The Best Man: Part Two (2 page)

“I just don’t want anyone thinking I’m using you,” Noah says after a moment, gazing at the gold embossed letters on the credit card, stomach squirming. He’s not entirely sure he’s telling Connor the true reason.

“Who thinks that?”

“No one,” says Noah. He huffs and puts the card in his pocket, winces when the threat of a headache pierces at his temple. “I don’t know. That cousin of yours.”

Connor raises his eyebrows. “Cormack?” he asks, and when Noah shrugs, noncommittal, he says, “Ignore him. He’s an idiot.”

“Yeah, but if he thinks it, then others might.”

“Who cares if they do?” Connor crowds in close, puts his hands on Noah’s hips again, dips his knees to look him in the eye. “Forget about them. Okay?”

“Okay,” Noah says, trying to take from the reassurance Connor’s offering, but unable to sweep away the uncomfortable feeling of hollowness settling in his chest.

Connor’s oblivious. “Good,” he says, smiling. “Give us a kiss then.”

* * * * *

Noah does his Christmas shopping as quickly as possible, because he loves Christmas, but he hates shopping, and the shops are too crowded and overstocked to make any part of it enjoyable. By the time he’s finished, he reckons he’s heard every single Christmas song at least three times, and despite himself he’s still humming the tune to
Santa Claus is Coming to Town
when he gets home. He hides the gifts in the back of his wardrobe before showering and changing, then heads to the pub to have dinner with Ron and Julie.

He wakes up on Sunday to a note from Connor saying he and Patrick have gone off together to visit some old friend of theirs, so he spends the day alone, not doing much of anything, until Connor comes back—without Patrick—later in the afternoon, and they eat together.

He doesn’t see Patrick again until late that night, gone midnight, during what Noah is coming to view as their regular appointment with Come Dine With Me re-runs.

Patrick sits beside him on the couch, as usual, and he puts his feet up on the table, as usual, and together they stare wordlessly at the telly, Noah leaning back on the arm of the couch, knees up, having lifted his feet to give Patrick room to sit.

“Where do you go to so late every evening?” he asks him after a minute of this silence.

Patrick glances at him. “Just looking to give you guys your space.”

“He isn’t even here half the time though,” Noah says. “But really, what do you do?”

“Curious little fella, aren’t you?” Patrick says, smirking, and Noah laughs.

“Who d’you think you’re calling little, eh?”

“You.”

“Fuck off,” Noah says, lifting a foot to jab Patrick in the thigh. It evolves into Patrick pinning Noah’s feet to the sofa, and Noah trying to kick him and failing, and they’re both huffing laughter, and Patrick’s eyes are twinkling, and this is the lightest Noah’s felt all weekend.

After, when they’ve sobered from the scuffle, Patrick explains, as if there’d been no break in the conversation. “I used to live near here, didn’t I? Before I moved to the States.”

“So?”

“So I’ve been catching up with old friends, playing a bit of poker, that kind of thing.”

He supposes that makes sense, and he tries to pretend he doesn’t feel relief, a feeling he doesn’t want to examine too closely,
can’t
examine. A part of him was expecting to hear Patrick has a man on the side.

“Well you don’t have to vanish every night,” he tells him. “I don’t mind you being here.”

Patrick lifts an eyebrow, smiling wryly. “Is that so?”

Noah feels like squirming. “Well I’m sure Connor would want to see more of you, wouldn’t he?” he says awkwardly. “Before you disappear back to America.” Patrick gives a vague nod at that, and Noah continues, “Who’s been feeding you? Don’t say you’ve been wasting money in restaurants every night.”

“One of my closest friends lives in the city,” Patrick says after a moment of hesitation. “I’ve been having dinner with her a lot.”

It’s a snapshot of honesty, and Noah clings to it, this opportunity to delve into the personal side of Patrick, the bits of himself he keeps close to his chest.

“What’s her name?” he asks, because he’s interested, and he wants to know more, not just about this girl, but everything, as much as Patrick’s willing to give him.

“Anne.”

“Anne what?”

Patrick lifts an eyebrow at him. “Why’d you wanna know?”

“Lived here most my life, haven’t I?” Noah says, shrugging, going faintly red. He doesn’t want Patrick to think he’s desperate for information; on the other hand, he wants Patrick to know he’s interested, that he’s not just some friend of Connor’s to him. He’s a person in his own right, one Noah wants learn. “I might know her.”

“I doubt it.”

“Try me.”

Patrick considers him. “Goldberg.”

“Goldberg…” The name sounds familiar, and he searches his brain before the answer comes to him. “She’s not related to that Missy Goldberg, is she? Proper tart she is. Always in the local paper with her arms wrapped around some new guy.” He tutts. “Reckons she’s a bit of a celebrity.”

Patrick looks like he’s waging a war against his smile. “She sounds…interesting. I’ll keep my eye out for her.”

“Keep clear, more like,” Noah warns.

He’s pretty sure Patrick’s got more he wants to say about it, can see the conflict in his eyes as he figures out whether to open up more, or keep quiet. Eventually he looks away, and Noah deflates. He didn’t realise how eager he was to hear more.

Patrick nods at the telly. “Where are we tonight?”

“Coventry.”

“Never been there.”

“Me neither.”

“Great,” says Patrick. He heaves himself off the sofa. “I’ll put the kettle on, will I?”

* * * * *

The next afternoon finds Noah and Patrick sitting around waiting for Connor to get home so they can go to the meeting with the hotel’s events manager. He’s not entirely sure why Patrick’s coming along, but he doesn’t mind it.

Besides, they’ve found an entertaining way to pass the time.

“It’s all in the angle of your wrist,” Patrick explains from his place on one of the breakfast bar stools. “If you haven’t got a stiff wrist, it’s just gonna go flying.”

Noah grins. He’s sat on the couch, looking up and over at Patrick across the room. “Stiff wrist, eh?”

“You’ve got a dirty mind, Noah,” Patrick says, smirking.

Noah tries to smother his grin. “Sorry.”

“Right,” says Patrick, once Noah’s made his face behave, “watch.” He takes a piece of popcorn from his packet and holds it up, makes sure Noah’s watching. “Like this.” Then he throws the popcorn high in the air, tips his head back, and catches it in his mouth.

“You make it look so easy,” Noah says, huffing at the smug expression on Patrick’s face.

“That’s because it is. Four-year-olds can do this.”

“Shut up,” Noah grumbles. He gets a bit of popcorn from his own packet and tries to copy what Patrick’s just done. The popcorn misses his mouth by a mile. “Seriously,” he says, exasperated. “Does my face just repel popcorn or what?”

Patrick laughs. “No, you just can’t aim for shit. Open your mouth.”

“What?”

“Open,” Patrick says, holding up another piece of popcorn. “I bet I’ll get it in from here.”

This time Noah couldn’t smother his grin if he tried. “You want me to open my mouth,” he says slowly, piling thick innuendo into his tone, “so you can put it in?”

Patrick blinks at him, then his eyes light up, and the smirk that spreads over his face is filthy.

“Yes,” he says simply, and then he throws the popcorn across the room at Noah’s open mouth, lands it dead centre. His face is smug again now, and dark. “How’s it taste?”

“Salty,” Noah says, deliberately sultry, and they exchange a look that’s less smirk and grin and mirth, more something closer to heat.

It’s dangerous.

Fortunately, Noah’s phone rings, breaking the moment.

“Hello?” he says upon answering. Patrick looks away, busies himself with sweeping off the popcorn dust on the breakfast bar.

It’s Connor, and he sounds like he’s in the middle of a mob. “Hi babe, listen, I got stuck at this shoot and I’m running late. Can you and Patrick just meet me at the hotel?”

“Uh, okay,” Noah says, frowning. “See you in a bit.”

“Thanks. Love you.”

Noah hangs up, looks over at Patrick.

“He wants us to meet him there.”

Patrick reaches for his jacket and keys. “I’ll drive.”

The air’s thick with ice when they step outside, and Noah wraps his arms around himself, shivering. “God, it’s freezing.”

“Snow’s coming.”

“That’s what Ron says.”

They reach Patrick’s car parked in the courtyard and Patrick pauses before he unlocks the doors, looks at Noah over the hood.

“Who’s Ron?”

“The guy I work with in the shop,” Noah says, jerking his thumb behind him at his coffee house.

“Ah, the little posh fella?”

“Yeah,” says Noah. He frowns in confusion. “How’d you know?”

Patrick looks awkward all of a sudden, eyes sliding away from Noah’s face. “I was in there the other day. He said you had the afternoon off.”

“Oh. Were you—were you looking for me?” he asks, feeling about as awkward as Patrick looks.

It’s a stupid question, which Patrick confirms by gruffly answering, “I was getting a coffee.” He looks at Noah again, his eyes unreadable, before glancing away, up at the empty theatre. “Still no offers on this place, huh?”

Noah joins him in looking up at it, shrugs. “Dunno. It’s never been shut this long before. Hope someone buys it soon,” he says, tightening his arms around himself as an icy breeze whips across him. “It’s a bit annoying having to go into the city every time you want to catch a show.”

“Is it busy when it’s open?” Patrick asks, and he looks around, as if taking in the whole area with a single glance. “This is a small town.”

“Small town, but it’s full of the middle-class and this is the only theatre.”

Patrick’s eyebrows draw together at that, contemplative. “That’s a good point.”

Noah gives him a moment to get lost in his own thoughts before grumbling, “You letting me in or what? I’m freezing my balls off.”

“You’re a classy fella, Noah,” Patrick says, grinning at him, the awkwardness of earlier filtering away.

Patrick drives slowly to the hotel, mindful of the icy roads, and he has his heating up so high that the chill melts from Noah’s bones and leaves him relaxed in his seat, listening to the radio, watching the scenery.

The hotel’s randomly busy for a Monday afternoon and they have to wait a good while for the elevator, standing together in a crowd, everyone around them weirdly silent and robotic in their corporate attire. He catches Patrick’s eye as they’re stood there and something about the situation makes him want to giggle, can see the same instinct reflected back at him on Patrick’s tightly controlled expression.

They make it into the elevator with about three thousand other people and it’s such a tight fit that Noah’s pretty sure he’s one misstep away from accidental fornication with any one of these strangers. He’s being jostled around as everyone tries to squeeze in and stand in relative comfort and when he’s jabbed in the back by someone’s handbag, and in the side by at least three different elbows, he has nowhere to go but forward and into Patrick’s space.

Patrick puts a hand on his hip to steady him, and for one crazy instant Noah forgets about all the other people around him, his entire focus narrowing down to that one point of contact.

After the—boring and mostly unnecessary, in Noah’s opinion—meeting with the events manager to go over, once again, the projected guest count and the layout of the ceremony, Noah heads back to the lobby with Patrick and Connor.

Connor’s phone rings before they’ve even stepped out of the elevator and he looks at the screen, grimaces and sighs. “I have to take this,” he says as they cross the lobby to the exit. “Just give me a minute.” He wanders off, barking into his phone, and Noah and Patrick take the opportunity to sit in one of the vacant sofas littering the reception area.

“I hate weddings,” Patrick says, apropos of nothing.

Noah looks at him. “Yeah, you’ve already told me.”

“No, I told you I didn’t see the point of marriage.” Patrick smiles. “Me hating weddings is new information.”

“Right, go on, you grumpy sod,” Noah says, rolling his eyes. “Why d’you hate weddings?”

“Where do I even begin?”

Noah considers him, his eyes narrowed. “You know, one day you’re gonna meet someone who’s gonna make you change your mind,” he says, his tone levelled. He doesn’t know how he knows this for sure, but he can’t believe that anyone, even Patrick, could never fall in love.

Patrick gives him a look of mild amusement. “You reckon?”

“Yeah,” says Noah firmly. “I bet you a hundred quid you’ll meet someone in the near future who you’ll want to spend the rest of your life with.”