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When Patrick entered the New Rochelle Challenger, he thought he’d come out of it with some money — ideally, the seven thousand dollar prize, which he could spend on a place to stay that wasn’t in the backseat of his car. What he wasn’t expecting was to come out of it with an invitation to move into Tashi and Art Donaldson’s guesthouse.
It goes like this —
After Art’s win, Patrick finds Tashi in the parking lot, leaning against his car with her sunglasses shielding her face. When he reaches her, she just looks at him for a moment, then says, “We’re winning the Open.”
Patrick stares back at her. “What?”
“We’re going to the Open, and we’re going to win,” Tashi repeats. Then, after a pause, “And after that, Art’s done. He wants to retire.”
Told you, Patrick wants to say.
He doesn’t, though, mostly because it’s difficult for him to follow any of what Tashi’s saying. Maybe it’s because she’s springing it on him so suddenly. Or more likely, it’s because Patrick is still distracted by the distinct feeling of something buzzing underneath his skin. He’s been playing the match over and over in his head for the past half an hour, reliving the feeling of Art’s arms around his shoulders and Tashi’s scream echoing through his ears. Everything he’d ever wanted suddenly right there, with so much intensity it made him feel almost sick.
And then, just as quickly, the match ended, Art won, and Patrick left the court while Art claimed his prize, and it was all over. All Patrick had managed was a glimpse back at Art, standing with his trophy with Tashi at his side, before he headed to the locker rooms. If Tashi hadn’t found him in the parking lot, Patrick probably would’ve spent an hour sitting in his car and staring at her contact number while he tried to decide if he should call her.
“Okay,” he says to Tashi finally, slowly. “And?”
“And,” Tashi says, sounding impatient. “When I’m done coaching Art, I’ll have a spot open for a new student.”
Abruptly, the buzzing beneath his skin stops.
“Wait,” Patrick says. “You want…”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Tashi cuts him off. “You’re still a sloppy player. I mean, seriously, it’s unfathomable to me that after all these years, your serve is still shit. Your game needs work. A huge amount of fucking work. But — ”
“But you want a challenge,” Patrick finishes for her.
Tashi purses her lips without answering, and Patrick feels the beginning of a smirk spread across his face. He doesn’t need her to answer. He’s always known that part of the reason Tashi hated him so much is because of how well he understands her.
“We’ll start training on Wednesday,” Tashi says instead.
Patrick’s smirk drops. “What? Where?”
“LA, where else?”
“I don’t live in LA.”
“You do now.”
“No, I — I don’t even have a place to stay, Tashi.”
Tashi lifts her eyebrows. “What, you can’t dip into your precious trust fund money and fork out some rent for a shitty apartment downtown?”
Patrick shifts on his feet.
Realization dawns across Tashi’s face. “Or you just don’t want to.”
“It’s complicated,” Patrick mutters, which is easier than saying, I haven’t spoken to my dad in years and I’m pretty sure that trust fund is now non-existent.
Tashi sighs, long-suffering, then looks away from him, gazing out into the parking lot as if it holds all the answers. “You can stay in our guesthouse,” she says finally.
Patrick stares. “Your guesthouse?”
“Yes. Temporarily, yes.”
“Why do you have a guesthouse?”
“Because my parents use it when they visit, and because we’re rich as fuck, Patrick.”
“But — ” Patrick starts, then stops. He doesn’t want to ask. But he’s kind of a glutton for punishment, and besides, he needs to know. “Is Art going to be okay with that?”
For a long moment, Tashi’s narrowed gaze flickers across Patrick’s face. Then she lets out a disbelieving snort.
Patrick frowns. “What?”
Tashi just shakes her head. “I’ll send you the address.”
Before Patrick can protest, she turns and walks away from him. And that’s how Patrick finds himself pulling into the neighborhood of the LA address Tashi sent him that Wednesday.
As ridiculous as it sounds, Patrick is half-convinced that when he arrives, Tashi will tell him she’s changed her mind. Art decided he didn’t want to retire after all, so she’s going to continue coaching him instead. Or worse — that Art was retiring, but that it didn’t matter, because Tashi still didn’t want to coach Patrick anyway.
But it isn’t Tashi who’s waiting outside when Patrick pulls his car into the driveway of the Donaldsons’ house. It’s Art.
Patrick climbs out of the car cautiously, his duffel bag thrown over his shoulder as Art watches him, arms crossed in a stance that uncannily resembles his wife.
Patrick hasn’t spoken to Art since the sauna. Before that, he hadn’t spoken to Art in twelve years. There were some texts and calls in the weeks after Tashi’s injury, and once, when he’d maybe had a few too many drinks, an aborted attempt at a voicemail that Patrick still cringes to think about. But as they all went unanswered, Patrick doesn’t think those count.
After Art won in New Rochelle, Patrick thought they might get a chance to talk. There was a moment when they’d shook hands and Art had locked eyes with Patrick, and Patrick had thought that meant…well, something. But then Art left Patrick for the trophy and reporters and Tashi, and Patrick left alone. He’d maybe spent longer than necessary in that locker room, sure that Art would show up eventually.
He never did. Obviously.
Patrick wants to ask Art about it now. He wants to know why Art was the one who smiled at him across the court, who fell into Patrick’s arms, but was still too chicken-shit to have a conversation with him about it afterward.
Instead, Patrick walks down the driveway, half-expecting Art to turn him away all the while. But when Patrick reaches Art, all Art says to him is, “You still drive that piece of shit car?”
Patrick blinks, glancing back at the car in question. Then he shrugs. “It’s gotten me this far.”
Art snorts, too quietly for Patrick to tell if there’s genuine humor behind it. “Barely,” he says. “You need help carrying in your stuff, or what?”
Patrick looks down at his duffel bag, then back at Art.
Art’s eyebrows arch. “Is that all you brought?”
“I travel light.”
“Jesus.” Art rolls his eyes, then turns toward the guesthouse. “Well, c’mon, then.”
And with little other choice, Patrick follows after him.
It is, as it turns out, a very nice guesthouse. It’s a one-story, open floor plan, with a kitchenette, a living room, a bathroom, and a surprisingly large bedroom. And it’s fully furnished, with fancy couches and armchairs, a King-sized bed, a flat-screen TV, and tasteful, modern art all over the walls. Outside, there’s even a patio, with a path that leads to the tennis court and pool behind the main house.
The house is obscenely nice. And it isn’t even Art and Tashi’s main house.
As Art takes him on a quick tour, gesturing to rooms and appliances with his tone short and clipped, Patrick watches him. He knows what Art looks like now, obviously. He played a whole match against the guy last week, and aside from that, Patrick’s watched Art’s games. They may not have seen each other in twelve years, but Patrick’s still seen him. And yet, Patrick is struck — just like he was in New Rochelle — at how different Art is now. Super stiff, unnecessarily serious, and almost completely unrecognizable from the Art that Patrick knew when he was a teenager.
Maybe that’s just what happens when you become rich and famous, Patrick thinks. Or maybe, that’s just what happens when you grow up.
Either way. Patrick really hates Art’s hair.
Even more infuriating than the fact that Art is a completely different person than the one Patrick once knew is that Art isn’t actually saying anything. There’s no mention of the fact that they haven’t spoken in twelve years, nothing about how Patrick slept with Art’s wife, not even a, “Hey, Patrick, how have you been?” All Art talks about is the thermostat and the sink’s Brita filter, as if Patrick gives a fuck, as if any of this is normal. And when Art is done with the tour, he turns to Patrick and says, “Do you want to see the main house?” Like that’s normal, too.
So Patrick says, “Sure.” Because if Art wants to pretend things are normal, then no way in hell is Patrick going to be outdone.
The main house is, of course, even more extravagant. The living room is huge, with a giant TV, three armchairs, and a large sectional, and the kitchen has an island, a fridge and a mini-fridge, two sinks, two ovens, and a gas stovetop. The dozens of white shaker cabinets are, Patrick’s sure, filled with things like espresso machines and stand-mixers and La Cruset cookware.
“And down here’s the laundry room,” Art says as he takes Patrick to the back of the house. “Which is probably the only reason you’ll ever need to come by the house. Tashi wants to add a washer and dryer to the guesthouse, but we haven’t had the time. Anyway, the housekeeper washes the clothes, so if you wanna just leave your dirty clothes for her, that’s fine. She usually comes by on Thursdays.”
Patrick sticks his head into the laundry room, eying the emerald green-tiled walls, the oak-paneled cabinets, and the dumbwaiter intended to hold a laundry basket. It’s funny — when they were in the academy, Art always used to give Patrick shit about not knowing how to do laundry. But, fuck, why would he? He was twelve when he was shipped off to boarding school, and besides, his family had housekeepers who did that sort of thing for them. And now here Art is, rich and famous with his own housekeeper and a state-of-the-art washer and dryer that looks like it does everything except fold the clothes for you. And it all belongs to the very same guy who used to berate Patrick about being too rich to do simple tasks and too stuck-up to learn how to do them, but who would still let Patrick throw his load of laundry in with Art’s, until eventually all of Patrick’s clothes smelled like Art’s detergent, too, and —
“What?” Art says suddenly.
Patrick isn’t sure what his face is doing, but he turns it into a smirk, anyway. “Nothing. Just thinking about how ironic all this is, given all the shit you used to give me about having more money than God.”
It’s the kind of jab Patrick wouldn’t have thought twice about making in high school. But they’re not in high school anymore, and it’s been years since Patrick was familiar enough with Art to make a joke at his expense. But maybe that’s why Patrick said it. Maybe he wanted it to sting, wanted Art to feel just like Patrick feels, watching someone he used to know like the back of his hand wander a home Patrick’s never stepped foot in before.
Art stares at Patrick for a long moment, his expression unreadable. But before he can respond, Patrick hears footsteps down the hallway and turns just in time to see Tashi step into the doorway of the laundry room, her eyebrows raised.
“Hey,” she says. “Giving the tour?”
“We just finished,” Art says, and before Patrick can point out there’s at least one upstairs level he hasn’t been shown yet, Art exits the room without another word.
It isn’t until he’s gone that Patrick realizes it was the first time the three of them had been alone in the same room since the hotel at Juniors.
Tashi turns to Patrick. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail with brown-blonde wisps hanging around her face, and she’s wearing biker shorts and a baggy t-shirt. It’s the most dressed down he’s seen Tashi Donaldson since…well. Since she was Tashi Duncan, probably. Even when she’d climbed into his car that night in New Rochelle wearing sweats under a fancy brown coat, she’d managed to look unfathomably well-polished. But today, seeing Tashi in a relaxed outfit in her own home, feels different, somehow.
For a moment, Patrick internally debates the ethics of checking out at a woman while her husband is only a hallway away, and then wonders why he even cares. He slept with the woman when her husband was a block away just last week.
“So,” Tashi says. “You ready?”
“For what?”
Tashi looks at him like he’s an idiot. “For practice.”
“What, now?”
“Yes, now,” Tashi says, turning to exit the laundry room as she tosses over her shoulder, “Come on.”
Patrick stares, then follows.
It’s when they’re on the court, Tashi throwing balls over the net and Patrick racing to whack them with his racket, that he finally says, “Hey, so. Did you actuallytell Art I was coming?”
“What?” Tashi gives him the same look she’d given him in the laundry room. “Of course I told him.”
Patrick skids to the left, just in time to send another ball back over the net. “Okay. But — did he say he was okay with it, or — ”
“Patrick,” Tashi interrupts. “If you can still carry on a conversation during tennis drills, then something’s wrong.”
Patrick is sure Tashi says it so he’ll shut up and get his ass in gear. Unfortunately, Patrick suddenly becomes so irrationally preoccupied with the thought of Tashi saying something similar to him in an off-the-court, non-tennis-drill, behind-closed-doors context that he misses the next ball entirely.
Tashi drops her arms to her sides in exasperation. “Patrick.”
“Sorry,” Patrick mutters.
When Tashi tosses the next ball, he hits it with his racket twice as hard, for good measure.
Tashi Duncan — Donaldson, Patrick corrects himself — is a brutal fucking coach.
Patrick knew this already, obviously. He’s seen Art play, he’s watched his and Tashi’s interviews, and he knows who Tashi is as a person. Hell, Patrick has been on the receiving end of it before, back when they were dating and she was pseudo-coaching him over the phone every time he called while on tour. Still, he wasn’t expecting Tashi to be so brutal with him — not this early on, anyway. He’d expected her to save that energy for Art, since he’s the one who’s preparing for the Open. What Patrick failed to account for is that Tashi Duncan — Donaldson — is a goddamn machine, capable of having enough energy to work Art during morning practice just as brutally as she works Patrick in the afternoons. Probably, if Patrick had to guess, Tashi works Art even harder, which is saying something.
Patrick’s routine goes like this: he wakes up, drinks a Tashi-recommended smoothie — which always tastes fucking terrible — runs a lap around the neighborhood, returns to the guesthouse to stretch, and makes himself a small lunch. Then, after that, he heads to the court for practice, where Tashi works him to the bone, ruthless and efficient, for four hours. After, Patrick returns to the guesthouse, showers, collapses with exhaustion, and spends the rest of the day watching mindless reality television on the flat-screen. Then, in the morning, the cycle begins all over again.
Patrick soothes himself with the knowledge that Art has it way worse than he does, because at least Patrick gets to go back to the guesthouse after his torture sessions with Tashi are over. After Art finishes his four-hour practice with Tashi in the mornings, he goes straight into strength training and fitness sessions with his trainer for another two hours.
Patrick knows this because Tashi told him after he’d been complaining about said torture sessions. God knows he hadn’t heard it from Art, who is definitely avoiding him.
Patrick has only seen Art once since the first day he arrived. It was the one day he’d happened to be early to practice, and when he’d run into Art as he was leaving the court, Art looked surprised. Like he’d somehow forgotten Patrick was living there, or something. And then, just as quickly, Art’s expression settled into that inscrutable expression again as he’d taken a swig from his water bottle and walked past Patrick without a backward glance. Patrick hasn’t seen Art since.
(A few hours into his practice, Patrick thought he’d seen the curtains in the window overlooking the court move. When he did a double take, the curtains had gone still again, and Patrick decided it must’ve been a trick of the light.)
In fairness, Patrick is probably avoiding Art a little bit, too. Or, at least, he’s avoiding the main house. There’s no need for him to go over there; not until he has enough dirty clothes to run a load of laundry, at least. And besides, he doesn’t…
Well. He just isn’t exactly eager about it. He knows it’s stupid — it’s just a house. But it’s a house filled with mementos of Tashi and Art’s life: the furniture they picked out, the framed photos on the walls, hell, the kid they had together lives there. The whole place is evidence of the years Tashi and Art built together while they were pretending Patrick never existed, so forgive him if he isn’t very interested in hanging out there.
Not that the guesthouse is much better. The gilded mirror in the bathroom is something Patrick can perfectly envision Tashi picking out, the fancy juicer in the kitchen was clearly a purchase either for or by Art, and the chipped mug in the cabinets is most likely a sentimental favorite of somebody’s, probably Tashi’s mom. It’s less obvious than it is at the main house, but there are little reminders of Tashi and Art all over. Reminders that Patrick is…well, a guest. Tashi may be letting him live here, but this isn’t actually his home.
He tries not to think about it too much. So what if Art is avoiding him, or if Patrick feels slightly sick every time he remembers he’s surrounded by evidence of Tashi’s and Art’s married life? He still has Tashi as his coach. He still got what he wanted, at least partially. Patrick has an honest-to-God second chance at a tennis career; Patrick might end up at the fucking Open next year. So what the hell does he have to complain about?
Besides, it’s only temporary. Tashi might be his coach, but that doesn’t mean she wants him to stick around. It’s a necessary evil for now, sure, while Patrick’s still broke, but Patrick knows what Tashi sees when she looks at him. He knows that despite the way they’re drawn to one another again and again, Tashi looks at Patrick and is reminded of both the girl she used to be when she was with him — the tennis player who was on top of the world before it all came toppling down — and a culmination of her past mistakes — of all the low points in her life when she momentarily forgot about her doting, lapdog husband to chase after the closest thing she could get to the feeling of playing tennis. And if Patrick knows Tashi — and he does — he knows she doesn’t want those reminders living in her guesthouse for longer than they have to.
That’s fine. Patrick will take what he can get, for as long as he can have it. Especially when he’s in a much better place than he was just two weeks ago. Anything beats living out of the backseat of his car.
So Patrick ignores everything else and focuses on tennis. It’s pretty easy, given that’s what he’s here for in the first place. Tashi as a coach is a lot different than the Tashi that Patrick was used to, because honestly, he expected a lot more yelling. And she does yell, sometimes — mainly, when she’s repeating an instruction and feeling frustrated about having to do so. But as Patrick finds out, a shaken head and a look of disapproval are just as impactful. Embarrassing as it sounds, nothing gets him to send a ball over a net harder than Tashi’s frown aimed directly at him.
They don’t talk much, funnily enough. Well, they talk about tennis. They still argue, because that’s what they do, but they don’t talk about New Rochelle, about the fact that they slept together, or about the fact that, after all of that, Patrick is living on the same property as Tashi and her husband. And they certainly haven’t talked about how Art knows about all of it.
Patrick isn’t even sure Tashi knows that Art knows. It’s Tashi, though, so she probably does. Still, he’d thought she’d have been angry at him for telling Art. Maybe she is. But if she is, she doesn’t bring it up, and fuck if Patrick’s going to mention it, either.
So, somehow, the week goes by, and Tashi and Patrick practice, talk only about tennis, and argue less and less. And as the days stretch by, miraculously, Patrick starts to feel like he’s actually…improving.
There’s something powerful about the way Tashi coaches. It isn’t the same as watching her play — not even close, and nothing ever will be — but she carries herself very similarly. That impossible mixture of graceful poise and raw passion, everything that made her so captivating to watch on the court, is something she still possesses while she coaches. And as arrogant and stubborn as Patrick is, there’s something about Tashi coaching him that makes him want to do exactly what she says.
When Saturday arrives, something about it feels different. Maybe it’s because the week has made Patrick so exhausted he feels like he’s operating out of his body, or maybe it’s because he’s eager for a reprieve from practice. Or maybe, it’s because after a week of coaching, Patrick is starting to know what to expect. Maybe it’s because when Tashi barks out orders across the net, Patrick follows them without second-guessing what she tells him. Maybe it’s because Patrick is suddenly executing Tashi’s commands…well, not perfectly, but almost perfectly, every time. Patrick has always thought of himself as a good player, because he is, but today it’s like everything is easier, like every ball sails effortlessly over the net, Tashi watching him across the court with a look on her face that’s —
Well, Patrick wouldn’t say happy. He doesn’t think Tashi’s looked happy in a long time. But it’s something close to it.
“What’s that look on your face for?” Tashi asks after practice has ended.
Patrick shrugs, running a towel over his face, but he doesn’t bother dropping his smile. “Nothing.”
Tashi rolls her eyes. “I’m heading into the house to make a smoothie.”
“Okay.”
She turns toward the house, then glances over her shoulder. “You coming?”
Patrick blinks. He hasn’t been inside the house since Art gave him the half-hearted tour earlier in the week. “You’re giving me an invite inside the elusive main house?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Tashi says. Patrick shrugs, and Tashi rolls her eyes again, turning back toward the house. “Whatever.”
Patrick stares after her, then quickly jogs to catch up, and Tashi lets out a huff, but when they reach the house, she holds the door open for him without objection.
As they enter the kitchen, Tashi turns on the blender, and Patrick gazes around the house. He doesn’t see Art, though certainly he’s somewhere around here. Not for the first time, Patrick wonders what their daughter is up to. He hasn’t caught even a glimpse of Lily since he arrived, which he finds odd. If Art and Tashi are the kinds of parents who bring their kid with them to their matches, they’re not going to send the kid away while they’re at home. Maybe she goes to daycare or something.
The blender stops whirring, and Tashi passes Patrick a glass of a mysterious brown-green liquid before he obediently takes a sip.
It takes like utter shit. Patrick can’t stop himself from wrinkling his nose. He barely even refrains from gagging. Tashi watches him over the top of her own glass, then smirks before draining her smoothie and setting the empty glass on the counter with a clink. “I’m going to shower,” she says.
“Okay,” Patrick says, mystified, and Tashi turns toward the stairs, leaving Patrick alone in the kitchen and unsure what to do with himself.
That was probably his cue to leave. Except… well, Tashi hadn’t actually told him to leave. And besides, he still has this gross smoothie to finish, and he’s pretty sure she’ll know if he dumps it down the drain somehow.
So instead of leaving, Patrick heads into the living room to sit down gingerly at the edge of their pristine, cream-colored couch, hoping he toweled off enough after practice that there isn’t any sweat left to drip onto the fabric. He’s scrolling through his phone and halfway through his awful smoothie when he hears the sound of someone puttering around in the kitchen. At first, he assumes it’s Tashi returning from the most efficient shower of all time, but when he turns around, he sees Art standing in the doorway to the living room with a mug of coffee in his hands, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers.
Patrick aggressively swallows the lump of liquid spinach in his throat.
Art lifts his eyebrows. “Are you sweating on our couch?”
Patrick narrows his eyes. “No.” Then he shifts in his seat to lean back against the couch cushions as if to prove his point.
Art’s eyebrows arch higher.
“Do you need something, or what?” Patrick demands.
Art makes a disbelieving noise. “This is my house, man.”
“Really. I had no idea.”
Art rolls his eyes and takes a sip from his mug. For a moment, it seems like he’s going to turn and walk away. Instead, he lingers in the doorway, looking down at his coffee mug, and says, “I’m going to the grocery store in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” Patrick says.
“Are you gonna need anything?”
“Uh. Yeah, I guess.”
There wasn’t much in the fridge or pantry of the guesthouse when he got there. He’s been mainly living off of yogurt and ramen all week. He’s just starting to wonder if he should ask for Art’s number so he can text him a grocery list, and then ruminating on how bizarre it is that he lives in the guesthouse of someone whose number he doesn’t even know, when Art says, “Okay, then you can come with me.”
Patrick stares at him. He knows he should object, primarily because he’s still covered in sweat, but also, because going to the grocery store with the guy who’s barely spoken to him all week sounds like a monumentally bad idea.
Except, years and years ago, when Patrick was a teenager, there was a small part of him that wanted to say yes to most things Art suggested. Things like going out to see a movie Patrick ordinarily wouldn’t have any interest in, or going to Sonic for milkshakes late at night even though they had early practice the next day, or skipping class to go to the mall. When they were teenagers, Patrick always said yes to those things, like he was on autopilot. And he said yes not because he really wanted to do them, but because Art wanted to do them, and Patrick just wanted to be around Art.
And apparently, that small, teenage part of Patrick is still lingering, deep down, because all Patrick says, “Okay. Sure.”
The drive to the grocery store is quiet. The only sound between the two of them at all is the A/C coming from the vents in Art’s car, and the muted sports podcast Art has playing in the background. Art keeps his eyes on the road, thumbs tapping repetitively against the steering wheel even though there’s no music playing and therefore no beat for Art to tap to, until Patrick finally breaks the silence.
“So,” he says, very eloquently.
Art glances over at him. “So?”
Patrick anxiously drums his fingers against the passenger door. “So, listen. I’m sorry I slept with your wife.”
Art stares at Patrick, an incredulous look on his face. And then, to Patrick’s surprise, Art laughs.
“No,” Art says. “You’re not.”
Impossibly, Patrick feels himself start to grin. He bites down at it, turning away to scratch at his beard. “No,” he agrees. “I’m not.”
“God.” Art turns back to face the road. “You’re such an asshole.”
Art surprisingly doesn’t sound very angry about this. It feels, suddenly, like there’s something light and fizzy buzzing in Patrick’s chest. “I just figured it was the right thing to say,” Patrick says.
“Yeah, alright,” Art says. If Patrick didn’t know any better, he’d say it looked like Art was grinning, too.
Patrick turns away again, drumming his fingers against his knee as he looks out the passenger window. “Well, hey. At least I’m not an actual homewrecker.” Art snorts incredulously, and Patrick says, “Well, I’m right, aren’t I? I mean, obviously, you and Tashi are still together. So…”
He’s not actually trying to fish for information. Is he curious? Yeah, of fucking course he’s curious. But he’s not outright asking about it, or anything.
But Art gives nothing away. “Yeah. We are,” is all he says. Then he glances over at Patrick, a small smirk in the corner of his mouth. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“I didn’t say I was disappointed,” Patrick says almost automatically.
He means it to sound both defensive and teasing, like it’s a joke. Somehow, it doesn’t.
Art glances at him again, and Patrick clears his throat. “Anyway. While we’re on the subject of honesty…what the hell is your haircut, man?”
“What’s wrong with my hair?” Art says.
“Well, nothing, I guess,” Patrick says. “It’s just…bad.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, it’s too short,” Patrick says. “You look like a businessman or something. It looked better longer.”
“I should’ve left you at the house,” Art mutters, shaking his head, and Patrick snorts.
Buying groceries with Art is…incredibly mundane.
Because Tashi has them both on the same diet, Art mainly just gets two of everything, with Patrick adding stuff to the cart like shaving cream and shampoo. They walk the aisles in relative silence, but it’s not quite as stifling as it was when they first entered the car, or as it was earlier this week, when Art was stiffly giving Patrick a tour of the house.
But there’s a small moment when they get to the peanut butter aisle and Art places a jar of smooth in their cart, pauses, then adds a jar of crunchy. Ostensibly, for Patrick. In fact, it has to be for Patrick, because this was a tired argument when they were at the academy; Art thought Patrick was a vile, disgusting heathen because he preferred crunchy, as if it wasn’t an objective fact that dipping a banana or an apple in crunchy peanut butter elevated the snack way more than creamy did.
Art doesn’t ask Patrick about it. He doesn’t even ask Patrick if he still likes crunchy peanut butter. (He does.) He just places the second jar in their cart and pushes it down the aisle, and after a beat, Patrick follows him while pretending he’s not thinking about how easy it is to imagine they’re in high school again, meandering the grocery aisles after practice and buying junk food and ramen on Patrick’s parents’ credit card.
This time, though, Art pays at checkout.
“Thanks,” Patrick says, a little surprised.
Art scoffs. “Yeah, well, what’s your bank account balance right now? Negative seven dollars?”
Patrick rolls his eyes, but when he grabs a handful of grocery bags, he feels a grin on his face.
When they get back in the car, Art turns the radio on to a regular volume. The channel is set to a sports broadcast, so Patrick reaches over, tuning the knob in an effort to find something playing the Top 40, but Art shouts and shoves at him, nearly swerving his car in the process, while Patrick just laughs.
The next day, Patrick officially meets Lily Donaldson.
He goes over to the main house to do laundry, having purposefully waited three whole days after the housekeeper would be there to throw in a load Sure, he could’ve just let them handle it, but it was the principle of the thing. The housekeeper was the Donaldsons’, not Patrick’s, and he wasn’t a total mooch. Besides, Art used to give him so much grief over his inability to do his laundry. Art needed to know that Patrick was a different person now — mature, responsible, and capable of many things, including laundry.
Not that he was trying to impress Art or anything. Obviously, he wasn’t. It just…well, it was the principle of the thing.
Tashi is the one to let him in the house, and when she sees the hamper over his shoulder, she almost immediately begins a lecture on not using too much detergent and using cold water if he’s mixing darks and lights.
“Tashi, I’m thirty-one,” Patrick cuts in. “I know how to do my laundry.”
“Do you? Because your clothes always look like shit.”
“They do not,” Patrick says, offended. Tashi’s eyebrows arch. “What the hell, Tashi, I wash my clothes. I’m not a child.”
“You weren’t a child when Art was doing all your laundry, either.”
Patrick startles. “What — how do you know about that?”
Tashi snorts and then turns on her heel, marching off to go for a jog or clean the house or whatever it is Tashi does with her life when she’s not coaching Art, and Patrick stares after her for much longer than necessary before he heads toward the laundry room.
After Patrick starts the laundry cycle, he isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He could set a timer until the wash is done and go back to hang out at the guesthouse, probably, but then someone would have to let him back in so he could put his clothes in the dryer. It’d be easier to just wait here, and yet, the thought of sitting in Tashi and Art’s living room and staring at the decor and family photos on the wall for two hours gives him hives.
He’s finally decided on just heading back to the guesthouse when he’s stopped on his way to the front door by the sight of a five-year-old girl sitting on the couch with an iPad in her lap.
Patrick immediately freezes, his blood running cold. Probably, the kind of reaction you’d have to finding an intruder in the living room, and not a five-year-old child.
“Hi,” Lily Donaldson says to him.
“Hi,” Patrick echoes back uselessly.
Lily tilts her head. “You’re Mommy and Daddy’s friend.”
“Uh.” Patrick clears his throat. “Yeah. Well, kind of. Your — uh, your mommy is coaching me.”
“Okay,” Lily says. “I’m Lily.”
“I know.”
Lily wrinkles her nose at him.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Patrick tries to recover, and then it occurs to him that might be a weird thing to say to a five-year-old, so he adds, “I’m Patrick.”
“I know,” Lily echoes. Strangely, this makes Patrick start to sweat. “What are you doing in my house?”
“Nothing,” Patrick says, slightly panicked. “Just — laundry.”
“Oh,” Lily says. Then, appropro of nothing, she says, “Do you watch Bluey?”
Patrick absolutely does not watch Bluey. “No.”
“It’s good.”
“Uh-huh,” Patrick says slowly.
Lily tilts her iPad screen to show him the blue cartoon dog on her screen. “You wanna watch?”
“Uh…” Patrick glances back to the laundry room. The timer on the washer still has about an hour left. And, well. It’s not like he has anything better to do. “Sure.”
Lily slides to the edge of the couch, Patrick gingerly sits down next to her — as though Lily Donaldson is a small bomb waiting to be deployed — and she presses play on the iPad.
Bluey, as it turns out, is a children’s TV show about a blue dog that speaks with an Australian accent, with ten-minute-long episodes that are moralistic, overly saccharine, and surprisingly heartfelt.
Patrick very quickly becomes invested.
They make it through three episodes before Patrick hears footsteps coming down the hall and a voice saying, “Lily? Where are you — ”
The voice cuts off, and Patrick and Lily look up from the iPad to find Art standing in front of them, staring at them with a very strange look on his face.
“Hey, man,” Patrick says, overly casual.
Art stares at him a moment longer, then turns to Lily. “So I see you met Patrick.”
Lily nods. “We’re watching Bluey.”
Art turns to Patrick.
“I’m waiting on my laundry,” he says defensively.
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s not a bad show. It’s educational. Great morals. You know, for the kids.”
“Oh, trust me,” Art says, looking amused. “I’m aware.”
He hears the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs as Tashi calls, “Art, the grocery drop-off is outside, can you help me carry it in?” But she stops once she reaches the living room, taking in the three of them with a slowly raised eyebrow. “What’s going on?”
From the iPad, an Australian accent drones on about the importance of family.
Tashi’s eyebrows arch higher. “Are you watching Bluey?”
“I’m waiting for my clothes to finish in the wash!” Patrick says.
“He says it’s got great morals,” Art informs Tashi.
“Patrick, you wouldn’t know great morals if they hit you over the head with a brick,” Tashi says, and then, to Art, “Come help me with the groceries.”
“You just got groceries two days ago,” Patrick says incredulously.
“Yes, but this was stuff we needed for dinner.”
“Is this what unfathomably rich people do?” Patrick asks no one in particular. “Just…buy groceries every few days or so, just because you can?”
“Yeah, says the guy that lived in a mansion growing up,” Art says, then he kicks Patrick’s legs — outstretched onto the coffee table — down to the carpet, making Patrick let out a sharp, Ow! “Get up and help.”
“They’re not even my groceries,” Patrick mutters, but he stands from the couch anyway.
There are approximately six paper grocery bags on the Donaldson’s porch, which Patrick dutifully helps carry in, placing them on the kitchen counter as Art and Tashi unpack them. Patrick idly hopes his laundry will be done before they eat. He can’t imagine that Tashi or Art will be thrilled by the idea of Patrick loitering awkwardly in the living room, waiting for the dryer to go off, while they have family dinner.
Lily joins them after a few minutes, sliding onto a kitchen bar stool, her little legs swinging back and forth underneath the counter with her iPad propped in front of her, still playing Bluey. But she doesn’t seem to be paying attention to the TV show. Instead, she’s watching the three of them.
“Mommy,” Lily says suddenly. “Is Patrick staying for dinner?”
Patrick nearly drops the grocery bag in his hands.
Tashi’s gaze darts to Patrick, just briefly, her lips pursed, before she glances at Art. Art glances back, the two of them exchanging a look Patrick doesn’t know how to interpret. They do that a lot, Patrick realizes. Which makes sense. They’ve been married for years, and they have a five-year-old. Communicating without words is probably a very necessary survival tactic. It’s just that Patrick used to be able to do the same thing with Art, once upon a time. Twelve years ago, they used to have their own hidden, secret language, and now —
Well, they’re civil with each other, sure. Weirdly, Patrick’s false apology to Art for sleeping with his wife was all it took to thaw things out, because after their trip to the grocery store, things have felt suddenly…normal. Or as normal as things can be when the guy you haven’t spoken to in over a decade is suddenly living in your guesthouse. But that doesn’t mean that Art doesn’t still feel like a stranger to him. It’s like Art is covered in the shell of a robotic tennis player. Every now and then that shell cracks, and Patrick catches glimpses of his boarding school roommate in there, deep down. But Patrick only sees it rarely, in the glimpse of a small snort or a half-smile, and then it disappears.
And the thing that stings is that it’s been years, and Patrick has never been close to anyone like he was with Art. Not even Tashi. They never had their own secret language; they weren’t together long enough. Maybe they would’ve been, if Patrick hadn’t screwed up, or if Tashi hadn’t pushed him away, or if Art hadn’t swooped in the moment he saw his first opportunity. Maybe there’s another reality where things went differently, and Patrick is the one with a mansion and a daughter and a professional tennis career and Tashi, and Art is the loose end standing in their kitchen, watching the way his best friend and his ex exist together in the life they’ve made without him.
Weirdly, the idea of that doesn’t soothe the sting like Patrick thought it might.
Finally, Tashi turns to Lily and says, “I don’t know, sweetie. Why don’t you ask Patrick?”
Patrick blinks, hard. Lily turns to Patrick. “Are you gonna stay for dinner?” She asks.
He should say no. He should make an excuse so he can return to the guesthouse, make a sad, Tashi-approved salad for dinner, and hide out there until he deems it safe enough to return to the house for his laundry. He couldn’t possibly stay, because that would be weird, and he doesn’t belong here. They all know it. The only person who doesn’t is the five-year-old, and it’s not like Tashi can explain that to her daughter.
And yet, there’s a small part of Patrick that feels…vindictive, almost. Tashi and Art pushed him away and ignored him for years, and now here’s their daughter, who Patrick has only known for an hour, practically begging Patrick to crash their family dinner. The situation makes him feel both smug and embarrassingly pleased.
And it’s not like he can say no to a five-year-old.
“Sure,” Patrick says at last. “I’ll stay for dinner.”
Tashi briefly purses her lips again before she returns to unpacking groceries, while Art glances at Patrick from across the kitchen, that inscrutable expression on his face again.
“Okay,” Lily says happily, and then she hops down from her stool and returns to the living room to watch her iPad on the couch.
After Patrick switches his laundry from the wash to the dryer, they all sit down in the dining room. Art made a salad with chicken for himself, Patrick, and Tashi, while Lily got dino nuggets, green beans, and carrots with ranch. Lily chatters about Bluey and daycare and the fingerpainting they’re doing next week, and Tashi assures Lily she’ll hang it on the fridge the second she brings the finger painting home.
“So,” Patrick says as he forks salad into his mouth. “Is this some kind of prestigious daycare for child tennis pros, or…?”
Lily wrinkles her brow, which is when Patrick realizes that was a weirdly phrased question to ask a child.
Tashi answers instead. “No, Patrick,” she says, exasperated. “It’s just a regular daycare.”
“Huh,” Patrick says. “Why not? Figured you’d be taking advantage of those genes the second the kid learned how to walk.”
“Genes?” Lily repeats with confusion, then glances down at her pants.
“It’s nothing,” Art says quickly, then he shoots Patrick a sharp look, like he just dropped the f-bomb in front of his kid, or something.
But Tashi just says, “Lily doesn’t play.”
Patrick turns to her. “What?”
“She doesn’t play,” Tashi repeats.
Patrick frowns. “Why not?”
Art glances at Tashi, but Tashi doesn’t look back at him, pushing bits of salad around her plate with her fork.
“Because she’s five,” Tashi says finally. “So.”
“Oh,” Patrick says, confused. He started tennis when he was six.
“We agreed that maybe we'd start her in tennis when she was older,” Art offers. “But for now, we decided…well, it just wasn’t a good idea.”
He doesn’t say what Patrick’s thinking — that Tashi lives vicariously through her husband’s tennis and that she’d probably do the same thing with her child, too. Patrick doesn’t even know if Art’s thinking it. Maybe he’s never even put two and two together. But he or Tashi or both must’ve been self-aware to realize it, to some degree. Patrick is both surprised and impressed.
The truth is, he’d been a little taken aback when he found out Art and Tashi had a kid. He wasn’t surprised by Art, who used to talk about having kids someday even back when they were kids themselves, while Patrick ignored the sour feeling he got in his throat whenever Art brought it up. But he never pictured Tashi as the motherly type. Not when Tashi was so ruthless, so intense, never even remotely nurturing.
Looking at her now, helping Lily add more ranch to her plate, it’s obvious he misjudged her. When Patrick watches Tashi with Lily now, it’s hard to imagine Tashi ever not being a parent.
Lily leans toward him and whispers conspiratorily, “I’m almost six, you know.”
Tashi smiles. “Yes, you are.”
“When will you be six?” Patrick asks Lily.
“December,” Lily says.
It’s currently August.
“Happy early birthday,” Patrick says.
Lily beams. “Thank you.”
After dinner, Lily returns to the couch with her iPad while Patrick reluctantly helps Art and Tashi with the dishes.
“Christ, Patrick,” Tashi says when he attempts to just dump his plate in the sink. “Rinse it off and stick it in the dishwasher like you’ve been somewhere before.”
“Alright, alright,” Patrick mutters, dutifully doing as he’s asked.
Tashi rolls her eyes and exits the kitchen to grab more dishes, and in her absence, Art sidles next to Patrick, leaning over to rinse his plate off in the sink. “Lily likes you,” he says suddenly, without looking up.
Patrick blinks, surprised. “Yeah, well,” he says, floundering stupidly for a moment, before settling on, “What’s not to like?”
Art looks over at him. “You need a list?”
Patrick makes a face at him. Art grins, turning back to the sink to continue washing. He’s absurdly neat about it, like he’s making a real effort to make sure only the plate gets wet, but somehow, a single bead of water from the faucet escapes, catching on the crook of his forearm before trailing toward his wrist, the fine blonde hairs glistening from the water in the trail the drop leaves behind. And for a brief, strange moment, Patrick must have a stroke, because he suddenly imagines reaching over, using his thumb to wipe the drop of water away, or gripping Art’s wrist and drawing it up toward Patrick’s mouth —
Tashi re-enters the kitchen with a dirty salad bowl and tongs in hand, and Patrick abruptly steps aside to let Tashi take his place at the sink.
Eventually, Tashi says goodnight early so she can take Lily upstairs and get her ready for bed. This leaves just Art and Patrick downstairs, alone again. Patrick may put the last dish in the cabinet as slowly as humanly possible.
It’s not that he wants to stay. It’s late, and it’d be weird if he did. It’s just…well, he doesn’t exactly want to leave either.
And yet, when the last dish has been put away, Patrick is left with no choice but to Art and says, “Well, I should probably get out of you guys’ hair.”
Art glances up from where he’s drying off the kitchen counter. “Yeah, sure, man.”
“Okay,” Patrick says, hovering a little. “Sure. Have a good night.”
“Sure, you too.”
Patrick walks toward the front door. He may walk there as slowly as humanly possible, too. Maybe if he’s slow enough, Tashi will finish with Lily and he’ll catch her coming downstairs. It’s not that late, after all. He could be a nuisance in their house for a little while longer and probably get away with it. Not that he wants to, it's just —
“Hey, Patrick?” Art says from behind him, just as Patrick reaches the front door.
Patrick’s heart thumps. He withdraws his hand from the doorknob and slowly turns around. “Yeah?”
Art pauses, and honest to God, Patrick isn’t sure what he’s expecting Art to say. He isn’t even sure if he knows what he wants Art to say.
And yet, the wind is knocked out of his sails a little when Art says, “Don’t forget your clothes in the dryer.”
Patrick blinks. “Oh,” he says finally. “Right.”
He heads back down the hallway, toward the laundry room, loads his dry clothes into the hamper, and then leaves the house without another word.
Patrick spends the next week practicing with Tashi in the mornings, watching TV and eating bland, Tashi-approved meals in the evenings, and in between, spending time with Art and Tashi.
Art has clearly stopped avoiding him. He actually drops in on Patrick’s practices sometimes, and if Patrick makes even more of an effort with Tashi and Art’s eyes on him, then that’s nobody’s business but his own.
Patrick skips his morning runs to watch Art’s practices on occasion, too. He’s always known Art’s good, and he’s never stopped being good, but for the past year or so…well, any tennis fan could tell you that although Art Donaldson was still good, he certainly hadn’t been his best. Maybe it was because of Art’s injury a year ago, or because Art was just tired. Or maybe it was because the exhaustion of living your life as a puppet for Tashi Donaldson to live vicariously through finally caught up to him. But whatever it was that was affecting Art’s playing before, it obviously isn’t anymore. When Art plays now, he’s not just going through the motions, robotically following Tashi’s directions as she shouts out tennis drills. There’s an energy to Art’s tennis that Patrick hasn’t seen from him in a long time.
If Patrick were more of a narcissist, he might pretend Art’s performance was only because Patrick was watching. But then, on Wednesday, Art goes to a match in LA and wins — by a landslide. Patrick watches the match on the guesthouse TV, eating Barbecue chips he’ll have to dispose the evidence of once Tashi returns home. He watches Art volley balls across the net, sweat pouring down his forehead, determination set in the furrowed lines of his brow, and when Art wins, the camera lingers long on Tashi and her proud, smug expression. The Tennis Channel commentators can’t stop praising Art’s performance, going on about what Donaldson brought to the court that day, something they haven’t seen from him in years, how his comeback has arrived just in time for the US Open.
To Patrick’s surprise, one of them even mentions the New Rochelle challenger; how the fire and passion Donaldson brought to the match he won against Patrick Zweig laid the groundwork for his performance today, and, potentially, how he’ll play in the Open in a couple of weeks, and Patrick’s heart races.
It would be dangerous to assume that Art’s newfound energy is solely a result of the match in New Rochelle; solely a result of Patrick. It would be stupidly dangerous. He knows that.
Still…Occam’s razor, and all that.
Patrick rewinds the TV a few minutes back to take a picture of the commentator’s segment on New Rochelle, his name written in the closed captions below. Then he texts the picture to Tashi and says, Hey, they’re talking about me on TV.
An hour later, Tashi texts him back, Don’t get a big head over it.
Patrick smiles to himself and locks his phone screen.
Patrick returns to the main house that Friday to do laundry, only to walk up to the house and find Art, Tashi, and Lily out back at the pool.
“Hey,” Tashi says, looking up when she spots Patrick at the edge of the yard. She’s lying in a recliner, a tennis magazine propped open in her lap. “You need to get inside to do laundry?”
Distracted, Patrick glances toward Art, who is in the pool with Lily, fitting goggles onto his daughter’s face, then quickly tears his gaze away.
“Yep,” he tells Tashi.
“Alright. The door’s unlocked,” she says, then turns back to her magazine.
Patrick stands there for a second longer than he needs to before he walks past them and into the house, dragging his laundry hamper behind him. It suddenly feels a lot heavier than it did as he was leaving the guesthouse with it.
He’s pouring detergent into the washer when he hears a voice behind him say, “You could join, you know.”
“Jesus,” Patrick swears, whipping around. Tashi is leaning against the doorjamb of the washroom, a glass of water in her hand. “What?”
“You could join us at the pool while you wait on your laundry,” she repeats.
“I don’t have a swimsuit.”
“Just borrow one of Art’s.”
Patrick stares at her, then looks past her, down the hall. “Do you expect me to go get one, or…?”
Tashi snorts. “What, and find out later you’ve been looking through my drawers?”
Patrick smirks. “That an invitation?”
Tashi rolls her eyes, disgusted, but turns down the hallway anyway and says, “I’ll be right back.” Patrick has just started the wash cycle when Tashi returns, a pair of navy blue swim trunks in her hand. When she passes them to him, she says firmly, “Change in the bathroom. With the door shut.”
“What do you take me for, some kind of perv?”
“You want me to honestly answer that question?”
Patrick sneers at her but takes the swim trunks, stepping into the hall bathroom to change, and…well, maybe Tashi was right, because Patrick spends an inordinate amount of time staring at the mirror and examining how he looks wearing Art Donaldson’s swim trunks.
When Parick walks out back, Art looks up at Patrick, then down at Patrick’s — his — swim trunks, does a double-take that borders on lingering, and then turns his attention quickly back to his daughter. Patrick smirks to himself as he eases into a recliner next to Tashi.
It’s not a reality he ever expected for himself, spending a Sunday afternoon at Tashi and Art Donaldson’s backyard pool. He doesn’t stay out there long — his laundry has to be switched to the dryer just an hour later, and honestly, mid-August in LA is too hot to stay outside longer than needed. But for the couple of hours Patrick’s there, it’s weirdly…nice. Tashi reads her magazine while occasionally getting up to walk laps around the yard, Art plays with Lily in the water, and Patrick watches them while pretending like he isn’t, and it’s a surprisingly decent way to spend the afternoon.
So, the next evening, Patrick really can’t be blamed if he wanders up to the main house to wash the t-shirt he may or may not have purposefully stained with salad dressing an hour ago.
This time, when he ends up by the pool, Tashi is the one in the water with Lily, while Art sits in a chair, reading his Kindle. He looks up when Patrick takes the empty chair next to him, then looks down at Patrick’s swim trunks with disdain. “So, what? Are you just gonna keep those?”
Patrick looks down, tugging at the navy blue material. “Maybe.” He stretches back on the recliner, slow and purposeful, his arms behind his head. “I think I look good in them. Blue might be my color, honestly. What do you think?”
Art rolls his eyes and stands, abandoning his Kindle on his chair and walking away. As Patrick watches him go, he notices the back of Art’s neck is slightly red.
Out of the kindness of his heart, Patrick chalks it up to a sunburn.
The next day, Patrick doesn’t even have to wait for an excuse to show up at the pool. Tashi texts him and gives him one.
Tashi
Are you coming by to do laundry tonight?
Patrick
maybe
why?
Tashi
Art and I are at the pool
I’m making margaritas
Patrick snorts at the text. Tashi Donaldson, making a margarita? That, Patrick isn’t going to believe until he sees it.
When he arrives at the backyard of the main house around 8:00, the lights to the tiki bar have been switched on, and Art and Tashi are sitting on two of the lawn chairs, both holding large margaritas.
Patrick stares at Tashi. “When did you learn to make margaritas?”
Tashi snorts. “What, like it’s hard?”
“Well, no, but I didn’t think margaritas fit the Donaldson Brand.”
Tashi sighs and admits, “My roommate in my junior year of college was a bartender. Now do you want one, or not?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Tashi rolls her eyes but stands from her chair, moving to the tiki bar as Patrick takes the seat to Art’s left. Art barely looks up, reading from his damn Kindle again. Patrick feels a sudden, childish urge to whack it out of his hands. He used to do that at the academy when they were alone in their dorm and Art was doing homework while Patrick was waiting around for Art to pay attention to him.
Patrick doesn’t whack Art’s Kindle, though. Instead, he waits patiently for Tashi to return with his margarita. When she does, brandishing a glass, Patrick takes it from her, tries a sip, then nearly chokes. “Jesus, Tashi,” he coughs. “You make ‘em strong.”
Tashi smirks, brow lifted as she raises her own glass and takes one long, effortless sip. Patrick has to force himself not to stare.
They sit for a while, Art reading his book, Tashi scrolling her phone, and Patrick drinking his margarita. They talk, even — mostly about tennis, mostly, though Tashi and Art talk about Lily some, too. It’s funny; Patrick never really thought of Art and Tashi as pool people. It just doesn’t match the image of them he’s been carefully constructing in his head all these years. Sure, they had a pool, but they were rich people living in LA, so of course they did. He didn’t expect them to be people who used their pool. Pools were for relaxing. Tashi is not a person who relaxes, and because Art does whatever Tashi does, Patrick presumed Art wasn’t a person who relaxed, either.
But Art and Tashi at the pool are different people. Like they’re in weekend mode, or something. Art doesn’t carry the same stiffness Patrick is used to seeing in his televised matches over the years, and he actually does look slightly relaxed, sitting in his lawn chair and reading his Kindle. Patrick didn’t even think Art read books. Tashi isn’t as relaxed, per se, mainly because she can’t seem to fucking sit still; she switches between scrolling her phone, walking around the yard, reading her magazine, reapplying sunscreen, and taking a dip in the pool every fifteen minutes. But at least her posture isn’t as rigid as it is during practice. Even her appearance looks slightly more relaxed, with her hair up in a messily tied bun, and a wrinkled cover-up worn over her name-brand bikini.
It’s strange, watching the two of them, Patrick thinks. Seeing them talk about Lily always feels like catching them mid-conversation, like they’re continuing threads of an ongoing discussion but without having to elaborate so the other person understands them. Kind of like how all Tashi has to do is reach into their pool bag and nudge Art’s leg for him to sigh and turn his back toward her so she can reapply his sunscreen. It’s that same silent, wordless kind of communication Patrick observed when he came by for dinner last week.
The thing is — for the past seven years, Patrick has spent a lot of time imagining what Art and Tashi’s marriage was like. In his uncharitable moments, out of spite, he imagined it as boring: Tashi and Art eating dinner together in silence, sleeping on opposite sides of the bed, facing away from each other. A dull, sexless marriage — that’s what Patrick imagined.
And maybe Patrick’s imagination wasn’t so far off. He knows he wasn’t imagining how unhappy they looked in New Rochelle. He knows he wasn’t imagining the look on Tashi’s face, that hesitation when he’d said, Is that why you hate him? He sees it even now; sometimes he wanders to the backyard of the main house to watch Art practice and feels a tense silence permeating the air he knows isn’t just in his head. But at other times, like right now, when they're moving around each other with an ease that can only come after years of being married to another person…they don’t look all that unhappy.
Honestly, they don't look unhappy at all.
When Tashi stands from her chair for the umpteenth time — this time to refill their drinks — Patrick finally breaks the silence around the pool and says, “You ever notice you have a complete inability to sit still?”
Tashi looks up from the tiki bar, her narrowed eyes meeting Patrick’s across the courtyard. Strands of hair have escaped her messy bun to hang in front of her face and brush against her neck.
“What?” Patrick says. “Just saying. It’s a compensation thing, right? Part of the whole…control freak thing you’ve got going on?
“Fuck you, Patrick,” Tashi calls as she pours tequila into three glasses.
“You know,” Art says, looking between the two of them. “I cannot even begin to understand your dynamic.”
Patrick blinks, and then laughs, surprised.
It’s ironic, because lately, Patrick has felt like things have actually thawed between him and Tashi. Not that things were ever icy like they were with Patrick and Art, but that’s only because he and Tashi are constantly at each other’s throats by default.
But Patrick kind of…lived for that, sometimes. He used to feel so powerful, knowing he was the only person who could bring something like that out of perfect star athlete Tashi Duncan. The funny thing is, he thinks Tashi felt the same way.
What they have now isn’t so bad, either. Their banter during practice and outside of it is still filled with barbs, but they aren’t quite as cutting as they were. Even Tashi’s Fuck you, called across the pool just a moment ago, hadn’t had much heat in it. It’s like they’re arguing not to hurt each other, but because that’s all they know how to do.
And yeah, maybe that’s still fucked up. But if it is, Patrick likes it, so who gives a fuck?
Maybe they argue less just because Art is around more. Somehow, Art has a way of unintentionally mellowing things out when Patrick and Tashi are together, like he’s some sort of natural vibe killer or something. There’s something about him that just makes Patrick want to be civil.
Patrick tries to do the same thing when he walks in on Art and Tashi and their tense silences. Of course, when he says something to try and break the tension, it’s usually something that pisses Tashi or Art off and launches them into a brief argument with Patrick, then with each other. So maybe it’s the opposite of what Art does, but at least it gets Art and Tashi to talk beyond their bland, vanilla, tennis-based conversations.
And, strangely, Patrick doesn’t actually think either of them mind.
Patrick finishes his second margarita quickly. It wasn’t nearly as strong as the first, but he definitely feels buzzed. He jumps into the conversation without thinking when Tashi and Art start talking about Art’s game from earlier that week, giving pointers on how Art can improve next time. And though Art rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, and what would you know?” He doesn’t ask how he knows what happened at Art’s last game in the first place.
Maybe Tashi told Art about Patrick’s text. Or, maybe, Art just assumed Patrick would be watching regardless.
Finally, Patrick vacates his chair to step into the pool, where he climbs into a pink flamingo inner tube and leans back to gaze dizzily up at the sky. There are a lot of clouds out tonight, and the light pollution in LA is terrible, but Patrick swears he can still see a few stars. A few minutes later, he looks up and sees Art stepping into the pool, too. He shed the t-shirt he was wearing earlier, so now he’s only wearing swim trunks, and it’s dark enough in the pool that Patrick can let his eyes linger across Art’s arms and chest without getting caught, at least for a moment.
“So,” Patrick says finally, glancing down at his flamingo inner tube. “This yours?”
“Yeah, actually.”
“Huh,” Patrick says. “It kinda looks like you.”
Art snorts. “How drunk are you, man?”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Sure.”
“I’m not!” Patrick says. And then, as if to make his point, he splashes water at Art.
“What the hell,” Art splutters, wiping water out of his eyes, and then he splashes Patrick back.
“Boys,” Tashi says, still in her lawn chair with her magazine open in her lap, but Patrick hardly hears her, already splashing another wave toward Art.
They go back and forth like that — only for a few minutes, but longer than two grown men have any right to have a splash fight for. Art is grinning at Patrick the entire time, while Tashi watches from the sidelines, her magazine raised protectively over her head, a half-annoyed, half-amused look on her face.
Something about the whole thing feels familiar. Like tennis, or maybe, like they’re teenagers again, joking and laughing and doing anything they can to capture the attention of the hot girl they’re hoping will follow them back to their hotel room.
At one point, Patrick falls off his float and into the pool, then dives under the water, chlorine stinging his eyes as he swims his way toward Art to wrap a hand around his ankle and tug him under, too. But Art stands his ground and refuses to budge, leaving Patrick with no choice but to come up for air, springing out of the water and completely dousing Art in the process.
Art stares at him, blinking water out of his eyes. His hair is completely soaked by this point. Chlorinated drops of water cling to his blonde eyelashes, rolling down the plane of his nose.
For an absurd moment, Patrick just stands there, staring back at him. Honestly, his stomach has been flipping ever since he wrapped a hand around Art’s ankle underwater, bare skin touching Art’s, the closest they’ve been since New Rochelle, when Patrick didn’t even know he’d been starving for that kind of proximity until he suddenly had it —
And then Art splashes Patrick with water again, and Patrick rears back, stunned, and the moment is abruptly over.
“Alright, alright,” Tashi interrupts, and Patrick finally looks away from Art. She stands at the edge of the pool, her magazine and bikini cover-up left abandoned at the tiki bar for protection. “C’mon. You’re getting the chairs wet.”
“God forbid,” Patrick mutters.
“Hey. They were expensive,” Tashi says. The water must’ve gotten her, too, because even from afar, her skin looks damp. Droplets of water are still running down her toned arms and legs, and Patrick watches for a moment before lifting his gaze back to her face.
“Oh,” he says. “I don’t doubt it.”
Art snorts but obediently climbs out of the pool. When he reaches the chairs, Tashi runs a hand through his messy, wet hair with an eye-roll and a snort as Patrick watches them from the pool, alone except for the giant flamingo inner tube bumping into his hip.
And as he stands there, he can admit to himself that the reason he imagined Art and Tashi as completely miserable together was not entirely out of spite, but because it was easier than any alternative. It was easy to tell himself that Art and Tashi had chosen wrong, or that Patrick wasn’t missing anything. That was easier than acknowledging the truth: that Art and Tashi had purposefully chosen each other while they’d chosen to push Patrick away. That the near decade Art spent with Tashi not only trumped the single year Patrick had with her, but that Tashi had been in Art’s life longer than Patrick ever had.
He can never get that time back, he realizes. He’s been realizing it, for years now. It doesn’t matter that Tashi’s his coach now, that they slept together twice even when she was with Art, that Art’s finally talking to him again. None of that will change the fact that nothing Patrick ever does will ever be enough to catch up.
“I think I’m gonna go,” Patrick says suddenly. He doesn’t even realize that’s what he was going to say until he’s said it.
Art looks up, letting his towel drop over his shoulders. “Right now?”
“Yeah,” Patrick says. He coughs. “Just — it’s late, and I’m kinda tired, so.”
Tashi looks at him skeptically, like she’s trying to assess Patrick from afar, but all she says is, “Okay.”
“Okay,” Patrick echoes back uselessly. “Well. Have a good night, I guess.”
Tashi’s eyebrow ticks up, and Art frowns, but neither of them says anything as Patrick climbs out of the pool and moves past the two of them without looking in their direction. He doesn’t stop to towel off; he just grabs a towel to go and dries off on his walk back to the guesthouse, leaving a trail of water dripping behind him onto the pavement behind him.
Two days pass like normal. Patrick goes to practice, interacts with Tashi like everything’s fine, and sees Art in passing. He only visits the main house when he has laundry to do. He acts like everything is normal, because it is, and then, three days after drinking margaritas at the pool, Tashi says to Patrick at practice, “So, my parents are staying over tomorrow night.”
“Oh,” Patrick says, ignoring the flare of mild anxiety he feels upon this announcement. He barely interacted with Tashi’s parents when they were dating — they didn’t last long enough for it. Still, Patrick remembers he went to Tashi’s for dinner with her family at least twice over the short time they were together. Patrick remembers her parents as nice people who asked him polite questions about his family and his tour, though he always got the idea they weren’t very impressed by him.
It was obvious Tashi thought the world of them, though. He’d never admitted it, but honestly, he felt a little honored she’d wanted him to meet them in the first place.
But that was thirteen years ago. Tashi’s parents were nice and polite to their daughter’s boyfriend, but he isn’t sure they’ll be quite as nice to the guy who was never there for their daughter after their accident and is now living rent-free on her property.
He’s already trying to figure out the best way to avoid them during their visit when Tashi says, “So they’ll need the guesthouse back.”
Patrick stares at her. “What?”
“Their guesthouse,” Tashi says. Not the guesthouse, or his guesthouse — which, yes, Patrick knows it isn’t actually his, but still, it stings, just a little. “They’re gonna stay there while they’re here.”
“But I’m in the guesthouse.”
“Which is why I’m giving you a day's notice so you can clean up your shit and make it nice for them before they get here.”
Patrick frowns. “What the hell? Why can’t they just stay in a guest room at your house?”
Tashi arches her eyebrows. “You’re seriously asking me why I’m letting my parents stay in the guesthouse we built specifically for them to stay in when they visit?”
Patrick throws up his arms, frustrated. “So, what, just because your parents are coming, you’re kicking me out? Where the hell else am I supposed to go?”
“Well, Patrick, I figured you could sleep it off in an alleyway for a night,” Tashi says sarcastically, giving Patrick an incredulous look. “You’re staying in the guest room, Patrick.”
Patrick stares at her. “In the main house?”
“Yes, in the main house, where else?”
There’s a sinking sensation in Patrick’s stomach, like he’s standing in quicksand. Living in Tashi and Art’s guesthouse is one thing. Visiting the main house from time to time is another. But staying there overnight, just down the hall from Art and Tashi’s bedroom? Hell, Patrick has never even seen the upstairs.
“Look, it’s just for one night,” Tashi sighs. “Lily has this talent show thing at daycare tomorrow, so they’re coming down for that. You’ll barely interact with them if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m only telling you so you can clean up before they get here. It’s one night, Patrick.”
Patrick is tempted to keep pushing the subject, to fight for the guesthouse. But an argument against Tashi Donaldson is not one he’s going to win. Patrick has learned that the hard way.
“Okay,” Patrick says finally.
Tashi lifts her brows. “Okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll clean up, and whatever.”
Tashi sighs, both put-upon and relieved. “Thank you.”
And that’s that.
Patrick does, in fact, clean up. In fairness, some tidying was well-needed; the guesthouse has been a wreck for almost a week now, and he's been constantly afraid Tashi would make a surprise visit and discover just what a pigsty he turned the place into. But Tashi’s parents visiting is almost worse, so Patrick goes the whole nine yards: he wipes the counters, he washes the sheets, he sweeps and mops all the floors. By the morning, the guesthouse is spotless, so Patrick packs all his belongings into his small duffel bag and throws it over his shoulder.
He plans to drop it off at the main house and then find somewhere to hang out while Tashi’s parents arrive, making himself scarce. But as soon as he steps onto the front lawn of the main house, he spots another car in the driveway.
Shit, he thinks.
Tashi, Art, and Tashi’s parents are on the front porch, hugging and exchanging greetings. From afar, Tashi meets Patrick’s eyes, and by then it’s too late for Patrick to turn tail and run, especially once she jerks her head, beckoning him over.
“Mom, Dad,” Tashi says, clearing her throat as Patrick approaches. “You remember Patrick Zweig, don’t you?”
“Ah,” says Tashi’s mom. She says it in a neutral tone; not unfriendly, but not exactly welcoming, either. Still, she smiles politely when she sticks out a hand. “Nice to see you again.”
“Yeah, same to you,” Patrick says. “I’m, uh. Tashi’s coaching me, so I’m just crashing here ‘til I can find my own place.”
He’s not sure why he says it, especially because it makes Tashi cut him a warning look. But he didn’t want Tashi’s parents to think he was living in sin with their daughter, alright? He figured he’d assuage their fears a little bit.
He doesn’t think it worked, because when he turns to Tashi’s father, he does not get a smile. Instead, when they shake hands, Mr. Duncan just grunts.
Inside the house, Lily sits on the couch, dressed in a hot pink tracksuit. When she sees Patrick, she beams at him.
“Hi, Mr. Patrick,” she says. “I have my talent show today.”
“I heard,” Patrick says, crouching down to meet her at eye level. “So, what’s your talent?”
“Hula hooping,” Lily says proudly, gesturing to the plastic hoop leaning against the living room wall in the corner.
Patrick looks at it, then looks over his shoulder, where Art’s watching him and Lily closely.
“Hey,” Art says. “She’s surprisingly good at it.”
“Oh, I’m not doubting that,” Patrick says.
Art laughs, a smile on his face that Patrick has to force himself to look away from.
The four of them leave half an hour later. Tashi stops Patrick before she walks out the door just to tell him sternly, “Don’t break anything while we’re gone.”
“Oh my God,” Patrick says exasperatedly. “I’m not some shelter dog you two picked up at the pound, you know.”
Tashi scoffs. “Please. Like you don’t wish you were.”
Patrick’s eyes widen. “What the hell does — ”
“Just don’t break anything,” Tashi commands again, and then she walks out, closing the front door behind her.
It isn’t until they’re gone that Patrick wonders why no one asked him if he wanted to go to Lily’s rich kid daycare talent show, and it’s half a second after that when Patrick realizes the thought of him being invited along Lily’s grandparents is absurd, and pushes the idea from his head.
To pass the time while they’re gone, Patrick occupies himself with random activities. He tries to flip through channels on the TV, but can’t figure out how to work his way around the child locks, so he ends up watching two episodes of Bluey before he realizes Tashi and Art will probably see their viewing history once they come home, and abruptly turns the television off. After that, he gets up to make himself a sandwich for lunch from Tashi and Art’s well-stocked fridge, even though it’s only 10 AM. And after that, he does his laundry, because he might as well get it done if he’s already here. He sits by the pool while he waits for the wash cycle to be done, and goes inside an hour later when it gets too hot.
And finally, after his laundry is dry and folded and tucked away in his duffel bag, he says, “Fuck it,” and goes upstairs.
It takes him a minute to find Art and Tashi’s bedroom, because there are so fucking many of them. The first couple of rooms are so bare that they have to be guest rooms, and the room at the end of the hall with bright pink walls and a pink, fluffy, canopy bed is obviously Lily’s. It turns out Art and Tashi’s room is at the end of the hall, with sage green-gray walls and beige-themed furniture. Their bed’s comforter is white, with tan pillows and a brown throw blanket. A peek in their bathroom shows a stand-up shower, a jacuzzi tub, and two double sinks, with white marbled countertops.
Distantly, Patrick wonders if Tashi and Art are aiming to land their house in an article for Architectural Digest.
It isn’t until he wanders back into the bedroom that he sees it. Hanging on the wall opposite the large walk-in closet are three large photographs, a triptych from Art and Tashi’s wedding day. The picture on the left is a solo one of Tashi wearing a cream-colored dress, her eyes downcast so that her mascaraed lashes fan over her face, up-turned in a serene smile. The picture on the right is a close-up of Art and Tashi’s hands intertwined together, their wedding rings on display for the camera. And the picture of the center is of Art and Tashi smiling softly, their foreheads pressed together, Tashi’s veil fanning out behind her, beautiful and majestic all at once.
Patrick stares at the pictures for a long time, then swallows hard and turns away, leaving the room altogether.
He ends up spending the rest of the evening sitting on the couch and scrolling through his phone. When Art, Tashi, and Lily finally walk through the door, Lily’s changed into regular clothes and she’s already asleep, Art carrying her on his shoulder while Tashi carries her hula hoop.
“Hey,” Patrick says, and it comes out thick because he realizes, suddenly, that there’s a large lump in his throat. He quickly clears his throat. “How’d it go?”
“She hula hooped her little heart out,” Tashi snorts fondly.
Patrick glances at the clock. It’s a quarter to 9. “Must’ve been a long talent show.”
“We went to the zoo and got dinner afterward,” Tashi explains. “My parents are already at the guesthouse.”
“Ah,” Patrick says stupidly.
“Hey,” Art whispers to Tashi, nodding down at Lily. “I’m gonna put her to bed.”
“‘Kay,” Tashi says softly, and Art disappears upstairs with their daughter still asleep on his shoulder. When he’s gone, Tashi turns back to Patrick.
“The house is still in one piece,” Patrick says, for lack of anything else to say.
Tashi snorts again. “Yeah, I see that.” She nods toward the stairs. “Want to put your stuff in the guest room?”
The guest room, she says modestly. Like Patrick doesn’t already know for a fact they have three.
“Sure,” Patrick says anyway.
Tashi leads Patrick upstairs, while Patrick pretends very convincingly that this is the first time he’s been up there. They end up at the end of the hall, in the doorway of the guest room that shares a wall with the master. “This one fine?” She asks, turning back to Patrick.
It’s not fine. Of all the rooms on this floor, this is the last room he wants to sleep in. He isn’t sure he could bear lying in bed alone at night, knowing Art and Tashi are on the other side of the wall in their beige, earthy, trying-for-Architectural Digest bedroom, with a triptych of the happiest day of the life they’d made without Patrick hanging on the wall across from them. After weeks of living in Art and Tashi’s house, Patrick has never felt more like he’s on the outside of something.
Patrick can’t say this to Tashi, though. Instead he says, “Sure. This is fine.”
You know. Like a liar.
Patrick doesn’t stay up much longer than that, even though it’s barely 9. He changes into the pajamas he brought, brushes his teeth in the guest bathroom, and climbs into bed. He turns on the TV to watch something before bed — not child locked, this time — but the only decent thing he can find playing on any of the channels is reruns of Friends, so he turns the TV off.
Distantly, he can hear sounds through the wall behind him — Tashi and Art’s bedroom door closing, the sinks in their bathroom switching on and off, soft footsteps padding the carpet as the two of them get ready for bed together. As he listens, he stares at the ceiling, something hot and bitter clenching in his chest. Why the hell did Tashi give him this room, anyway? Was it some sort of latent punishment for her injury Patrick was never around for, even though Tashi never even gave him any choice, pushing him away and all-too-quickly letting Art pick up the pieces instead? Did Tashi think it would remind Patrick not to get too ahead of himself, to remind him of what he can’t have, as if he isn’t already well aware?
Eventually, the sounds from Art and Tashi’s bedroom peter out. Patrick imagines Tashi and Art turning out the lights and climbing into bed to sleep. He wonders if they sleep apart, facing separate sides of the room, or if they sleep curled together, Tashi’s arm around Art’s waist or her head lying on Art’s chest —
And then Patrick hears it.
It’s soft sounds at first: the rustling of sheets, quiet whispers. And then, unmistakably, he hears the quiet rocking of a bed frame against the wall behind him, with bitten-off gasps and groans interspersed between.
They aren’t loud about it. They’re too careful for that. Patrick likely wouldn’t have heard anything at all, if his bed wasn’t just a wall away from Art and Tashi’s.
Would Art and Tashi know that? Would they know that Patrick would hear them, no matter how quiet they tried to be?
Patrick doesn’t give himself time to think about it. Instead, he snakes a hand underneath the band of his boxers and takes himself in his hand. He lets himself imagine what he’s imagined numerous times over the years — Art kissing Tashi’s neck, Tashi climbing on top of him, Tashi rocking herself up and down the same way she used to with Patrick as Art tries to hold back small whimpers. He imagines all of it, constructing the scenes in his head, letting the sounds on the other side of the provide a background soundtrack.
He knows it’s wrong. But he also knows it’s the only way he’s ever going to get this, so when Art and Tashi’s voices turn into stifled cries and then go abruptly silent, Patrick can’t even bring himself to feel guilty as he finishes into his own hand, biting his lip to muffle his own noises.
The next day, after Tashi’s parents have left, Art corners Patrick in the kitchen as he’s making a smoothie.
Fuck, Patrick thinks as Art approaches him. He knows. But all Art says to him is, “Hey, I think you should have this.”
Then Art extends a palm out, a key resting in the center of it.
Patrick frowns. “What’s that?”
Art’s eyebrows raise in disbelief. “A key to the house, Patrick, what the hell do you think it is?”
“I mean, why are you giving it to me?”
Art shrugs. “Well, you’ve been here a few weeks, right? Figured it’d be useful to have when Tashi’s parents visit next time and you need to crash here again. Plus, now you can let yourself in to do your own laundry.”
He tosses the key, and Patrick catches it one-handed. “Oh,” Patrick says.
Art raises his eyebrows. “What?”
Like he’s surprised. Like he’s confused as to why Patrick would question Art for giving his ex-best friend who slept with his wife a key to his house. Like it actually makes sense that Art would take what is already a bizarre but temporary situation and add an element of permanence to it when they both know that’s never been what this is.
But Patrick just pockets the key in his gym shorts and fixes a smirk onto his face. “Nothing. Just thinking about how much this would go for on eBay.”
Art rolls his eyes. “Dick.”
“Real, authentic, verified key to pro tennis player and tennis coach Art and Tashi Donaldson’s LA mansion, selling for three million dollars — ”
Art kicks at his shin, but Patrick dodges him, still laughing when Art leaves the kitchen with another eye-roll.
The thing is, though — Patrick doesn’t need a key to the main house. He has just about everything he needs in the guesthouse, sans the washer and dryer, and it’s not like he wears much outside of his workout clothes for practice with Tashi. He doesn’t need to wash clothes often, and he doesn’t need to come by the house often to wash them, either, despite the several occasions he used laundry as an excuse. He’s perfectly fine sticking to his weekly laundry trips, so no, he doesn’t need a key to the main house. Not when he doesn’t live here, and he isn’t supposed to be living in the guesthouse for much longer, either.
He’d thought Tashi made it clear this was a temporary situation from the beginning. When Patrick starts doing his own matches — and, hopefully, when he starts winning them — this will be almost over. Any day now, he’s expecting Tashi to start not-so-subtly hinting that Patrick should start looking for his own place so she and Art can get back to their own lives.
And now here Art is, giving Patrick a key to the house and tilting all his expectations off-axis.
It isn’t the first time this has happened. Last week, Tashi gave Patrick a garage door opener to put in his car because she was “tired of his piece-of-shit SUV being an eyesore in their driveway.” The week before that, Art asked Patrick if he had enough mugs in the guesthouse, and then handed over three of them, anyway, because they were “running out of space for them in their kitchen.” One day at practice, Tashi had shown up wearing a white t-shirt Patrick swore was his, and when he’d asked about it, she shrugged, like it was nothing, and told him he must’ve left it behind in the dryer.
“I figured it was Art’s,” she’d said, and for a moment the thought of Tashi wearing Patrick’s t-shirt, thinking it was her husband’s, filled Patrick with a mix of jealousy and want that was so intense he hadn’t even been able to think straight.
It’s like there are moments where Tashi and Art forget what this is. They forget Patrick doesn’t need a key or a garage opener or more mugs, because he doesn’t belong here. It's as though without meaning to, Patrick has tricked both of them, has wormed himself into a spot in their lives that feels more permanent than it really is. Patrick used to fantasize about something similar, funnily enough. He used to imagine himself as a ghost haunting Tashi and Art’s marriage, a jagged hole in their relationship they’d never be able to fill, their abandonment of him the reason they’d always be miserable together.
But imagining something is a lot different than living the reality of it. Especially when he isn’t sure how long it'll last.
It’s not like Patrick hasn’t already thought about how easy it’d be for him to keep living here. The Donaldsons have the space for it, and with Tashi as Patrick’s coach and the tennis courts they use for practice just in their backyard, it’s more convenient for him to be close. Not to mention the guesthouse is bigger than any apartment Patrick will ever be able to afford, and he doesn’t have to pay any rent for it. There’s Tashi and Art’s kid to consider, sure, but for some inexplicable reason, that kid seems to actually like Patrick, so that already feels like a non-issue. So would it really be so bad if Patrick stayed here? If he continued to spend his days practicing with Tashi, getting groceries with Art, sipping margaritas by the pool, eating the occasional meal with the two of them and Lily, continuously stopping by the house? Could Patrick make do, living the rest of his life on Tashi and Art’s property but not living with them, sitting on the edge of Art and Tashi’s relationship but always looking on the outside in, if that was the only way he could have them?
The answer is yes. As pathetic as it sounds, he knows the answer is yes. But that’s never been what Art and Tashi have wanted.
At least when Patrick leaves, he’ll still be around. Tashi will be his coach, and Patrick will still come by the house for practice. Maybe he’ll even see Art at his games. At least after he moves out, Patrick will still be in their lives.
That’s more than he thought to hope for a year ago, at least.
It’s two days before the US Open, and Patrick has already prepared himself for all the alone time he’s going to get while Art and Tashi are gone. Well, maybe prepared isn’t the right word; he’s never quite known what to do with himself when he’s alone. Probably, he’ll end up buying junk food Tashi normally won’t let him eat and loitering around the guesthouse while he obsessively watches the Tennis Channel for Art’s matches.
What Patrick isn’t prepared for is for Tashi to say to him, “We want you to come with us.”
It happens during practice, right after Tashi sails a ball over the net, and Patrick is so surprised that he misses. “What?”
“To the Open,” Tashi says.
Patrick drops his racket.
“It’ll be a good experience for you,” she continues. “You can interact with other players, watch the matches up close. And we’ll have enough downtime to get some practices in as opposed to you wasting away back here and cheating your diet plan.”
Patrick stares at her across the net. There’s a feeling in his chest, stifling and warm and dangerous.
“No,” he says finally.
Tashi lets out an exasperated sound. “Patrick — ”
“Tashi, come on, this is — I don’t need — ”
“What, you think you don’t need the experience?” Tashi’s eyebrows arch. “Patrick, come on. You’ve improved, but you’re not that good.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”
“Then what are you saying, Patrick?”
Patrick takes a breath, then lets it out. “Why are you asking me?”
“I already said — ”
“Bullshit.”
Tashi’s eyebrows lift in surprise. Patrick walks closer, because he needs to be face-to-face, has to see what she’s trying to hide in her expression.
She looks at Patrick for a moment, then glances away. “Look, we already bought another plane ticket. The suite we booked has three bedrooms. Just…come with us.”
“Tashi.”
“What?” She snaps, turning back to him.
Patrick just looks at her. The only thing separating the two of them is the net.
Finally, Tashi sighs. “He wants you there,” she says.
He swallows. “Did he say that?”
She glances away again. “No.”
Patrick bites down on a frustrated noise. “Tashi, c’mon — ”
“But he does, Patrick,” she interrupts sharply. “Alright?”
“How do you know?”
“Because he plays better when you’re watching.”
It’s not the answer Patrick wanted. It’s the strategic answer. It’s the answer that leads back to tennis, because everything is always about fucking tennis. But both the way Tashi is looking at him and the words “He wants you there” rattling around his brain make it hard for him to care if it’s about tennis or not.
He feels like he did that night in New Rochelle, Tashi sitting in his passenger seat, asking him to lose. And just like before, he relents.
“Okay,” he says.
Tashi blinks. Then she takes a step back and then nods, firm. “Okay. Good.”
And that’s that.
It turns out that when Tashi said she bought a fourth plane ticket for Patrick, she failed to mention that it was a row behind herself and Lily, or that he’d be sharing an aisle with Art.
Patrick doesn't find this out until they’re boarding the plane, and he’s sitting next to Art, who seems more intent on reading his Kindle than paying attention to Patrick. They make it about five minutes into the flight before Patrick has had enough.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence. “You nervous?”
Art sighs, turning to Patrick and locking his Kindle screen, like he was expecting this. “Why would I be nervous?”
“Well, it’s the Open.”
“Yeah, I’m aware of that.”
“It’s your last Open. Presumably.”
“I’m not nervous, Patrick.”
The thing is, though, it may have been years since Patrick had any right to claim Art was the person he knew best, but he still knows Art’s tells. He’s been fidgeting and picking at his fingers ever since they boarded the plane. Patrick leans back in his seat, stretching his feet underneath Tashi’s seat in front of him. “Well, I’m nervous.”
Art’s brows furrow. “What? Why?”
“This is my first time flying first class.”
Art barks out a laugh. “Please. With your rich ass family?”
“Nope.” Patrick shakes his head. Art lifts his eyebrows. “Private jet.”
Art guffaws. “You’re fucking kidding.”
Patrick shrugs. “Well, it was my Dad’s friend’s private jet, in fairness. We just used it all the time.”
“Jesus Christ,” Art says, shaking his head, but his fingers have stopped tapping. “So, is your dad still an asshole?”
Patrick shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. We haven’t spoken in…what, ten years?”
“Wow.”
Patrick shrugs again. “I’m not missing much.”
“No,” Art agrees. “You aren’t.”
Patrick blinks, but he shouldn’t be surprised. Art walked in on Patrick’s phone calls with his dad enough times at the academy to know he’s not really a guy you miss.
“What about your mom and your sister?” Art prompts.
“Mom calls sometimes. I text Becca occasionally. She’s a doctor now.”
“She was hot.”
“Gross, dude,” Patrick says. Art grins, and Patrick rolls his eyes, then turns to gesture to the screen in front of him. “Look, do you wanna watch a movie, or something?”
Art sighs and slides his Kindle into his bag. “Fine,” he says, but he settles back into his seat, so he doesn’t exactly look put out about it.
They argue back and forth on what to watch for several minutes. It feels a lot like late nights in the dorm at the academy when they could never agree on a movie, only this time, Tashi turns into her seat to glare at them, even though Patrick knows for a fact they aren’t being that loud.
They eventually decide on the newest Avengers movie, which is apparently long as fuck, and so hard to follow that Patrick dozes off halfway through it. He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep on Art until he wakes up at the sound of the stewardess’s voice on the overhead announcing that their plane is preparing to descend.
Patrick lifts his head from Art’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he says, voice hoarse.
Art looks at him, then glances away. “You still snore, you know.”
Patrick did not know, actually. He frowns, offended. “You could’ve just shoved me off of you.”
Art rolls his eyes, but says nothing.
They meet up with Tashi’s mom at JFK, who gives Patrick a skeptical look when she notices him. He presumes this means Tashi didn’t tell her ahead of time they’d have another guest. It’s definitely a far cry from the wide-eyed look Lily had given Patrick this morning when she’d asked if he was coming to watch her dad play tennis, followed by the beaming smile when his answer had been yes.
Tashi’s mom takes Lily off to do whatever they do while Tashi and Art do tennis stuff, and Tashi, Art, and Patrick head to the hotel to check in. Tashi was right about the suite; it’s huge, with three bedrooms and a kitchen and living space. Still, there’s something about the juxtaposition of the twin bed in Patrick’s room and the large King in the room Tashi and Art are sharing just down the hall that makes Patrick feel like there’s something sour in his throat.
“So, there’s an event tonight,” Tashi explains as she unpacks her suitcase — because of course she’s the kind of person who unpacks the second she arrives at her destination. “A dinner and drinks kind of thing for players and coaches to kick off the Open.”
“Do you want to go?” Patrick says.
“I want you to go,” Tashi says as she begins hanging her clothes in the closet. “Mingle, get your face out there, all of that.”
Patrick frowns. “What, by myself?”
“Obviously not. You’re not even technically on the invite list, since you’re not participating in the Open. But Art and I are, so...” Tashi looks over her shoulder with a smirk. “Just think of yourself as our plus one.”
Patrick makes a face, and Tashi’s smirk only widens.
The event is held at a rooftop bar a ten-minute Uber drive from their hotel. Tashi wears a sundress, Art wears a white-collared shirt and slacks, and Patrick wears the nicest outfit he brought with him, which is a tennis polo and dark blue jeans. Tashi gives him a look of disdain when he emerges from his room, but she doesn’t order him to go back and change, which Patrick considers a success.
They snag a three-top table in the corner when they arrive. The “dinner” Tashi advertised turns out to be just finger foods, but there is indeed an open bar. When the waitress comes around to ask for their orders, Tashi asks for a dirty martini, Patrick asks for a vodka cranberry, and Art just asks for a water. When she brings their drinks back, Art snorts at Patrick.
“What?” Patrick says.
“Nothing. I think it’s funny you still order your drinks like a college freshman.”
“I like what I like,” Patrick says, taking a long sip from his drink. It’s stronger than Patrick was expecting, and maybe that’s the reason he lowers his cup, looks Art up and down, and says, “Is that a crime?”
Art quickly looks away from him to take a sip of water.
Tashi tugs on Patrick’s arm. “C’mon. Let’s go introduce you to important people.”
Tashi leads Patrick around the bar, introducing him to several players and coaches, some he doesn’t recognize, and many whom he feels humiliatingly starstruck by. If Patrick were better at pretending, he could almost imagine himself as Tashi’s date with the way she hooks her hand under his arm and gently steers him between guests. That is, if it weren’t for the fact that Tashi introduces Patrick to everyone strictly as her client. He isn’t playing in the Open, she explains, but they can all expect to see him here again next year.
It’s very typical Tashi — putting up a confident front, even if the truth behind it isn’t as concrete as she’s portraying it to be — but Patrick can’t pretend that hearing that confidence directed at him doesn’t send a certain thrill zipping down his spine.
As they wander the crowd, Patrick idly wonders if he’ll get invited to this event next year, too, and if it’ll just be him and Tashi, or if Art will join them as the plus one. And then he cuts off that line of thinking, because why on earth would Art be going to Patrick’s games at the US Open once he’s retired?
Patrick and Tashi’s conversations with the other guests are brief and formal, with only a bit of polite small talk here and there. But one coach in particular lifts his eyebrows at Patrick’s introduction, then says to Tashi, “Didn’t know you were in the market for new clients. Is Art finally planning on retiring?”
Patrick feels Tashi flinch, just slightly, at the phrase finally, but her tone is cool and her smile is professional as she says, “Patrick’s just a soft launch. And no. The only thing Art and I are planning on right now is winning the Open.”
The coach laughs, surprised, and shakes his head as he takes a sip of his drink. Tashi shoots him another thin smile and then smoothly exits the conversation.
“Wait,” Patrick says once they’re no longer in earshot. “I thought Art — ”
“He is,” Tashi cuts in. “But these vultures don’t need to know that.”
Patrick glances at Tashi, looking for any indication of how she really feels about Art’s upcoming retirement, but her face is carefully blank. He’d expect bitterness, honestly; this is something she’s worked her whole life for, even if it was never going to last forever.
Maybe Tashi’s feelings depend on whether or not Art wins the damn thing.
Or, maybe, they depend on how well Patrick can fill the void once Art officially calls it quits.
From what Patrick can tell, Art spends the evening mingling, too, chatting with players Patrick has watched on TV screens for years. Even from afar, Art looks stiff, and Patrick can’t help but notice he doesn’t stay in one conversation too long. He doesn’t seem very used to the whole mingling thing, which doesn’t surprise him. Patrick can imagine Art and Tashi sitting alone at other events just like this, sticking to one corner of the bar, speaking only when someone else approaches them, shooting one another a look whenever someone’s small talk carries on a bit too long.
Patrick grins a little to himself. Honestly, he can picture it almost perfectly.
Finally, the three of them wind up back at their table so Patrick can finish his drink. When he glances over, he finds Tashi’s glass already empty. “Want another?” He asks.
“Sure.” Tashi passes him the glass.
Patrick makes his way up to the bar, where the waitress from before greets him with a smile. “Need another drink?”
“Yeah, uh,” Patrick says, and opens his mouth to give his regular order, then changes his mind at the last second and says, “Just two dirty martinis. And a water.”
“What’s the name?”
Does Patrick say his own name? Should he say his own name? He wasn’t actually on the guest list. Do the waitresses consult a guest list before preparing drinks so they can kick out anyone who might be crashing the exclusive, tennis-pros-only US Open event?
“Um,” Patrick says finally. “Donaldson.”
The waitress flashes a smile. “Coming right up.” She returns five minutes later with the drinks and slides them across the bar. “Two martinis for Mr. Donaldson.”
The back of Patrick’s neck burns. “Oh, I’m not — ” But there’s a concerned look on the waitress’ face, like she’s worried she gave him the wrong order, and there’s really no point in correcting her mistake, so in the end he just says, “Thanks.”
“Of course.” She turns to grab a bottle of Tito’s from the bar, then glances up at him as she pours. “So, are you a player?”
Patrick leans against the bar. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m a player.”
And, well. It’s not exactly a lie.
“Cool,” the waitress says. “Are you here for the full two weeks?”
“That’s the plan.”
The waitress laughs. “Do you spend all that time playing tennis, or do you guys ever get any downtime?”
“Depends on how good a player you are.”
“Yeah?” She glances up at him, holding his gaze. “And how good are you?”
The waitress is pretty, Patrick realizes. Tall, with sleek black hair. It’s pulled into a low, professional-looking bun, like the rest of the bartenders, but a stray curl has escaped to fall across her forehead. Her eyes are dark and heavily mascara-ed, and she makes direct eye contact with Patrick in a way that’s both captivating and slightly intimidating. Her nametag reads Jessica.
In response, Patrick grins and shrugs, leaning further across the bar.
“Well, we get pretty busy here at the bar this time of year,” Jessica says. “With all the fans and the players and everybody nearby for the Open.”
“Yeah? Seems like it.”
“Yeah,” Jessica says. She lifts her eyes to Patrick’s again. “But we get a bit of downtime, too. So...”
And…Jessica is pretty. She’s very pretty. If this had happened to him two weeks ago, he would already be trying to get an invite back to her place. But that was when he was sleeping with people just so he could have a place to sleep, and now…
Patrick glances over his shoulder. Tashi and Art are still at their table. Art’s talking to another tennis player, but Tashi’s looking right at Patrick, and when he meets her eyes, she turns back to the conversation with Art and the other tennis player so quickly and casually that Patrick might’ve thought he imagined it.
Patrick turns back to Jessica. He leans away from the counter. “Well,” he says lightly. “If our downtimes overlap, then maybe I’ll see you around.”
It isn’t an outright dismissal. It’s more like…a swerve. Jessica blinks, then fixes a smile to her face — more of a polite, customer-service smile than anything bordering on flirty. “Well, you know where to find me.”
“Yeah, I guess I do,” Patrick says, and steps back from the bar. “Have a good rest of your night.”
“Of course. You too, Mr. Donaldson.”
He returns to Art and Tashi’s table to find only Tashi there. A quick scan of the roof reveals Art’s a couple of tables down, talking to more tennis players.
“Thanks,” Tashi says when Patrick hands her the drink, then she glances toward the bar. “What was that about back there?”
Patrick plays dumb. “Back where?”
“Back at the bar when that girl was looking at you like she wanted an invite back to your hotel room.”
Patrick rolls her eyes. “Would you relax? We were just talking.”
“Uh-huh. What, did she think you were actually playing in the Open?”
“Maybe she was interested in me because of my own merits.”
“So she was flirting.”
Patrick scoffs, and Tashi smirks.
“Surprised you turned her down,” Tashi says conversationally, taking a sip of her drink.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, if I recall correctly, it wasn’t too long ago you were prostituting yourself out for a place to sleep.”
“Yeah, well,” Patrick says. “I’ve got a place now, don’t I?”
Tashi looks at Patrick from over the rim of her glass. Her gaze darts to the bar again as she lowers the drink, and when she returns her attention to Patrick, there’s a look on her face he doesn’t know how to interpret. He’d want to say it was possessive, and he thinks he’d be half-right. But he’s seen Tashi look possessive before. This...this is something else.
Patrick opens his mouth to speak, though he has no idea what he’s going to say. The rooftop is loud, but everything suddenly feels quiet, and Patrick is just now realizing how small this table is and how little space there is between him and Tashi.
“Tashi,” Patrick starts finally.
“Mrs. Donaldson?”
Tashi turns toward the approaching stranger so casually it’s like she was expecting them, and Patrick stumbles backward as though he’s been shot.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you,” says the woman who’d interrupted them — another waitress, though her nametag reads Claire. “I just wanted to say, I’m such a big fan of you and your husband and I was wondering...could I get a picture?”
Tashi smiles. It’s a kind smile, and it doesn’t even look forced. “Of course.”
The fan hurries to pull her phone out of her back pocket then holds it up in selfie mode so she and Tashi can squeeze into the frame. She’s profusely thankful as she walks away to get back to her job.
“That was nice of you,” Patrick comments after she leaves.
Tashi shrugs. “I almost always say yes to pictures if people aren’t weird about it,” she says. “It’s nice to be validated. Even if it’s in the same sentence as someone else.”
For a moment, Patrick wonders what might have been — a reality where a fan of Tashi’s is a fan of Tashi’s alone, the tennis star herself and not just the coach of the tennis star. When he looks at Tashi, there’s a faraway expression on her face, like maybe she’s imagining it, too.
Then her gaze snaps to Patrick’s, just as quickly, like it never happened. “I’m going to grab Art so we can go,” she says.
“Sure,” Patrick replies, and then he watches her walk off.
Patrick spends the next two weeks either watching Art’s games or practicing with Tashi. He always sits with Tashi and Art’s team during the games, toward the front of the courts. He expected to be constantly bombarded by reporters and fans, but he isn’t; Tashi is the one who gets approached, and most of the reporters and fans never pay attention to Patrick at all. When they do ask about Patrick, Tashi always cuts in and explains that Patrick Zweig is an up-and-coming tennis player and a family friend. Nevermind that Patrick has been playing tennis since he was a kid, and that family friend is a very convoluted way to describe the guy you slept with twice while still married, but whatever. Patrick knows Tashi isn’t telling any reporters that Patrick is her client until Art announces his retirement after he wins the Open.
Because Art is going to win the Open. Tashi keeps saying he will, for one thing, as though she thinks that if she says it enough, it’ll speak it into being. And for another, Art has won every single one of his matches so far. There’s a fire in him that Patrick hasn’t seen in years, and Art meets every tennis ball with his racket like it’s effortless. The reporters can’t stop talking about his performance, how much Art’s turned it around since the Atlanta Open, how he’s finally gained back the confidence he lost after his accident last year. The Tennis Channel, the sports commentators, people on social media — they all have their bets on Art winning the Open.
Between Art’s games, Patrick and Tashi practice in whatever time slots are unreserved, and it strikes Patrick for maybe the first time just how much he’s improved in the past few weeks, all under Tashi’s care. It’s not something he’d easily confess — he has a reputation to maintain, and despite what Tashi might say, he’s always been a good player, dammit. But he suddenly feels like a stronger player. He hits Tashi’s serves easier and easier each time, and serves the ball back just as hard.
He hasn’t changed his serve, much to Tashi’s frustration; she comments on it during almost every practice.
“Hey,” Patrick says during their fifth practice session since the start of the Open. “It’s gotten me this far, hasn’t it?”
Tashi arches her eyebrows. “Yeah? And where is that, exactly?”
Patrick looks pointedly around the US Open practice court, and then at Tashi on the other side of the net, and raises his eyebrows back with a shrug.
Tashi rolls her eyes and hits another ball over the net.
On the morning of the Men’s Final, Patrick follows Art and Tashi behind the stands. He has to stop at the entrance since he isn’t a player or a coach, and when he does, Art and Tashi hesitate next to him. Art’s face is impassive, his mouth drawn in a straight line. He’s been chewing gum since they left the hotel room this morning.
“Hey,” Patrick says. Art lifts his eyes to Patrick, and Patrick hesitates, too, having no idea what he’s going to say now that he’s opened his mouth. In the end, what he settles on is, “You’re gonna kick that guy’s ass.”
Art blinks, then huffs. “That’s the best you’ve got?”
“What are you talking about? That was super encouraging.”
“Maybe back at the academy,” Tashi says dryly, but she looks slightly amused, too. She jerks her head toward Art. “C’mon.”
“I know,” Art says. He glances back at Patrick. “See you after?”
“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Of course.”
Art smiles, small but genuine, then turns down the hall with Tashi. Tashi watches Patrick over her shoulder for a beat longer, with an expression Patrick feels absurdly nervous to meet, and then she turns her back to him, too, exiting down the hallway with Art.
Art wins the Open.
It isn’t an easy win by any stretch of the imagination. He and his opponent are pretty much tied for most of the game. Tashi sits tensely next to Patrick for the entire duration of it, her hands twisting in her lap, her lip caught between her teeth. Her expression only clears when Art turns to Tashi for approval and she aims a firm nod or an encouraging smile his way.
There are a few times when Art looks toward them that Patrick could swear Art’s eyes are on him, not just Tashi, but that might be a trick of the light.
And then Art scores the advantage point, and his opponent misses the ball, and just like that, it’s over. The crowd erupts into cheers and Tashi leaps out of her chair, screaming in a way Patrick’s only ever heard twice. He stands, too, obviously, cheering just as loudly, and in her excitement, Tashi turns to him and grabs his arm. Her grip is stronger than it has any right to be, but Patrick hardly notices, because the feeling of her palm against his skin, the knowledge that she’d had some instinct to reach out to him — like Patrick was part of this moment, too — makes something low swoop in his stomach.
When Art turns to them from the court, looking sweaty and exhausted, there's a wide smile stretches across his face, the kind of expression Patrick hasn’t seen since they were in high school.
They get separated after that. Tashi goes with Art to accept the trophy and speak to reporters, and Patrick leaves the stands with the rest of the audience. He hangs around by the entrance for a while, waiting for Art and Tashi, but Tashi texts him half an hour later.
Tashi
Going to be with reporters for a while and then meeting my mom and Lily
We’ll see you back at the hotel tonight?
Patrick
sure
see u there
Patrick wanders around for a while, buying two corn dogs and taking his time eating both, before he finally returns to the hotel room. It’s empty when he gets back, so he figures Tashi and Art must still be with Lily and Tashi’s mom. In their absence, he settles onto the couch and pulls up the Tennis Channel.
He watches a lot of recaps of Art’s game, and several clips of sports commentators dissecting it play-by-play, before the channel starts showing interviews with Art. They must be from a couple of hours ago because Art’s still in his sweaty uniform. Most of it is standard stuff — which makes it embarrassing how intensely Patrick is paying attention — until one reporter asks what’s next for his career, and Art takes a breath then says, “Well…a while back, Tashi and I decided this was going to be my last year.”
Oh shit. Patrick sits forward on the couch. This is it. This is Art’s retirement announcement.
On the TV screen, a few reporters make noises of surprise, and several cameras flash. “What led to that decision for you?” One reporter asks.
“Mainly, I’m just ready for it,” Art explains. “Winning the Open was sort of a last box to check and now that that’s done…I think I’ve done what we — what I wanted to do. This seems the best note I could’ve gone out on. I want to start focusing on my foundation, spending time with my kid. I want to focus on some of the stuff that matters.”
He stares into the camera as he says it, his gaze so serious and intense that it feels like Art is actually staring into the hotel room at Patrick.
He's slightly relieved when the channel switches to covering the Women’s Final.
For the next couple of hours, Patrick switches between the TV and scrolling Twitter on his phone. At some point, he must fall asleep, because the next thing he knows he’s lying on the couch, the sun has already set, and he’s blinking his eyes open to the sound of the front door opening. Quickly, he scrambles upright just as Art and Tashi walk in alone, looking —
Well, radiant would probably be a bit overdramatic. But there’s a kind of glow on Tashi’s face that Patrick’s never seen — or at least, one he hasn’t seen in years — and even from across the room, Art looks looser, more casual, more relaxed.
And, of course, there’s a trophy in their hands.
Helplessly, a smile spreads across Patrick’s face. “Holy shit.”
Art laughs, louder than Patrick was expecting. “I know.”
Patrick stands to his feet, already moving toward them. “Holy shit. You won.”
He says it to Art, but he’s looking at Tashi. He’s not an idiot. He knows this win is just as much hers as it is Art’s. More than, maybe.
But Tashi just laughs, too. Patrick doesn’t remember the last time he saw Tashi Donaldson genuinely laugh. “Yeah, Patrick. We know.”
“I mean…” Patrick looks down at the trophy. “Holy shit.”
“Is that all you’re gonna say?” Art asks as he sets the trophy down at a side table, a grin on his face. “Just holy shit? No congratulations, way to go, etcetera?”
“Well, I’ve still gotta preserve your modesty.”
“You’re full of shit,” Art says, and then he crashes into Patrick, his arms wrapping around his shoulders and his chin resting in the crook of Patrick’s neck. Patrick is so surprised by the hug that he stumbles backward, but then a second later he folds his arms around Art’s back, too, as if on delayed autopilot.
It’s the first time they’ve touched like this since New Rochelle, when they’d stood on either side of the net, arms wrapped around each other. This feels a lot like that, Patrick thinks. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe this feels more like years ago, like that celebratory hug at the Junior Open Doubles and every other game they’d won before that, when they were young and stupid, and winning a game with Art felt like the best day of Patrick’s life, every time. When feeling that kind of excitement and pride came with the feeling of needing to be close, as though feeling Art’s body against his was the only way to make it real.
When Patrick finally pulls away, he notices for the first time that Art’s hair looks different. It’s messier, and definitely unstyled. Maybe it’s because Art has spent the day on the tennis court.
Or, maybe, it’s because Art’s trying to grow it out.
Patrick swallows hard and averts his gaze before he says casually, “I saw the retirement speech, by the way.”
“God,” Tashi groans. “My phone has been blowing up with notifications all day. I had to turn it off.”
“You, Tashi Donaldson, esteemed tennis coach, actually turned off your phone?”
Tashi rolls her eyes at Patrick, then turns so her back is facing both of them. “Art, can you help me unzip this dress? The lace is killing me.”
Art steps forward obediently, and it’s only then that Patrick notices neither of them is wearing what they wore to the tennis match earlier. Art is in a white button down and slacks, while Tashi’s wearing a navy blue dress, slightly more formal than the floral one she’d worn to the match.
“You changed,” Patrick says stupidly.
“Celebratory dinner with Mom and Lily,” Tashi says. “We stopped by the hotel after the press interviews to change. Thought we’d run into you, but I guess you weren’t back yet.”
“Where is Lily, anyway?”
“My mom took her back to her hotel for the night.”
Patrick frowns. “Why would — ”
“Tashi,” Art interrupts. “I can’t get this zipper.”
Tashi glances over her shoulder. “What? Yes, you can.”
“I don’t think I can. It’s stuck.”
“It is not stuck.”
Art fiddles with the zipper, tugging it for emphasis. It stays put.
Tashi huffs, exasperated. “Patrick — ”
“Alright, alright,” Patrick mutters, stepping forward and elbowing Art out of the way, who makes a sound of protest. Art had managed to tug the zipper only a quarter of the way down Tashi’s back, so Patrick’s fingers brush bare skin as they close around the zipper. He places a hand on Tashi’s shoulder for balance, then pulls with the other. The zipper stays in place.
“Tashi, I really think it might be stuck,” Patrick says.
Over her shoulder, Tashi narrows her eyes. “How the hell can it be stuck if I was able to pull it up this afternoon?”
“Well, I don’t know!”
“Here,” Art says, hovering next to Patrick. They’re standing closer together than Patrick realized, and his breath is warm against Patrick’s neck. “Lemme.”
“No, you already tried.”
“Patrick, c’mon,” Art says. He pushes Patrick to the side so he can get a grip on the zipper, too.
“How many professional tennis players does it take to unzip a zipper?” Tashi says dryly.
“Hey,” Patrick says. “We’re doing our best.”
“I’m sure.”
Art tugs at the zipper again, his hand braced on Tashi’s other shoulder.
“You’re not gonna get it,” Patrick says. Art shoots him a dirty look.
“Do not break it,” Tashi orders.
“I’m not!” Art snaps. “Wait, I think — ”
At last, the zipper gives.
“Finally,” Tashi says. The back of her dress parts open, revealing the black band of her bra and a wide expanse of bare skin. When she turns around, she has her arms pressed to her sides to hold the dress up. One strap has escaped her grip, falling down her arm to expose her shoulder and clavicle, and the barest hint of the black lacy bra she’s wearing underneath the dress.
It takes great effort for Patrick to turn away from her and turn back to Art, and his throat is still slightly dry when he says, “What the hell, how’d you do that?”
This makes Art laugh, for some reason. Patrick realizes, suddenly, that his hand is still on Tashi’s shoulder. Despite Art’s laughter, the room feels very quiet, and even in the dim light, Patrick can see every fleck of color in Art’s eyes, bright with some sort of bizarre sense of amusement —
And then Art stumbles forward and kisses him.
Patrick goes still, his breath caught in his throat. Art steps back almost before it’s even begun, blinking at Patrick, like he’s surprised even himself.
“I — ” Art starts, haltingly.
And Patrick can’t. He can’t hear Art say he didn’t mean to, that it was a mistake, when this is the very thing Patrick has wanted since he moved into the guesthouse, since he saw Art and Tashi in New Rochelle, since he was twelve fucking years old, so before Art can say anything at all, Patrick kisses Art back.
Art gasps against Patrick’s mouth almost instantly. Humiliatingly, Patrick responds with a groan, one that dies in his throat once Art fists a hand in Patrick’s shirt to bring him closer. Art lets Patrick run a hand through his hair, a small groan escaping his mouth, too, and holy shit, Patrick feels like he’s on fire.
When Patrick finally pulls back, he turns to Tashi, afraid of what he’ll find there. But Tashi is only watching the two of them, her gaze flicking back and forth, assessing with hooded eyes. Patrick’s hand is still on her shoulder.
Patrick swallows. His throat is dry again. “Tashi…”
“Patrick,” Tashi says, eyes dark. “Shut up.”
Then she steps forward and kisses him, too.
Patrick’s hands find Tashi’s hair first. It’s more satisfying than touching Art’s, because Tashi’s is longer, so he lets his fingers run through the silky strands, fists them to bring her even closer, and Tashi hums, mouth opening beneath his. When they break apart, Art is staring, and without speaking, Tashi steps toward him.
The way Art and Tashi kiss is similar to the way they act in the rest of their relationship. Tashi grabs Art’s shirt, and Art stumbles forward; Tashi slips a hand into Art’s hair, and Art’s mouth falls open beneath hers; Tashi leads, and Art follows. Patrick watches them, anticipating the tightness in his throat he always gets when he sees them together. He still feels it, a little. But it’s different now. He’s not just watching from afar, he’s watching because Tashi and Art want him to look, and he feels just like he did when he was eighteen and sitting on the mattress of a dingy hotel with Tashi and Art sitting next to him: jealous and aroused and burning with the kind of longing he was too afraid to name.
Art and Tashi break apart, and Tashi turns to Patrick. Her hair is disshelved, her lipstick is slightly smudged, and half of her dress is falling down, yet she still somehow looks perfectly composed. Her gaze is sharp, like she’s still assessing the situation. Deciding the next move, just like that night in the hotel at Juniors.
Then Tashi nods her head toward the master bedroom and says, “Well? Come on, then.”
And Patrick has spent the past month watching Art and Tashi from the outside, wishing desperately for some sort of invitation he never thought he’d get. To stand here with Art panting and Tashi almost half-naked and both of them staring at him — to stand here knowing they want this, too, that they want him —
It’s not the exact thing Patrick has been wanting all this time, not really. Tomorrow, they’ll go back to the airport for their flight to LA, and that night, Tashi and Art will sleep in their own bed, in their own giant house filled with furniture and family photos and the daughter they raised together — all markers of the life they have that Patrick isn’t a part of. Tomorrow, Tashi will start planning her strategy for coaching Patrick full-time, and after that, Patrick will start playing in his own matches, and earning his own money, and looking for his own place to stay. A year from now, if he’s lucky, Patrick will be here again, playing in the Open.
But after that? When he’s done with tennis and Tashi’s done being his coach? When there’s no reason for Patrick to continue to exist in the life Art and Tashi have carved out for themselves and themselves alone?
Patrick doesn’t know what comes after that. But he knows better than to hope.
So, no, this isn’t what Patrick wants. Not fully, at least. But this is the closest to it that Patrick is ever going to get, and he’d be an idiot to say no to it now.
He follows Art and Tashi into the bedroom, stumbling a little onto the bed when they get there and then wincing, afraid to look over-eager. But Art just snorts into Patrick’s neck, and Tashi doesn’t react at all, just pulls Patrick forward and brings his mouth to hers.
For several minutes, all Patrick can think about is how this is exactly how he imagined it: Tashi tugging down her dress with efficiency then letting Art take the time to slowly undo the clasp of her bra, Tashi pulling Patrick’s shirt over his head and shoving him against the headboard impatiently, Art’s breath hitching against Patrick’s mouth when he undoes the top button of Art’s pants.
And then their clothes are gone, and Tashi is plastered to the front of him as her hand travels down, and Art is behind him, his breath hot as he kisses Patrick’s neck, and Patrick kind of stops thinking at all.
The sun streaming through the window wakes Patrick up early the next morning. For a moment, he just lies there, his face pressed into Tashi’s hair and Art’s arm slung over his waist. He thinks about staying there, pretending he’s still asleep for another hour. But he knows that’ll only make matters worse, so at last, he slowly climbs out of bed.
As he changes into the pair of boxers he’d discarded onto the floor last night, he’s tempted to glance at the bed again, wondering what kind of picture Tashi and Art make, asleep on the mattress with empty space between them where Patrick used to be. But Patrick keeps his eyes down. He doesn’t want to give himself any ideas. This was only for one night, and he knew that to begin with, so —
“Patrick?”
Patrick looks up. Tashi is sitting upright, blinking her eyes open as she pushes her hair out of her face. Honestly, it’s kind of criminal how incredible she looks first thing in the morning.
“What are you doing?” she asks tiredly.
Patrick looks down, trying to find his shirt. “Putting on clothes, what does it look like?”
Tashi snorts. “What, do you have somewhere to be? Our flight isn’t until eleven.”
Patrick doesn’t answer. His eyes are still on the floor, searching for his shirt. There’s one in the corner of the room, but he can’t tell if it’s his or Art’s, and the last thing he wants to do is leave this bedroom wearing Art’s t-shirt. He still has some dignity left.
“Patrick — ”
“What, Tashi?” Patrick snaps, finally looking up.
Tashi looks at Patrick for a long moment, scanning his face, before she lets out a disbelieving scoff. “Are you fucking serious right now?”
Patrick keeps his expression flat. “Tashi — ”
“You are,” Tashi says, or realizes. “Jesus, what the hell is your problem?”
Patrick opens his mouth to argue, but is interrupted by Art’s loud yawn as he sits up, too, rubbing his hands over his face and mumbling, “Why are you yelling at each other at 8 AM?”
“Because Patrick thought it’d be cute to do the walk of shame and run off before we woke up,” Tashi says shortly.
Art is fully upright, now. He turns to Patrick, and when he sees him standing and already wearing boxers, he frowns. Like he’s disappointed, or maybe even hurt, and suddenly, something inside Patrick snaps.
“Stop it,” Patrick says. “Don’t look at me like that like you weren’t going to kick me out of bed the second your daughter came back.”
Tashi blinks, then laughs in surprise. “I’m sorry, you’re angry because we don’t want our daughter to walk in on a naked man in our bed?”
“That’s not — ” Patrick starts, then stops. It feels like something’s boiling underneath his skin. “Look. I think we all know I’m going back to the guesthouse the very second we’re in LA. Alright? So don’t act surprised when all I’m doing is speedrunning the whole process.”
Art stares at him. There's a beat of silence.
“Is that what you think,” Tashi finally says flatly.
“Yeah,” Patrick says. “It is.”
Art laughs without humor. It is a spot-on incidental imitation of his wife. “Jesus, Patrick. You are so full of shit.”
“I’m full of shit?”
“You’re the one putting words into our mouths instead of talking to us like a grown adult — ”
Patrick barks out a laugh. “Oh, now you want to talk.”
Art’s mouth pulls down into a frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We don’t talk about anything!” Patrick bursts out. “You both pushed me out of your lives twelve years ago and crafted this — this whole, rich-person, tennis world without me, and had a kid, and we never talked about it. I slept with your wife, twice, and we never talked about it. I’ve been living with you for a month, just waiting for the other shoe to drop, and no one ever brought any of it up, so don’t tell me that all of the sudden you want me to — to communicate, or whatever the fuck.”
“Patrick,” Art says haltingly, working his jaw. “I’m — I don’t see what any of that has to do with — ”
“Oh, don’t,” Patrick snaps. “Just don’t, Art.”
“Patrick — ” Art tries again.
“Look,” Patrick says. “I don’t know if this was, like, a last hurrah, or part of the retirement celebration, or some kind of strategy, like you thought a threesome might save your marriage, or — or what, but don’t get angry with me for bowing out early when we all know you both never planned on taking this anywhere.”
“That’s not — ”
“I’m sorry. Bowing out early?” Tashi repeats, brows lifted. “Is that what you think you’re doing?”
“Isn’t it?”
Tashi scoffs. “You’re running away, Patrick. You’re running away because that’s what you always do when things get too hard, or too serious.”
Patrick’s nostrils flare. “Oh, says the one who pushes everyone away the second things get too tough for you? Forgive me for jumping ship before you had the chance to push me off yourself.”
Tashi huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Alright. You need to stop pretending you know what’s going on in our heads,” she says coldly. “Because Art’s right. It’s fucking embarrassing how bad you are at it.”
Patrick shakes his head. “You know what’s funny? I’m not. You two have spent all these years crafting this perfect life, and I’m the only one that sees through it, that actually knows you, and that terrifies you.” Art glances quickly away, but Tashi just looks at Patrick, her expression so unflinching that Patrick has to glance away, too. “So, yeah. I’m doing the walk of shame. Sorry.”
“Patrick, if you would just stop and — ”
“No, you just stop it, alright?” Patrick blurts. “This is — it was always gonna go like this, because Art is in love with you, and you’re in love with — with — with fucking tennis, and I’m — ”
Patrick’s voice breaks off. There’s a lump in his throat that’s been forming for the past ten minutes, and it’s too thick for him to swallow it away. Art is staring at him, expression softened with surprise, and Tashi’s staring, too, her face an impassive mask, and it hurts looking at both of them, so Patrick looks away.
“Do you have any idea,” Patrick says finally, “What it was like? Your stupid art on the walls, your furniture and family photos, your goddamn mug collection … fuck, it was just…just constant reminders, all the time, of the life the two of you made together while you were busy icing me out. Do you have any idea what it was like being there and knowing that I’d never be a part of what you two had, and just…having to deal with it?”
A heavy silence falls over the three of them. Art is still staring at him, but Tashi’s working her jaw, like she’s gearing up with a response.
“Do you know what I think?” Tashi finally says.
Patrick expels a heavy breath. “What, Tashi?” he says tiredly.
“I think that you think that because you know Art so well, that means you know me, too. And you don’t.” Tashi shakes her head. “You don’t know the first fucking thing about me, Patrick.”
“Oh, bullshit — ”
“No, it’s not bullshit,” Tashi interrupts furiously. “And if you’d stop putting words in my mouth and listened to what I’m saying, maybe you’d get it. All that shit about Art loving me and me loving tennis…” A laugh erupts from Tashi’s throat, strained and incredulous. “I mean…honestly, the fact that you think you have any right to sit there and moan and complain about being a third wheel is laughable.”
Patrick winces. “Tashi — ”
“Shut up,” Tashi snaps. “Just...Patrick. Why do you think I sent Lily to stay with my mom last night? Why do you think I invited you to the pool, to family dinner, to the goddamn US Open? Fuck, Patrick, why do you think I let you live with us in the first place?”
Patrick feels like he’s missed a step on the stairs. “I — what are you talking about?”
Tashi scoffs, shaking her head. “A threesome to save our marriage, Jesus Christ. You think if that’s what we were trying for, we’d pick a guy we have thirteen years of baggage with?”
“I don’t…” Patrick shakes his head. He feels lost, like he's missing something. Helplessly, he turns to Art for insight.
Art swallows. “Patrick…” He trails off and looks at Tashi. Tashi looks back at him, waiting expectantly, so Art takes a breath and says, “Look, this...it wasn’t a one-night thing, okay? I — ” His voice breaks off. “We want you to stay.”
Patrick stares. “Stay?”
Art swallows again. “With us.”
Patrick opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.
“Look, I wasn’t sure, in the beginning. You know, after — well, everything,” Art says. Then he huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “But it turns out we like having you around. So.”
Patrick turns back to Tashi. Her expectant gaze has turned on him, like she’s still waiting for the moment it finally clicks. But there’s still doubt churning in Patrick’s gut, so when he speaks, all he says is, “But you never said anything.”
“We don’t talk about things,” Art says dryly. “Remember?”
Patrick thinks back on the past month. He thinks about Tashi’s offer for Patrick to stay, grocery shopping with Art, dinner over at the house with Lily. The key, the garage door opener, the margaritas at the pool, the invite to the US Open. All this time Patrick had been preparing, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and meanwhile…
“Wait,” Patrick says suddenly. “Does this mean that when your parents stayed over, you put me in the guest room next to the master so I could hear you guys having sex…on purpose?”
Art’s face turns pink, but Tashi just scoffs. “Please,” she says. “I saw the way you were watching us last night. Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”
Patrick shakes his head. He needs to think. He feels like he needs all of this laid out for him, like a shopping list or a restaurant menu. “Tashi,” he says. “What are you saying?”
Tashi lifts her eyebrows. “You need us to spell it out for you?”
“Yes,” Patrick says, because he’s thirty-one, and it’s been thirteen years, and goddamn it, he’s tired of beating around the bush about it. “Yes, actually. I do.”
Tashi lets out a breath, somewhat exasperated. “We’re saying,” she states slowly. “That tomorrow, when we get back to LA…we don’t want you to go back to the guesthouse.”
“Okay,” Patrick says, almost impatiently. “And after that?”
Tashi shrugs, helpless. “I don’t know what’s after that, Patrick. Do you want me to lie to you and promise that it’s all gonna work out? With our track record?”
To Patrick’s surprise, he snorts. To his greater surprise, Tashi cracks a smile, too. She sits up, sliding down the end of the bed until she’s seated at the edge, right in front of him.
“We want you,” she says, matter-of-fact. “We want you to leave the guesthouse and move in and be with us. And after that…”
She trails off. Art sits up and moves down the bed, too, joining her at the edge of the mattress and resting a palm on her knee.
“And after that,” Art says, looking up at Patrick. “We’ll figure it out.”
Patrick looks between them. Maybe he needs more than that. Maybe he does need a promise, or at the very least, a two-year plan. But the three of them have never been good at talking things out, and God, Patrick wants this so badly he aches with it.
He thinks about this past month again, all the time he’s spent with the two of them. And he thinks about last night, arguing over Tashi’s zipper, Tashi’s snorts under her breath, Art’s huffed laughter against Patrick’s neck in bed. In a lot of ways, it felt like that very first night in the hotel room at Juniors, laughing and sharing beers and embarrassing stories. Or at least, it felt like a continuation of it.
It occurs to Patrick only now that there are several points this past month that have felt exactly like that. Like when it’s the three of them, they can’t help but go back to the people they used to be before…well, before everything.
He’s pretty sure that isn’t healthy. He’s pretty sure someone wiser than him — a licensed professional, for example — would say that everyone should surround themselves with people who help them move forward, not who keep them held back in the past.
But honestly…Patrick really doesn’t fucking care.
He takes a deep breath. “The thing is,” he says finally. “I might need a day or two.”
Something crosses Art’s face before his expression smoothes into a neutral one. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Just, you know. It might take me a while to move my stuff out of the guesthouse.”
Art blinks, surprised. Then the corner of his mouth curls into a smile. “Oh, sure. Because you showed up with so much stuff.”
Patrick feels a smile forming on his face, too. He tries to tamp down on it and is met with little success. “Yeah, exactly.”
Tashi snorts, but even she’s smiling. It’s not a full one. Still...it’s something close to it.
“You’re in luck,” she says. “I think we can find the space.”