Patrick shakes his hair, spraying water all over you like a mangy dog before plopping himself directly in front of you. He's wet from head-to-toe; water trickling down his torso, hanging off the curls of his chest-hair. He's gotten fitter since last summer. Show-off. At your look, he cocks his head. "What? Am I not allowed to sit here?"

His grin is shit-eating. Namely because he isn’t.

Here's the thing—Patrick's invited to all the Donaldsons holiday retreats, and has been since you were kids. You’ve long come to expect the presence of Art's mongrel of a best friend every summer holidays. Christmas, too. (Why he doesn't spend it with his own, you have no idea).

Art and him share everything—you've heard the stories. The two of them some fifteen-drinks-too-deep, recounting their exploits over a campfire. Yet, ever since some five summers ago, high-school—God—he'd grinned over his cup, squished in-between siblings and gone, "Hey, I have an idea—a fucking Donaldson sandwich." You'd never seen Art so livid. Ever. Which was jaw-dropping, considering your older brother was the definition of a doormat (you'd mastered the art of walking all over him since you could walk, and so had Patrick, apparently).

He had made it extremely fucking clear that the one thing Patrick wasn't allowed to lay one of his 'grubby lil' shit-stained, greasy paws on' (Art was also drunk), was you. Under no circumstances, otherwise, friendship fucking over. One—Art. Zilch—Zweig.

Ironically, ever since, Patrick has never seemed to be able to leave well enough alone. (Art should've known better. What's Art's is Patrick's and whats Patrick's is Art's, after all.)

He's not subtle about it. In fact, he's as blatant as you can bear. The way he looks at you. Winks squeezed in-between movie nights, a stray foot rubbing along your ankle under the dinner table, his boxers you found on top of your suitcase last night—used-up and dried-up. Some boyish version of a calling card.

He wants to complete the Donaldson set.