick scoffs. “You think I’ve changed that much since I was seventeen?”
“Uh,” Art raises a brow. “I would fucking hope so.”
Patrick shrugs, uncaring. “I don’t think we ever really change,” he says.
Art laughs through an exhale. “You are so fucking annoying.”
Patrick smirks, extending an open palm in gesture. “My point.”
“Okay,” Art says, conceding, “maybe some things stay the same, but -- some things do just change. That’s how life works, man.”
“Alright,” Patrick says, leaning back against the wall, relaxed, easy. “If you’ve changed, tell me how.”
“Tell you how I’ve changed?”
“Mhm,” Patrick nods, clearly unpersuaded. “Tell me every way you’ve changed since ‘07. Because I don’t think you’re all that different. You got, what,” he waves his cigarette, vaguely, at Art, “a haircut, which, frankly, makes you look like a banker. You got nicer clothes, a nice house. But that’s all external. Did you really, like, change? At your core? I don’t think so. I don’t think you’re capable of it.”
“You don’t think I’m capable, of fucking -- what? Emotional growth?”
Patrick grins, amused. “You? Definitely fucking not, Art. You stole my eraser and didn’t speak to me for four hours because you were jealous I kept talking to Chrissy H. in math instead of you.”
“Don’t start citing ninth grade at me, Patrick.”
Patrick just shrugs. “I just think it’s representative.”
Art scowls. “And four hours is not a long time,” he adds, “to be clear.”
“We didn’t spend more than a week apart for six years,” Patrick says. “Four hours was an age.”
“Oh yeah?” Art scoffs. “I dread to think how you coped for twelve years.”
Patrick raises a brow, and his smile shrinks ever so slightly. “See?” he says. “You haven’t changed. You still know how to go for the jugular.”
“Can you even spell jugular?”
“Jesus,” Patrick says. “Quit kicking me, I’m down. And you know I was always better at you in English.”
“Yeah,” Art says, thinking back to all the essays returned to Patrick’s desk marked A+ with ease, while he crawled his way towards Bs. “You’re so fucking irritatingly smart and you threw it all away. Don’t you see how infuriating that is?”
Patrick grins. “No,” he says, “because I don’t see life as a competition.”
“Fuck you,” Art says.
“Hey,” Patrick says, as his smile shutters. “You’re the one who decided to start being a dick.”
Art shifts in place. “I’m sorry, man,” he says, finally. “You just left it wide open.”
“I know, I know,” Patrick says. “You never knew how to step away from a thing you could hurt.”
“Hey,” Art says. “I only do that with you.”
“Okay,” Patrick says, but he looks a little more amused now. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Not exactly,” Art admits. “Just defending my moral character.”
“Sure. I respect it.”
They smoke quietly for a moment, regarding each other.
And then Art can’t help it. He really looks at Patrick. Sees the lines on his face, the evidence of a life lived without him, and he has to look away, suddenly, the weight of it upsetting him. He wonders, stupidly, if this is how he’s going to feel in a decade, when Lily comes home from college with a new hairstyle or a fucking -- eyebrow piercing. A swell of pride at the person he sees before him, mixed with a guilty longing, like -- fuck. Why couldn’t I have been there with you?
There must be something of it in his face, because then Patrick edges a little closer, and says, quietly, all bravado gone, “Art, hey. Are you good?”
He forces a laugh, but it sounds shallow, even to him. “I want to believe you,” he says. “I just -- What if there’s been too much time?”
“What do you mean?” There’s no joke, just the open landscape of Patrick’s face, and Art thinks back to every conversation they used to have at night in the Academy, every whispered conversation in their dorm room. They could only talk about things that mattered in the dark.
Art swallows around the lump in his throat. He didn’t even know it was there until he felt the need to swallow, but it’s there all the same, reminding him that even at the most inopportune moments, his body would find a way to betray him.
“I used to know everything about you,” he says, finally. “I used to know everything, and now I don’t know anything at all. What if too much time’s passed? What if we don’t get that back?”
“We don’t get that back,” Patrick says. “It doesn’t mean we’ve run out of time, though.”
“You were my best friend,” Art shrugs. “What if I never know you like that again?”
Patrick’s face does something funny. “You think you don’t know me?”
Art shrugs again, his whole body acting on impulse, the movement happening instantly, like the result of electrocution. “Do I?”
“You know me,” Patrick says, and he moves even closer, slowly, like Art is a spooked animal. He reaches out, cautious, until Art’s hand is in his, and he pulls his palm back toward his chest. Art flexes his fingers against Patrick’s chest. “See,” Patrick says, like look at this, feel this. “You know me.”
“Your resting bpm was always crazy,” Art says, weak.
Patrick’s mouth ticks up. “You think this is resting?”
Art huffs, despairing. “See,” he says. “I don’t know you at all.”
“Hey,” Patrick says. “You know me. I promise you know me. There’s just gaps, that’s all. We can fill them, yeah? If you ever learn to have a normal conversation with me.”
“I have normal conversations with you.”
“Sure,” Patrick says. “Sure, I know that.”
“Okay,” Art says, nodding. “Fuck. I’m sorry about your mom, man.”
Patrick’s face goes tight, worried. “Art, what are you fucking talking about,” he puts his hand to Art’s forehead, and he has to bat him away.
“I’m not sick, Patrick, Jesus. I’m filling the fucking -- the gaps. I should have called.”
“My mom --” Patrick shakes his head. “That was eight years ago, Art, shit. I’m -- well I’m not over it, but -- Fuck. I’m sorry about your mom.”
“That was fucking 1995,” Art says. “You should be thankful anyway -- You know my Rebellato tuition came from blood money.”
Patrick frowns. “Dude,” he says. “You know I hate when you say that shit.”
Art does know. “Whatever,” he says. “I’m just saying. Everything happens because of something else.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to be grateful for it,” Patrick says.
They just breathe for a moment, watching each other.
“Well,” Art says, eventually, “at least you still have your dad.”
Patrick laughs, then, loud and true. He hits Art lightly on his good shoulder. “Man, fuck you.”
“He never liked me,” Art says, honestly, face split with a grin. “I hated him. He scared the shit out of me when I was a teenager.”
“Fuck,” Patrick sighs, after his laughter has died out. “Me too.”
“He was always telling me to sort out my posture,” Art continues, straightening his back as he tells the story. “Said when I slouched I looked like -- well, a fag. Which makes no sense, by the way, even if you are being like -- homophobic. Stereotypically.”
Patrick’s face has twisted a little, and Art runs back his words until his mind snags on FAG.
“Oh, come on,” Art adds, wanting to dispel the discomfort from Patrick as soon as possible. “You can’t seriously think I’m saying that to be homophobic.”
Patrick laughs, uncomfortably. “Can’t I?”
“Patrick,” Art says, quietly, with a little smile. “Come on. I thought you said you knew me.”
“You --” And then Art sees it, the recognition. Like looking in a mirror. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Art says.
“Huh.”
“That’s not a surprise,” Art says. “Surely.”
“No,” Patrick says, in acknowledgement, bringing his cigarette to his mouth. “Not exactly. I think I knew that.”
Art laughs, breathless. “You think?”
“What, am I supposed to keep a tab on every gay --”
“Bisexual, dude, come on -- Tashi.”
“-- bisexual tennis player in the biz? Impossible.”
“What, are you a slut now?”
Patrick shrugs, one shouldered. “I get around.”
“That’s messy, man. Screwing competition.”
Patrick’s grin gets loose, and looks Art up and down. “Yeah,” he agrees.
Art’s smile softens, easy. “Relax,” he says. “You don’t have to put the moves on me.”
“I don’t?”
“No, it’s --” Art shrugs. “It’s you, me, Tashi,” he says. “We’re sure things.”
“You sure have a funny way of talking about your feelings.”
Art looks to the ground. “I know,” he says. “You know what I’m saying, though, right?”
“I can guess,” Patrick says. “I’d feel better if you just told me, though.”
Art tries to make himself say the words but -- there’s not really anything that would be enough. So instead he thinks -- what the hell. Tashi’s probably watching them out the window anyway, so it’s not like this is entirely without her.
“Put out your cigarette,” he says, before doing the same to his, just dropping the forgotten filter, burning now to its very end, and screwing it into the concrete with his heel.
“Okay, Jesus,” Patrick says, “I didn’t know you cared so much about --”
And then he’s quiet, because Art’s got a hand to the side of Patrick’s face and is stroking, gentle, over his temple. And then Art is moving closer, and Patrick isn’t running away.
When Art kisses Patrick, it’s like he just opens for him. Patrick goes completely lax for one moment, two, but then he kisses back in earnest, going where Art pushes him to, his hands coming up to settle on Art’s waist which makes Art laugh which makes Patrick laugh, too. It’s not a long kiss. Not even an especially passionate one, more like Art saying do you understand now and Patrick saying fucking obviously I do.
When Art pulls away, Patrick is already laughing.
“Are you having a mental break,” he says, but he looks blindingly happy. “Your wife is curtain twitching right now.”
“It’s okay,” Art says, before going towards another kiss, helpless suddenly to the draw of it. “We spoke about it.” He blinks. “Are you having a mental break?”
“No,” Patrick smiles. “No, I think I’m good.”
“Are you?” Art says. He brushes a strand away from Patrick’s face. “Because I’m not sure if I’m good for you. I think I’m just cruel.”
“I know,” Patrick says, before kissing the corner of his mouth. “It’s character building. I like it.”
“That’s so far from what a well adjusted person would say that it’s laughable.”
“I know,” Patrick says, grin airy, “that’s why I’m laughing.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Art says. “It’s lucky I only like you enough to keep you around and not so much that I start caring about your wellbeing -- then I’d have to stay away from you.”
“Whatever, crazy,” Patrick says, his expression a sort of manic happiness, like a kid who doesn’t even know how much a loaf of bread costs won the lottery. “I loved you before I even knew what an email was.”
“That can’t be true,” Art replies, speaking over the sound of his heart pounding. “I emailed you before we even started at the Academy. The summer before. Don’t you remember? [email protected]?”
Patrick’s smile collapses into a happier, more brilliant one. “You remembered.”
“I remember everything,” Art says. “It’s like a curse.”
“I probably dreamt of you when I was a kid and knew who you were,” Patrick says. “And Tashi, too. I was made for you before I even knew it.”
“Fuck, not you too,” Art despairs, even though the look on his face is starting to match Patrick’s. “Everyone’s gone mad and started listening to psychics.”
“I was screwing this guy last year,” Patrick says. “He used to make me drink this gross tea before I douched and then he would read the tea leaves.”
“That’s bullshit,” Art says, as he feels a vein in his neck pulse.
“Don’t be jealous, old man,” Patrick says. “You can fuck me in the back of my car if you really want to recreate the experience.”
“Don’t call me old man,” Art says, fruitlessly trying to distract from the fact that he’s helplessly turned on. “I’m only a month older than you.”
“Yeah,” Patrick says. “And doesn’t that explain a whole lot. Virgo.”
“I hate everything about this conversation.”
Patrick just smiles, certain, and brushes Art’s hair out of his face. It’s something Patrick used to do, a lifetime ago, when movement between them was still easy as rain. He blinks and he’s seventeen again. “No, you don’t,” Patrick says.
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I don’t.”