Chapter Nine
“Virgin strawberry daiquiri,” Will orders, his sunglasses glinting.
Patrick loves the way Will’s exposed skin and hair shine in the tropical light. It reminds him of when they first got married and he thought Will was “glowy,” which is still a description that is all kinds of ugh, but is also all kinds of true. And Patrick adores Will so much that he’s happy to indulge in such romantic ridiculousness inside his own head.
“Make sure it’s a virgin daiquiri,” Patrick chimes in, adjusting his own floppy sunhat and slathering more sunscreen on his bare shoulders. “And I’ll have a lemonade.”
“Will do, sir,” replies the handsome young pool boy who, moments earlier, had emerged from the small café to take their order. He scampers off, his pert young ass looking adorable in his khaki uniform shorts.
“He plays for our team,” Patrick says.
“Yeah,” Will agrees.
They’re sitting poolside as evening descends on their first full day in Hawaii. They spent it having sex, ordering room service, reading and admiring their view, as well as sleeping at all the wrong times, as jet lag caught up to them. But now they’re awake and enjoying themselves. It’s still warm enough to wear their bathing suits, though the breeze is cooler now. Many of the employees have donned cardigans and some of the other tourists have as well. They must not be from South Dakota where fifty-nine degrees is swimming-pool weather.
“I bet he rakes in the tips from married older men who want him to meet up somewhere private once the wifey is asleep.”
“You always think the worst of people,” Will says softly.
“I think the people of people,” Patrick corrects. “Human beings are messy and awful most of the time, but that’s life.”
“Such a misanthrope.”
“Hardly. You’re the misanthrope.”
Will laughs. “I’m the do-gooder, remember? Hello? I love people and try to help them.”
“You love the idea that people can be perfect. That they’re fixable. That you can pour money and time into someone and they’ll become a better friend, lover, or person. I, by contrast, accept that people are usually awful and always will be. I only want to fix their broken brains, not their minds. But that doesn’t mean I think they don’t deserve love and acceptance.”
“Just not yours.”
Patrick shrugs. “They don’t need mine.”
The pool boy returns with their drinks and Patrick catches him glance down at Will’s stomach, at the visible transmitter and infusion site, but the man says nothing, giving Will a charming smile as he hands over the daiquiri.
Patrick takes the lemonade offered by the pool boy and the tab. He signs it to the room along with a tip, and the pool boy scampers off to help an elderly lady whose walker is stuck in the pebbles by the sidewalk leading down to the saltwater lagoon.
Patrick says, “I’m choosy, but it doesn’t mean I think the people I don’t love—which is mostly everyone—don’t deserve someone else’s affections.”
Patrick’s feeling lazy and is in no mood to move, but he doesn’t mind winding Will up to get their adrenaline pumping so they can screw again.
But Will just sips his drink and smiles to himself, gazing calmly at the blue of the pool. Patrick wonders what’s going on in his head. He’s ready for their usual squabble to ensue. The one where Will flushes prettily and tells him what a terrible man he is, and Patrick disputes that assessment, and then they have a small fight before they fuck and make up.
As Patrick watches, the sky turns the color of an orange. Most other tourists have left to get ready for dinner or grab good seats for the nightly luau, which includes an impressive show called The Legends of Hawaii complete with dancing and fireworks.
“You’re not perfect,” Will finally says, sipping his drink again. “And I don’t want you to be. I love you all messy and weird like you are. And you’re wrong that I want everyone to be perfect. I just want everyone to be happy.”
“Never going to happen.”
“Maybe not.” Will reaches out to tweak Patrick’s floppy hat. “But we’re happy. So who knows? If we can do it, surely other people can.”
Patrick straightens the hat again.
Will laughs. “The sun is setting. I think it’s safe to take that off now.”
Patrick frowns. “I burn easily.” He glances around the pool area at the lack of umbrellas. “This place is made for dreamboats with dark skin, not people like me.”
Will relaxes in his seat and muses, “Connor always burns too. The curse of the redhead.”
Patrick shrugs and removes the hat anyway. “I have it better than he does. At least I tan beneath the freckles.”
Will leans over and lifts his sunglasses, examining Patrick’s shoulders and chest. “I’ve never seen you with this many before.”
“I excel at them like I excel at everything else I do.”
Will laughs and then turns his bright sunshine smile up to the sky. “I’m happy, Patrick. I’m glad we’re here.”
“I am too.”
“You don’t miss brains?”
“Not yet. Maybe tomorrow. But with any luck some idiot kid will slip on the pool deck and I can perform emergency miracle surgery right here on the sandy sidewalk.”
“Ha.”
Patrick smiles. His lemonade is fresh and sweet enough to rot his teeth. Just the way he likes it. “We’ll have to explore down there tomorrow.” He nods toward the lagoon.
“Sounds good to me.”
“What do you want to do tonight?”
“Walk the path down by the ocean? Maybe look at some of that art you came to see?”
“And then we’ll have sex again.”
Will chokes a little on his daiquiri before laughing. “Yeah, okay.”
“Perfect.” Patrick stretches back in the pool chair, enjoying having his feet up.
He realizes that, until Will brought it up, he hasn’t thought about surgery or brains all day. It’s a surprise because those are two of his favorite things to think about. But he can’t say he’s been bored since they landed in Hawaii. He’s content even.
Which is strange.
He’s used to having the low-grade aggravation of constant Patterson-Molinaro drama in his life. If he shrugs off the lingering tension in his muscles, and gets laid one more time, he might just be what is known as relaxed. It’s an interesting feeling. And kind of cool.
“This has been a good day,” he declares. “Yesterday was good too. Even with flying in a tin can at forty-one thousand feet.”
Will doesn’t answer. He just smiles and tilts his head back, pushing the sunglasses on top of his head and peering at the sunset’s colors. He sips his daiquiri and they rest together in silence.
Patrick reaches out and takes Will’s fingers. Then they wait like that together until the sun goes down, leaving the sky the color of a bruise.
As they stroll along the path up from the ocean after their walk, early stars twinkling overhead and the lush foliage surrounding them, Will hums a new pop hit under his breath that Patrick doesn’t entirely hate. A small sea turtle crosses their path, shiny with water and determined to crawl into the long grass opposite, and they pause to watch it go.
A hand lands on Will’s shoulder, jerking him around.
“Hey!” Patrick shouts, fingers clenching into fists and his heart racing as he wheels around to confront whoever’s dared touch Will.
“Guglielmo! It is you!”
The use of Will’s given name and the dimple creasing the cheeks of the ridiculously handsome dark-haired man in front of them is all Patrick needs to understand that the peaceful, romantic honeymoon they’ve been enjoying has collided with a brick wall known as Tony Molinaro.
Will’s insane, mafioso, biological father.
Will gapes. “Dad?”