You Don’t See Me - 3. Chapter 3

“There are no rules when it comes to love.

It’s wild, not civilized.”

Patrick

Patrick watched the blender whir away and turn the spinach, frozen banana, orange, strawberries, greek yogurt and almond milk into a healthy green sludge. When making his own breakfast he preferred a nice dose of carbs: a toast or bagel, scrambled eggs and some bacon. But Ford was a health nut so he dutifully made the vile looking green concoction for him each morning while his husband took a shower. But since the incident happened—which was how he referred to the time he discovered Ford’s infidelity—Patrick’s recipe for his husband had changed. He now added one special secret ingredient: eye drops.

Contrary to popular belief and movie myths, eyedrops did not cause a bout of explosive diarrhea. Patrick found that out the first time he administered them and Ford came back home soon after leaving the house—pale and complaining of severe nausea—then proceeded to vomit for the next few hours while Patrick played nurse and tried to make him feel better. At first the deed felt terrible, and Patrick swore to himself that he'd never do it again. Seeing the person he loved in so much pain, and knowing that he was the cause of it went against his very core. But he had to admit that after the initial shock wore off, he enjoyed having his partner in this vulnerable state, suddenly completely dependent on him and his mercy. Like a small child, he now needed Patrick. Yes, Patrick had to admit that a twisted part of him liked playing savior to his unfaithful spouse.

There was no question about all of this being absolutely illegal and more importantly ethically wrong. If Ford found out or suffered any major health consequences because of it, Patrick would most likely be charged with a very serious crime. Was it called murder or homicide? He wasn’t even sure. But the lines had become so blurred to him lately. And, of course, he used the drops sparingly, on special occasions only. Today for instance was the perfect day because Ford had an important meeting regarding a major movie deal for his production company. His job and the success of his company was very important to him. But why should Ford get to enjoy the fruits of his labor while Patrick sat at home and suffered every single day? Surely that wasn’t a fair deal for Patrick. But a few eyedrops would even the score, and return the scales of justice back to normal.

Satin made infinity loops around his feet while Silk looked on from her window perch, silently judging the odious drink and Patrick’s malicious behavior. The perch was located on a glass sliding door, a few feet away from the Caesarstone center kitchen island, and looked out onto a beautiful emerald pool outside as well as a breathtaking view of the Hollywood Hills. Patrick adored the house, but he’d always lived in nice houses, the only difference with this one was that he shared it with the person he loved. But Ford, he was genuinely obsessed with the house. It was almost like a favorite child that he proudly showed off to everyone—from friends to business associates. He’d drone on about the views, the floating staircase, the wine wall and other novelties it included. The whole thing was slightly embarrassing to Patrick, but he didn’t want to take away his husband’s joy by pointing out that he was acting nouveau riche. That’s something his mother would do, and he certainly did not want to emulate her in any way, shape or form.

“Trust me, you don’t want this,” Patrick told Satin, who was rubbing on his leg, as he put away the drops into a drawer. He said nothing to Silk and her judgement, as you couldn’t explain yourself to someone who simply did not—and could not—understand. Someone who did not have their beating heart ripped out of their very own chest cavity. No, torn out. No, not quite right. It was eviscerated. An empty chamber remaining behind—pulsating with fresh hot blood. Then, despite everything, the empty pocket slowly healed itself, scar tissue abound. That’s what he was operating on now, a body with no heart and a lot of scars. But strangely enough he couldn’t find it in himself to confront Ford the night it happened. Or the next night. Or the one after that.

He held onto it all—frozen. People are so quick to talk about the fight or flight response, but the “freeze” gets overlooked. Or worse yet, looked down upon. He stood completely still in his newfound knowledge, unable to decide what to do and how to handle it. The anger just steeped inside of him, like a red tea bag. Until he decided to channel that anger into his little project. Facts and statistics. The facts were this: his husband was unfaithful, and it had been going on for a while. The statistics were this: he was cheating with at least 3 different men. Where? During business trips. During work hours. During grocery store runs. Sometimes during gym hours. It seemed he had no problem squeezing in a smidge of infidelity everywhere he went.

But at home he was the perfect husband. Attentive, caring, loving. They had their disagreements, of course, which married couple didn’t? But Patrick would have never guessed, would have never even suspected any of this if it wasn’t by a random fluke. The incident.

“Thanks babe,” Ford said grabbing the green smoothie from Patrick’s hands, “I gotta run. Listen can you do me a favor and read through those scrips I left on the bed? I don’t have the time and Kelly’s out with a cold this week.”

“Of course,” Patrick replied. How kind it was of his husband to assume he had nothing better to do during his day, and no responsibilities other than to read through his scripts and write up time consuming summaries. Maybe Patrick was ungrateful. It was thanks to Ford that they had this beautiful house. And he was supposed to look at his husband’s business as a family business, even if he didn’t work for him. Patrick had hit a roadblock somewhere in life when it came to a career. His childhood had been careless and easy, he breezed through college with a degree in psychology that was now proving useless because he certainly did not want to be a psychologist. He could barely listen to his friends issues, let alone some strangers. He had a monthly allowance from his father that kept him pretty secure and comfortable in life. And then he met Ford and fell in love and forgot all about himself. But now the resentment was seeping in. While Ford was growing and evolving in life, he was stuck. Not only that, he was stuck and cheated on.

“You forgot to do your tie.” Patrick grabbed the loose tie around his husband’s neck, crossed it then pulled the wide end through the loop. He thought about trying to choke him to death right then and there, but quickly abandoned the idea. His husband was not only taller but also much stronger. And there was also the fact that despite everything… he still loved him. He couldn’t understand how that worked. How was it possible to love someone with a missing heart? Maybe it was the cells in his body clinging to the man whom he promised his whole entire being for eternity.

“Thank you,” Ford smiled then kissed him on the nose. The gesture was meant to be charming, but Patrick no longer fell for it. He was immune to all the things he used to find sweet.

“Good luck,” he said, then watched him rush out the door. He wouldn’t need to follow him today. The drops guaranteed that he would be back home shortly—at Patrick’s mercy yet again. He put the dirty blender in the sink and rinsed it out with hot water. He then reached into the cabinet and pulled out some pancake mix. Trying to look fit was no longer on his radar, he preferred to eat his feelings these days. After adding an egg and water and mixing it all up, he topped the mixture off with some chocolate chips. A few minutes later he smothered the pancakes with syrup, then brought his plate along with his laptop into the living room and began his weekly ritual: reading the private investigator’s report on Ford’s activities. This one was pretty bland and didn’t include anything Patrick didn’t already know about. Jude, Gabriel and Black Haired Guy (Patrick still had no name for him).

Jude was the blonde beauty that Patrick spotted with Ford at the Miami hotel pool just a few days ago. They had been seeing each other for about four months. Jude was an aspiring actor and met Ford while networking at another producer’s house warming party. Jude was currently Ford’s favorite. Patrick could tell because he made time to see him at least twice a week, and he flew him out to Miami. The other ones only had the privilege of a hotel room in the city. Patrick still wondered why Ford didn’t use their Miami pad while he was there. Perhaps the hotel had been closer to the actual business meetings, which Patrick confirmed Ford actually did attend in-between his pool rendezvous sessions.

Gabriel was an “Instagram model” and Patrick could only assume he made his money from escorting or having a sugar daddy because he was not affiliated with any business, other than some sort of weightloss tea which he peddled on his IG stories every week. They met about twice a month but Patrick could tell by Gabriels increasingly desperate text messages to Ford’s burner phone (which he discovered shortly after the incident), that the man had caught feelings. Some part of Patrick felt bad for him. Ford Newman was not the right guy to catch feelings for.

Black haired guy was the hardest to find information on as he had no online presence. The other ones were easy to discover. He would take the numbers out of Ford’s burner phone—he only had numbers, no names, and Patrick marveled at how he could keep all of his deception straight in his head and not get anyone confused—and do a reverse lookup, which would give him access to their names with which he’d look up their social media accounts. Black haired guy was a mystery. The information associated with his phone number was listed as private, so Patrick had no name. The number wasn’t linked to any websites or jobs. The guy was a ghost. From the few glances Patrick had of him, he was fairly handsome. He had full, pouty red lips and always seemed to be wearing a black cardigan. The PI was working on him, but all Patrick knew so far was that Ford met him irregularly.

Those were all the facts. Those were all the notes in his notebook. Patrick put his now empty plate in the dishwasher, then gave the cats some fresh water. He then made his way upstairs to the bedroom. Per Ford’s words, he saw the 3 screenplays on top of the bed. He sighed, this would take him forever. He’d have to write out a synopsis, a character summary as well as a summary. He grabbed his laptop, opened up an empty Word doc, then started reading the first screenplay.

It was a horror, his least favorite genre. Living in a big house and spending 60% of the time in it alone was not conducive to reading or watching scary things. He could handle the obviously fictitious stuff, but the serial killer stories made his stomach churn.

This one was anonymous, with only a P.O. Box address in the bottom right hand corner. It was titled “The Loop.” It started out innocently enough, inside of a big million dollar house, with a gay married couple. Patrick felt a shiver run up his spine. He glanced around the bedroom, which was impossibly bright. It was daytime and the sun was beaming through the nearly ceiling high, and almost the width of the entire wall, glass entrance which stood opposite of the large wooden bed frame. There was a wall mounted TV on the right hand side from the bed, with a media center underneath. And a wooden dresser on the opposite wall, next to the door. There was nothing scary about this room, certainly not in the daytime. He continued reading.

The couple had just woken up and were arguing in their kitchen. One of them threw a plate which shattered all over the floor. The other one pushed him. The cause of the fight? Cheating. Patrick rolled his eyes. Even the screenwriter had no qualms about calling out gay men for their lack of faithfulness. Patrick wondered if it was an epidemic. Were men just genetically flawed, like Eloise had claimed numerous times? Suddenly a sentence from one of the guys caught his eyes. Patrick reread it out loud, “There are no rules when it comes to love. It’s wild, not civilized.”

The phrase sounded so familiar. Where had he heard it before? And more importantly, was this anonymous writer stealing other people’s quotes. He continued reading. The couple had moved to the bedroom, the fight continued. Suddenly, they heard a loud noise downstairs. Patrick jumped up as he heard a thud and their house alarm alert, “front door open.” He quickly closed the manuscript and put it away inside of the bedside table drawer.

He was halfway down the stairs when he saw him. Ford was as pale as a sheet of paper, and for a split second Patrick felt a pang of regret. It felt terrible to see the one he loved in any type of pain.

“That was fast,” he commented, trying to sound casual.

“That was a disaster. I got sick again, vomitted three times already. Barely made it through half the meeting. Tom had to cover for me,” Ford said, looking queasy. “I don’t know what’s going on with me. This is the second time this month, and it happened last month as well. Maybe I need to see a doctor.”

“Good idea honey, I’ll get you an appointment tomorrow,” Patrick replied sounding as worried as he could muster. “Come lay down. I’ll go make you some tea,” he said.

“I don’t think I can stomach anything,” his husband replied, “Fuck, I need to go again,” he said and lunged at the closest bathroom. Patrick could hear him heaving through the door.

He went into the kitchen to make him some tea, and then he brewed some coffee for himself. Upstairs Ford emerged from the bathroom looking worse for wear.

“Jesus, I’m falling apart.”

“Come here.” Ford laid his head on Patrick’s lap. “My poor baby,” he said, putting a cold wet cloth on his forehead and running his fingers through Ford’s pitch black hair. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

“Thanks honey,” the man mumbled back. He looked exhausted and ready to fall asleep.

“You know I started reading the screenplay you gave me, it’s really strange so far. It’s like…I hate it, but there’s something about it that’s making me unable to put it down. Like I need to know what happens next. Is that a sign of a good screenplay, or a horrific one?”

“Could be either,” Ford mumbled back, barely listening. Patrick caressed his face.

“And there was a sentence in there, I swear I’ve heard it before. I’m worried it might be plagiarism. It said, ‘There are no rules when it comes to love. It’s wild, not civilized.’ Doesn’t that sound so familiar?”

“Sure it does. I said it,” Ford replied barely above a whisper, then fell asleep.