Chapter Text
The ten days between March 8th and 17th felt both eternal and fleeting. They’d come home as soon as Indian Wells had been postponed, and the virus had become very real, all of a sudden. The radio on the drive back kept reminding them that the first cases in the US had all been in California.
Tashi had insisted they stay even after the state of emergency had been declared, just in case the tournament could go ahead without spectators. The announcement of the postponement had punctured her calm confidence, her usual cool turning tense.
Things had felt a little strained during the Australian Open, but Tashi had been too focused on Art’s performance to pay much attention to anything else, and that had been vindicated when Art went all the way to the final and won his third trophy there. After so narrowly losing in the final of the US Open last year, it had been like he was really riding a wave – this year would be his, Tashi was certain of it. He was fired up, he was confident, and his game was on top form.
He’d won in Dubai in February too, and like in Australia, Tashi hadn’t paid much attention to the rising tide of worry and nerves around them. Not until they’d gotten home and started prepping for Indian Wells, and they’d all began to wonder whether it would go ahead, or – if it did – whether it would be without fans, or with ballkids wearing gloves, or if it would start and then not finish. The uncertainty had swelled and swelled until the announcement was finally made, and that was that.
Art would have won Indian Wells; Tashi was certain of it. And now they were heading home, without even a driver, because the situation had suddenly become deathly serious.
She’d never noticed before how often she touched her own face. Ken, Art’s physiotherapist, had produced a packet of blue hospital masks from somewhere just before Indian Wells had been postponed, and offered them around. The only reason Tashi hadn’t accepted one was because she and Art were driving back home themselves, not getting on any planes.
Home to Lily and her parents, who had gone back to their own house without staying for dinner, who hadn’t hugged her and Art in case they were carrying something. Tashi didn’t consider herself a germaphobe, and all of them seemed to have come back healthy, but it was still anxiety-inducing.
She’d been keeping an eye on the news, messaging back and forth with Angie, her friend in the ATP, and Alex, her PA. Monitoring the way cases were rising in Italy, the development of lockdowns in China and Vietnam. The bizarre situation in Kazakhstan with quarantine rules imposed on players from some countries but not others. The impending fear from so many over what would happen when the whole tour ground to a halt and money stopped being made.
Somehow it still took her by surprise when the announcement came from the FFT.
“Shit.”
She stared at her phone for a long second, then stood up. Her office was dark, she realised distantly. Dusk had crept in while she’d been – call it what it was – doomscrolling through Twitter.
She found Art in the living area with Lily, the two of them lounging on the couch with one of the How to Train your Dragon movies on the TV.
“Art.”
He twisted, looking over the back of the couch at her, expectant.
“They’ve postponed the French Open.”
Tashi knew Art’s face better than her own. She could read the expressions that flashed across it almost faster than she could see them, and part of her was gratified to see disappointment alongside the fear and shock. After the last couple of years of Art’s slowly diminishing passion for tennis, the enthusiasm that had returned after New Rochelle last year had been a panacea.
Art swallowed and twisted forwards again, murmuring something to Lily about getting dinner ready as he got up and followed Tashi out of the room. They went out into the hall, neither of them wanting Lily to overhear them.
“Postponed it to when?” was the first question Tashi had expected. What she got was, “Do you know where Patrick is right now?”
She blinked, then shook her head, just a twitch. “No.” There was a pause, Art’s eyes unblinking. “I’ll send you his number.”
Art nodded. They looked at each other for another few seconds, both of them already thinking about the logistics, the risks, the virus – all of it. Then Tashi nodded too.
“We’ve still got salmon in the fridge from yesterday.”
“Okay.”
An unspoken agreement.
Tashi sent Art Patrick’s number, and tried not to wonder what he would do, what he would say. She went back to her office, to her already-overflowing inbox. Art went to the kitchen to make dinner.
Somewhere across the country, Patrick charged his phone in his car and drove on.
“Zweig’s cremation services – you ghost ‘em, we roast ‘em.”
“Jesus Christ, do you seriously answer the phone like that?”
Patrick’s whole body jolted, a grimace like a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “To unknown numbers I do, yeah.”
He drew his phone away from his face as he waited for Art to speak, seeing that Art had called him twice while he’d been driving. Hidden under his sweater on the passenger seat, Patrick hadn’t heard it vibrating. Pure coincidence that Art had called again the moment Patrick had pulled into a Walmart to get some food.
“They called off the French Open.”
Patrick raised his eyebrows, lifting his phone again. “So?” It wasn’t like he’d have been playing at it. He’d been improving his ranking since last summer by what felt like brute force, but he was still a way off a Grand Slam tournament. He wasn’t deluding himself that it had been skill, not luck, that had gotten him through the qualifiers for the US Open last year.
“Everything’s been suspended, or postponed.”
“What’re you, a news anchor? You think I live under a rock?”
Art huffed a frustrated sigh. “Where are you right now?”
“Why?”
“Come to California.”
“Fuck off.” Patrick laughed. “I’m in Georgia, you asshole. Does Tashi know you’re calling?”
“Who do you think gave me your number?”
Patrick’s smile dropped, another jolt going through his chest. “What’s in California?”
“Our house. With like, five spare bedrooms.”
It was like he couldn’t pull in a full breath. Patrick wiped his free hand on the leg of his shorts, and in an abrupt burst undid his seatbelt and shoved the car door open, needing to stand, needing to stretch.
The parking lot was full of cars, busy shoppers carting huge piles of canned food and toilet paper to their trunks. Some of them were wearing masks – some the papery blue medical ones, some fabric, obviously homemade. One guy got out of his truck wearing yellow washing-up gloves, visibly steeling himself before going off to panic-buy along with everyone else.
“I don’t need your charity,” he said, fainter than he’d intended.
“Shut the fuck up. Come to California.” Art didn’t say anything else. No incentives, no threats, no pleas.
Patrick had been avoiding motels for the last two days even though he could have afforded a room. He’d been listening to the news with a mounting sense of dread. He stood in the Walmart parking lot now and stared out at the opening credits of a disaster movie.
“Fine.”
Art didn’t embarrass either of them with a sigh of relief or a thank you. “I’ll message you the address. You’ll be, what? Two or three days?”
“Yeah.”
“See you then.”
He hung up after a second, too fast for Patrick to respond. He did anyway, muttering, “Okay,” to the possibly contaminated air.
He had some cereal bars left in the trunk, he remembered suddenly. He could make it to the next store. Somewhere smaller, maybe. Less crowded. He had plenty of gas.
After taking in the view for another minute or so, Patrick got back into his truck and reversed out. California was more than thirty hours away by road – he might as well get started now.
Art was contemplating the number of eggshells in the trash with a mildly disturbed air when his phone began to buzz insistently in his back pocket. When he saw Patrick’s name on the screen, his grip faltered, fingers nearly losing purchase.
He swiped his thumb across the screen and turned around to check he was definitely on his own in the kitchen. “Hey.”
Of course he was – Tashi and Lily were setting up a new space in Tashi’s office for Lily, trying to get her more interested in her newly-online lessons. Everyone else was obeying the stay-at-home order.
“Hey.” Patrick’s voice in Art’s ear was rough, like he’d just woken up. “Is yours the one with the lemon trees on the other side of the gates?”
Or like he’d never slept. Art inhaled, realising that he hadn’t been breathing. “Yeah. Hang on, lemme get the thing –”
Patrick snorted, and the obnoxious intercom doorbell rang through the house.
“Seriously?” Art sniped, stalking through to the foyer. “Seriously, Patrick? I’ve got it,” he added in a raised voice for Tashi’s benefit, hopefully loud enough for her to hear.
“You know me,” Patrick said, smirk in his voice. The doorbell blared again. “I just love pushing buttons.”
Art made a sound of irritation, and finally reached the security system to let Patrick in. “Take the first left off the driveway.”
“Uh huh.”
Patrick hung up.
Their front gate had a camera mounted behind it, and on the screen in the closet off the foyer Art watched Patrick’s beaten-up Honda idling as the gate slowly rolled open. As soon as the gap was wide enough, Patrick punched it, nearly taking off his wing mirrors, making Art curse under his breath.
Tashi was already halfway down the stairs to the basement when Art caught up to her.
For a fleeting second, he wanted to block her path, to call Patrick back and tell him to leave. Lock himself and Tashi up again, put Patrick Zweig far from their minds, same as before.
New Rochelle had been more than eight months ago. Art should have been used to the idea of Patrick’s existence by now, even after more than a decade of pretending he didn’t remember or care about his old best friend.
The last time they’d seen each other had been at the US Open. Patrick had been knocked out early, but the uncomfortably mingled pride and anger that he’d even managed to claw his way up through the qualifiers to make it that far still sat sour at the back of Art’s throat, months later.
His current ranking was 167. Art had looked it up a couple of weeks ago.
He drew level with Tashi as they walked along the hall to the garage and emerged into the cool underground space, just as Patrick cut his engine and got out of his car. He groaned as he stretched, something popping in his back so loudly that Art heard it two cars away.
Everything he was wearing was creased. Dark shorts, a blue t-shirt, a black hooded sweatshirt half falling off his shoulder. Sports socks and sneakers. Curly hair and a short, scruffy beard.
“Jesus,” Tashi muttered under her breath, and Art’s lips twitched. The two of them couldn’t have cut more of a contrast: Tashi in tight jeans and an elegant strappy top, Art in shorts and a neat polo. Both of them in pale beiges and whites, where Patrick was blending into the shadows.
Patrick rolled his head on his neck and finally grinned at them, eyes scrunched small even though the only real light was coming from the open garage door behind him.
“Nice place,” he said.
“Get your shit,” Tashi said, giving him a superbly dismissive once-over.
“You sure you want me to come straight up?” Patrick raised an eyebrow. “What if I’ve got the virus?”
Art had half turned to follow Tashi back out, but froze as that possibility struck him. By the flash of surprise in Tashi’s eyes, he realised that she hadn’t considered it either.
Very unlike her.
Art frowned at Patrick. “Do you feel sick?”
“No. But, y’know.” Patrick rubbed the back of his head. “I could be carrying it, right? I guess you two haven’t gone out in like, a month.”
“Less than that.” Tashi glanced at Art, a small frown on her face too. “Which room –?”
“The green one.”
“Okay.” Tashi looked back to Patrick. “You can quarantine or whatever, for a few days. Stay in your room, we’ll bring you food. But after that, you wanna stay here, we’ve got ground rules.”
“Lay it on me.” Patrick’s lopsided smirking grin was so familiar. He opened his arms, palms spread, a big shrug. As though he hadn’t been the one to suggest he was infectious. As though he couldn’t care less.
If Tashi was irritated, she didn’t show it. She lifted her hand, one manicured finger up. “No swearing around Lily. And I mean anything worse than goddamn, so you’d better keep a fucking lid on it.”
Patrick’s smile grew.
Tashi raised a second finger. “No smoking in the house, or anywhere near Lily if she’s outside anywhere near you.” Third finger. “You contribute to the cooking and cleaning.”
“You don’t have a maid?”
“We have a regular staff of almost ten, Patrick.” No one could do disdain like Tashi. Art didn’t think he’d ever get tired of watching her turn it on other people. “They’re all currently sheltering at home, as per the current regulations.”
Patrick nodded slowly. When Tashi didn’t go on, he blinked. “Wait, that’s it?”
“We could probably think up more if you want,” Art said, and Patrick laughed. A quiet ha! that nearly made Art smile in response.
“Nah, I’m good. Works for me. You wanna lead on, maestro?” he dipped a sarcastic bow to Tashi, who rolled her eyes. She did lead on though, back up the hallway, Art following her, Patrick keeping a safe distance behind him.
Art had gotten the green bedroom ready for him. It was the biggest – king bed, ensuite bathroom, nice views of the garden. It was where Tashi’s parents stayed when they slept over.
Art and Tashi left Patrick there, that half-smile on his face, hands on his hips as he looked around.
“Well this feels weird,” Tashi muttered, once they were a safe flight of stairs away. Art made a sound of agreement, already unsettled by Patrick’s presence in the house.
Tashi usually preferred to listen to music while she worked out. Today she was supervising Lily, who was refusing to engage with her online lessons unless someone kept an eye on her. Listening in, Tashi could understand why.
She and Art paid through the nose for Lily’s school, but if this was the best they could come up with, Tashi was tempted to look for a tutor. Someone who could give Lily more one-on-one attention.
Tashi stepped off the spin bike to help Lily with some math, got annoyed by the process, and adjusted the bike so Lily could have a go while she switched to weights. She didn’t remember school being so stupid when she was a kid, but to be fair, she’d had her mom on hand to help whenever she struggled, and tennis whenever she needed to get back into her body again.
Lily’s school was background noise to the real concerns Tashi had, which were all tennis-related, naturally. Everything being postponed was going to fuck up the whole year. Art still had to keep in shape, but without the rest of his team – physio, dietician, hitting partner, everyone – it would be so much harder.
Bryan, Art’s dietician, could send them diet plans to follow. Emily, his psychologist, could keep an eye on Art’s state of mind with Skype or Zoom calls or whatever. Physio and fitness programmes could be drawn up by Ken and Kieran, but would be harder to implement without them being here in person.
With no tournaments, Tom had a lot less to do as Art’s manager. They weren’t going anywhere, so didn’t need Andrew as a security guard. The only one who was actually maintaining a semi-normal level of work was Alex, plugged into social media as he was on Tashi’s behalf.
Patrick being here could work to their advantage. Art needed a hitting partner, someone who could keep him fit and sharp while they were trapped without any immediate prospect of release. But put it to him like that, and Patrick would refuse just to be contrary.
Tashi could work this. Patrick needed to train too – this arrangement could be to his advantage as well as Art’s. She knew he was climbing the ranks as quickly as he could, his game as invigorated after New Rochelle as Art’s had been. He’d been deluding himself if he’d hoped to face Art in the US Open last year, but this year could have been more realistic.
As far as Tashi knew, Patrick still didn’t have any sort of team to support him. He had to see the advantage of having her expertise basically on tap right now.
But Patrick had always been unpredictable. She still wasn’t sure whether his request for her to coach him in New Rochelle had been in earnest, or just to fuck with her. He’d certainly never brought it up since.
Not that they’d actually talked since then. But still.
“Mom?”
Tashi blinked, refocusing. Lily had stopped pedalling, still breathing a little hard. “Yeah, baby?”
“Is it lunch time yet?”
Tashi checked her watch. It was barely twelve, but who cared, right? They were in lockdown. “Sure, yeah.” She smiled, getting up from the bench and going to help Lily off the bike. “You wanna go ask Daddy if he’s hungry? I think he’s on the deck.”
“Should I ask Patrick too?” Lily asked hesitantly. She was shy, nothing like Tashi at her age. More like Art – sweet and nervous.
“No,” Tashi ran her hand over Lily’s head. “I’ll ask him.” They’d decided on a five-day quarantine, just to be safe. Tomorrow, Patrick would be released into the house. Tashi wasn’t looking forward to it.
It was lucky that Art and Tashi had agreed on a short quarantine, because Patrick was on his last pair of boxers the day he was allowed out. The bedroom he’d been given was the nicest place he’d stayed since a very memorable Grindr hookup in 2016, but five days of the same four walls had driven him slightly insane.
It was a really fucking nice room. The bed was huge and comfortable, the ensuite had a bathtub Patrick had put to use twice, and if all he’d needed to do was sleep and wash, it would’ve been great. But filling the rest of the time dicking about on his phone and ancient laptop had gotten old very fast.
He’d read somewhere that solitary confinement was considered a form of torture, and even though this was probably the nicest solitary confinement anyone had ever had, it was still shit. Only knowledge of how weird this already was and the genuinely frightening situation outside kept Patrick from begging to be let out on day two.
The brief contact he’d get from Art or Tashi (and once, terrifyingly, their kid) to deliver food wasn’t enough. Day two was when Patrick had started going quiet whenever he heard someone come up the stairs, hoping stupidly they were coming to talk to him.
He didn’t blame people fleeing countries around the world to avoid fourteen days of this shit. The view out of his window was just of a bunch of trees, and Patrick was sick of staring at them.
But day six arrived, and Art opened the door of the guest room and brought Patrick back into real life. Starting, naturally, with a tour.
Obviously the Donaldson residence was a fucking mansion. Patrick had grown up in a mansion – he was immune to intimidation on that front.
Coming in through the garage the way he had, Patrick had only seen hallways and stairways. Being shown around by Art, he was reluctantly impressed. At least it was modern. His parents and all their friends had the classic McMansion-style shit. Pillars and turrets and other ugly generic features.
Art started with the top floor, the wide landing with several doors leading off it. The stairs were right next to the room Patrick had been staying in, and Art went clockwise from them.
“Your room,” Art pointed behind them. “Closet,” the one to their left. “Closet,” next to it. “Guest bed,” along from that. “Our room,” at the far end, opposite Patrick’s. “Bathroom,” on the far right. “Lily’s room,” along from it.
Halfway down the stairs was a sort of mini landing onto an office where Tashi was working with her daughter, and she didn’t even look round when Art knocked on the door frame. Her desk faced a window with a view onto a slice of garden, birds flitting around in a tree outside. The kid sat next to her in an office chair that was way too big, a laptop open in front of her.
“We’re busy,” Tashi said. “Go away.”
It made the kid giggle, and Art smile, and he jerked his head for Patrick to follow as they obediently went away.
Further downstairs, onto a stupidly long hallway of honey-coloured floorboards. To their left it didn’t go far – there were two doors at the end which Art said were more guest rooms (obviously smaller than either of the ones upstairs), and a door directly opposite the stairs which he said was a bathroom. Along from it on the same side was a laundry room, and opposite that an open door leading into a big open-plan space in a sort of L shape, with a kitchen tucked into a corner directly opposite the door, a dining area further down, and a living room area at the end.
Art didn’t stop Patrick wandering in to take a closer look.
The kitchen was a mess, even first thing in the morning. The sink was piled with pots and pans, the dishwasher was full, there were two open boxes of cereal on the breakfast bar, and crumbs basically everywhere.
“Jesus, you’ve been down a maid for what, two weeks?” Patrick peered at a puddle of something on the stove that might have been batter, or some kind of sauce.
“Shut up.”
The dining table was wood; a big pale knobbly slab that had been sanded down flat on top. Almost rustic, if it hadn’t been so obviously expensive. Art on the walls – colourful, abstract stuff – and a black stone sculpture in the corner, tall and curvy, like a sort of tree.
The dining area wall was almost entirely glass, with doors that led out onto a big deck with loungers, a smaller table and chair set, and a big grill. It was positioned to catch the light basically all day, perfect for sunbathing.
The living area at the end actually looked like it was being lived in, with books and junk and squashed cushions tossed around haphazardly. The colour scheme was nice too – a dark blue couch, the armchairs a sort of orangey-red. There was a big rug on the floor underneath them with an abstract squiggly design in dark oranges and yellows. The coffee tables were wood too, dented in a few places.
They went back out of the door they’d come in through, onto the freakishly long corridor that Patrick understood now that he knew it ran the length of the dining room and living room on the other side of the wall.
About halfway down it on the left, next to the laundry room, was a door that opened onto a game room with a pool table, another TV, and an honest-to-God minibar.
“It came with the house,” Art said, rolling his eyes at Patrick’s laughter. As if Patrick couldn’t see how well-stocked it was.
The hallway turned a corner to the left, ending kind of abruptly with a trio of doors. One opposite them, one to their left into the game room again, and one to the right which opened into a ridiculously big foyer, which could conceivably be used as a place to host a party, with a mini grand in the corner and more art on the walls. It had a huge glass wall at the end of it overlooking a patio, and a short step making a stage in front of it.
“For receiving awards?” Patrick asked, smirking.
“For Lily to put on plays, mostly. And for the Christmas tree.”
There was a discreet bathroom and a closet in there too, and a few shelves with a selection of some of Art’s trophies. Patrick recognised the slightly squat shape of the Norman Brooks trophy, probably the most recent. What did a repeat winner like Art do when he started building up a collection like that? Patrick didn’t want to know.
Deliberately turning away, Patrick made himself admire the layout instead. The overly long corridor was a weird feature, but it obviously marked the crossing point between public and private.
He could see it now – guests having a fancy soiree in the foyer, patio doors open wide, the game room open to let people play pool – and the long, long corridor warning anyone off venturing further into the house.
He wondered which of them had had more input into the design. Tashi was more stylish, and Patrick could imagine her wanting the grand foyer with the art collection. The open-plan part could be Art, but maybe not. Patrick couldn’t imagine the guy who’d never even noticed what colour their bedroom walls had been painted having opinions about couch colours.
About the clear distinction between public and private spaces, though? Perhaps.
He couldn’t bring himself to ask, for some reason. It was galling enough that he would have to, to find out.
The unopened door at the end of the corridor turned out to open onto the stairs down to the basement, which helped Patrick put together the house’s full footprint. He’d come this way in – the long corridor from the garage at the far end, stairs up, the long corridor in the opposite direction, and the final flight up to the second floor.
The basement was a sweet set-up. The north side was all underground – steam room, ice room, a sauna, and a kit room – everything a tennis star might ever need or want. Wine cellar by the stairs, garage at the far end. On the south side a large gym opened up onto a little patio with the upstairs decking overhead shading it. A spiral staircase led up to it, and Patrick could see the shapes of the furniture through the slats.
There was a kitchen down here too, only ever used by Art’s personal dietician. And a dining room slash conference room with a big table and a TV screen, which Patrick assumed Art’s team used to analyse his matches.
From the patio, they went out into the grounds. Which obviously contained a swimming pool, tennis court, and surprisingly little lawn. There was a little bit around the pool, but then it hit a wall of plant life, round the corner from which was the tennis court, and that was it.
“This was all grass when we moved in,” Art explained, when Patrick mentioned it, gesturing to the general area to the east of the court. “But we got this gardener, Milena, who’s really into water preservation. We kinda let her have free reign.”
It was surprisingly lush, given that they were in a state that even Patrick knew had been suffering multiple drought years. Lots of trees, lots of cactus-type plants. A really nice pond with a very small bridge across it that reminded Patrick of something he couldn’t put his finger on for a second.
“It’s like that mini golf place we used to go to in summer,” he realised out loud.
“Huh.” Art stepped up next to him, blinking. “I guess it is.”
“It totally is. Shit, add like…an alligator right there, and that fake plane crashing over there? It’s the exact same shape and everything.”
Art didn’t say anything for a moment. “Water’s not so blue.”
“Yeah, well, I bet your gardener isn’t dying it behind your back.”
They both snorted, and Patrick’s heart jumped as Art gave him a sidelong look of amusement, same as he used to when they were kids.
“C’mon.” Art turned around. “Let’s go back up. You hungry?”
“Always.”
Patrick walked behind Art, eyes on the short hair on the back of his head. They hadn’t talked, after New Rochelle. He’d half-hoped Art or Tashi would find him, track him down, but they hadn’t, and Patrick hadn’t reached out either. They’d all left it on the court and kept moving, and Patrick had decided that if Tashi wasn’t going to coach him, he’d have to get there on his own if he ever wanted to play Art again.
And now they’d invited him here, where they had an entire court just to themselves.
It was a lot. Patrick followed Art back up to the house and resolved not to push it – he didn’t want them to kick him out before he’d even had a chance to do a load of laundry.
“Why’d you tell me to come here?”
Art, inexpertly dicing vegetables, looked around. Lily was watching TV, Tashi was in her office. Patrick was leaning against the corner wall in shorts and a crumpled t-shirt, feet bare.
Instead of answering, Art jerked his head to gesture Patrick over. “Keep an eye on the chicken, would you?” When Patrick came and poked dubiously at the breasts frying in a pan on the stove, Art started chopping again.
They’d always had food deliveries anyway, from a stupidly high-end supplier who’d cornered the market of rich people in the south bay area, but while usually their maid Lilen dealt with bringing everything in and storing and often cooking it, Art and Tashi were on their own now.
The delivery driver left the bags at the garage door for Art to collect. He and Art would exchange waves from a distance.
If Art thought about all the hands that had probably touched the items they received, he’d start freaking out, so he tried not to think about it. He washed his hands a lot, and washed everything that came into the house, and everything they were going to eat, and felt faintly ridiculous, but paranoid enough to keep doing it.
This coronavirus was a respiratory disease; that’s what the CDC said. Patrick hadn’t been sick coming into their house, and wasn’t sick now – he was part of their bubble, and they weren’t coming into contact with anyone else who could spread it to them.
If the people who had picked and packed their groceries were sick, and had touched their faces or sneezed or coughed on these items, all Art could do was wash them. All he could do was wipe them down or spray them or soap them. All he could do was put up more barriers between the outside world and his selfish little circle of safety.
“I like knowing where people are,” he said finally.
“How d’you mean?”
“Like…” Art paused, looking out of the window at the big box elder Tashi had insisted be left alone when they remodelled this part of the house. “Tashi’s parents are across town, I know they’re fine,” he said. “Her brother Nic lives outside San Francisco, him and his wife are both working from home. Her other brother Tayo’s in Albuquerque, and he’s got like, four roommates, but I think they’re all gonna be alright, they’re on furlough, or whatever. Our team are all in their homes, they’ve got everything covered, we’re in touch with them pretty much every day. My mom and stepdad are in South Carolina, doing whatever it is they do.”
Art swallowed and looked over his shoulder at Patrick, who was letting the chicken burn. At Art’s frown, he turned his attention back to it, prodding it around the pan with a spatula.
“So you’re paranoid,” he said.
“No one I know has caught corona yet,” Art said. “But…you update your Twitter like once a month.” He eyed the back of Patrick’s neck, flicked his eyes up and down the length of his body. Here in his kitchen, safe. “I wanted to know you weren’t dead, or whatever.”
“Keep an eye on me?” Patrick looked at him again, grin pulling at one side of his mouth.
“That too,” Art said dryly.
“I could’ve rented somewhere.”
“For how long?” Art shook his head. “No tournaments, no money. And we don’t know when they’ll start up again.”
“Hm.”
Art got another pan out to stir-fry the vegetables he’d chopped, and with only the tiniest hesitation, shouldered Patrick over so there was space for both of them at the stove. Patrick’s smile twitched back in full force, and he bumped Art back before subsiding.
Part of him had expected Patrick to point out how weird it was to invite the man his wife had cheated on him with (twice) to live with them, but perhaps the fragility of the situation had inspired some tact in him.
It was weird though. It was stupid. He didn’t know why he’d done it. He wanted to know Patrick was safe; he wanted to keep him at a distance so he couldn’t pull Tashi into his orbit again.
But if Art was there the whole time too, Patrick’s gravity would affect both of them.
Art couldn’t pin that thought down, and so let it go. Keeping an eye on Patrick was all this was, really. It wasn’t any more complicated than that.
“Bryan’s going to send over a new plan tomorrow,” Tashi said at dinner a few nights after Patrick had emerged from quarantine. She still wasn’t used to him, but she wasn’t used to eating with just Art and Lily either – usually there were at least a couple of members of their team with them on the rare occasions they were all home.
She was getting used to being stuck in one place with so few other people, and she didn’t like that. Art was fine – she spent most of her time in his company anyway. Lily she was already worried about – isolation like this couldn’t be good for her, for any child. Patrick was a problem Tashi was putting off. What the hell she’d been thinking, letting Art invite him here, she didn’t know.
At least if this blew up, no one knew he was here. Tashi wanted him to last a full week outside of his bedroom before she told her family and Art’s team. If he could make it that far without starting a fight or trying to get in her pants…well. However long the stay-at-home order lasted would still probably be too long.
If any of that was on Art’s mind, he wasn’t letting on. The four of them were clustered at one end of the dining table, Tashi and Lily facing Art and Patrick, and Art slumped in his seat with melodramatic relief and grinned at Lily, who giggled.
“Does that mean you can have pancakes?”
“Maybe.” Art smiled at Tashi, who shrugged a shoulder.
“Maybe.”
“What? Why can’t you have pancakes?” Patrick looked between all of them, baffled.
“Because I’m on a meal plan?” Art raised an eyebrow, and Patrick rolled his eyes.
“Okay, but come on.”
“How were you maintaining any level of fitness on tour?” Art asked, twisting in his chair to gesture at him.
“He wasn’t,” Tashi said, maybe a little too sharply.
“He kept up with me,” Art pointed out.
“No.” Tashi snorted, laying down her fork to point between them. “Patrick messed with your mental game, because he’s Patrick. Don’t forget how easily you beat everyone else at that challenger, Art.” She wanted to take it back the second she said it, cursing herself for bringing up the thing they weren’t talking about without having a game plan for the fallout.
Patrick just laughed. “Don’t forget that I beat him.”
“Don’t forget I let you.”
Patrick gave Art a sidelong look that had Tashi’s breath catching. Had Patrick known that? Or suspected? He was still smiling, but that didn’t mean anything. Patrick smiled like an animal baring its teeth, a cornered chimp warning off approach.
“Point is, I think we can have ice-cream for dessert,” she said, breaking the tension and earning a delighted cheer from Lily, as if she was the one with a meal plan.
Half an eye on Patrick while they kept eating meant Tashi could guess at the thoughts behind his slight frown and lowered eyes, and the occasional smirk that drifted across his face. He wouldn’t ask, she was fairly sure. She understood that. Sometimes an answer was worse than the ambiguity.
Art hadn’t asked her for any details after New Rochelle. He hadn’t even brought up her ultimatum about leaving, and neither had she, their twinned silence making a liar of her. She’d asked him the bare minimum, as little as she could get away with in order to analyse their match. She usually got more useful information from watching them back anyway.
Usually. In the case of his and Patrick’s match, it had just given her more questions. Art had given her a perfunctory explanation of the signal Patrick had given him (so crude, so teenage – oddly hot, but only because it was them), and she hadn’t asked for more.
Ambiguity only increased the more she watched them. Art hadn’t asked her about the times she’d fucked Patrick. Tashi hadn’t asked him about the bizarre match, especially not the hug, or the way Art had so obviously (to her eyes anyway) let Patrick win afterwards.
Something had shifted there. It was still moving now. The two of them were finding some new equilibrium, one that included her this time as a participant, not just an observer.
Tashi never would have thought to invite Patrick to live with them. The idea was completely insane. But it was insane the same way Art’s abrupt mood shift during that match with Patrick was insane. Completely senseless to anyone on the outside, but immediately understandable to them.
It reminded her of first meeting them, and how bemused she’d been that they both seemed completely fine with pursuing her. No jealousy or sabotage or anger, at least not in the beginning. They’d almost seemed to encourage each other, like success for one was success for both.
That had obviously been a pipe dream, but now Tashi wondered if there’d been something to it. The same thing that had made Art reach for Patrick in this moment of genuine danger and pull him into the fold.
It would require watching, that was for sure. And if Tashi was good at anything these days, it was observation.
Patrick hadn’t had a routine since school. He didn’t really have one here either, but one was definitely developing around him, nearly one unquarantined week into his new, mirror-world life at the Donaldson residence.
Tashi was the earliest riser by far, up around five or six every morning. She got Lily up around eight, which was usually when Art emerged too. Depending on how late Patrick had stayed up the night before, he could wake as early as seven or as late as ten.
Breakfast was a get-it-yourself affair, as was lunch and any snacks in between. Dinner was around seven-thirty or as close to every night, to make sure Lily was in bed by eight-thirty or nine. After that was the time Patrick most dreaded.
He skulked around, swinging between keeping out of Art and Tashi’s way and aggressively inserting himself into whatever one of them was doing. He ended up playing pool with both of them separately, watching TV with Art (they weren’t allowed to watch shit like Tiger King while Lily was up), working out awkwardly alongside Tashi, making food, talking tennis, gossiping about people they knew at various levels of the tour, all sorts.
It was easier to avoid them during the day. One or other of them was almost always with Lily, keeping an eye on her while she did her online classes, and if they weren’t, it was Tashi’s mom on a tablet or a laptop.
Tashi spent a lot of time in her office, and Patrick could hear her on calls in there, talking to Art’s team, talking to her parents, talking to her PA. If she wasn’t in there or with Lily, she was on her phone on the deck, or pacing, or occasionally doing household chores with a sort of grim focus that made Patrick want to tease her.
With similar rigidity, Art was sticking to whatever hideous regime of fitness and health food his team had him on. Hours in the gym and the pool, smoothies in various colours (though less of them than before – he was clearly enjoying the more relaxed meal plan). Household chores to fill the time – there wasn’t often much left for Tashi or Patrick to do.
It was Art that Patrick had asked about the laundry room, and Art that Patrick had watched to see how he and Tashi liked to wash up and clean their kitchen. Taking cues like some sort of alien visitor, copying Art so he wouldn’t give them any excuses to rescind their insane invitation.
It didn’t feel like that was really in jeopardy though, if he was honest with himself. Now Patrick was here, it felt strangely natural. Secure. Something about the way that Art had called him, demanding he come here, like there was no question about it. The way Tashi had laid out her three (only three!) house rules on his arrival.
Despite the radio silence after New Rochelle last year, when the world as they knew it had begun to collapse, they’d reached for him and yanked him into their fortress.
There was a grocery list stuck to the fridge, and Patrick brashly added beer and cigarettes, and didn’t know why he was so surprised that there were no objections. Art did the online shopping, Patrick helped him carry it all up into the house, and they unpacked everything together.
None of them had a particularly wide repertoire in the kitchen, but Patrick enjoyed Tashi and Art’s reluctantly impressed reactions when he presented his chicken satay noodles and turkey stir-fry, standbys he’d relied on basically his whole adult life. They’d all have to branch out before long – Tashi and Art only had a couple of solid dishes each too, and Lily was already getting bored.
Art was still colder than he’d been as a kid. Nothing like the razor-tongued monster Patrick had inadvertently woken in the sauna back in New Rochelle, but so much more serious than he had been before he grew up.
Patrick had known about his injury, but it still froze him through when Art walked through the kitchen shirtless one morning, and Patrick saw the little scars on his shoulder.
Tashi had always been like thin steel – flexible, but unbreaking, and sharp as hell when she wanted to be. She’d been miserable in New Rochelle, and Patrick had known it then, but it still floored him every time she was sweet with Lily, every time she laughed at some in-joke with Art, every time she let Patrick see her as anything less than perfectly put-together and in control.
It was small stuff, sure. Walking around with no makeup in sweatpants and a rumpled vest. Laughing the way Patrick remembered from the brief, magical months they’d dated. Spilling something and cursing under her breath.
“For someone whose first rule was no swearing,” Patrick muttered to her, passing her a towel to mop up her tea. “You sure are a hypocrite.”
“Fuck off, Patrick.” She snapped the wet towel in his face though, and when he laughed, she smiled. Crooked, annoyed, nearly fond. He fled to the pool at the first opportunity. He spent too much of his time there in the day now, sleeping and swimming to try not to think about what the fuck he was doing here.
He certainly wasn’t playing tennis.
Patrick was watching Art swimming laps one morning when Tashi appeared, tension radiating off her like visible heat. It made Patrick sit up straight, and made Art stop when he got to the end of the pool. Both of them stared at her for a few seconds, the only sound the slap of water on stone and birds in the trees.
She was all in black, hair frizzing, big sunglasses over her eyes. Shorts and a tight cropped tee. Black sneakers, black socks. Her jewellery glinted in the sun. Patrick had never seen her without her necklaces and bracelets and rings.
“Wimbledon’s been cancelled,” Tashi said, brittle. “I want both of you on the court, now.”
Art pulled himself out of the water before she’d finished speaking, skin glowing, droplets glittering in his hair. Tashi nodded, and headed back up to the house. To the kit room, presumably.
Patrick was snapped out of his stupor when Art flicked water into his face. “Hey. Is your stuff still in your car?”
“Yeah.”
“Bet I’ll still get on court faster than you.”
Patrick laughed, spell broken, and got up to run. He’d have to go all the way up to his room for his keys, but Art had to dry off and get changed.
He still lost.
Art was waiting with wet hair and a smug smirk when Patrick jogged onto the hardcourt, like he wasn’t just proving how whipped he was. Tashi was waiting with a cage of balls and a racket of her own. A Wilson, like Art’s. Of course – they had a sponsorship or some shit.
“Warm up,” Tashi said, quieter than Patrick had expected, but still tense.
Patrick dropped his bag at the side and kept jogging, running the perimeter of the court. Art stayed in the middle doing stretches, especially for his right shoulder. Patrick came in to join him after a few laps, and for a split second thought about offering Art his arms. He didn’t, but he did wonder whether Art remembered their whole warm-up routine as well as Patrick did.
There was no chance to ask. Tashi was a harder coach than their old teachers at the academy. Patrick had last had a coach two years ago, for about six months before he ran out of money again, and that guy hadn’t been even half as tough.
They ran drills for nearly two hours. Tashi stood opposite them and fed them balls, shouting instructions, keeping them up, never faltering. She’d take breaks of a few seconds to drink from the huge water bottle at her feet, then keep going. She decided when they needed breaks, not them. There was a faucet at the side, and Art let Patrick share his water bottle, the two of them taking turns to refill it.
It was brutal. Patrick was absolutely wrecked by the end of it, so tired he could barely manage the stairs back up to the gym and its showers. Art was in much better shape – he jogged up the steps behind Tashi while Patrick gamely pretended his muscles weren’t literally trembling.
Tashi was waiting at the top when he got there. They walked in together, Patrick still out of breath.
“Shower first,” she said quietly. “As fast as you can. Then an ice bath. Ten minutes, fifteen if you can stand it.”
Patrick couldn’t reply before she was gone.
The ice bath was awful – it had been years since he’d taken one, he’d always hated them – but he forced himself to stay in for exactly fifteen minutes. He could stand anything if he decided to.