Turns out, Brandy and I got along like a house on fire, which I think annoyed Kit even more. She and I held back laughter as we watched Dr. Kleinfeld figure out our little dynamic.
“So . . . Mr. Baker is your wife’s ex-husband?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Kleinfeld then turned to me. “And you and Mr. Baker are seeing one another?”
“Yes.” I held up my finger. “Point of order, all care I’ve ever given Mr. Baker was as an acquaintance and a friend. I’ve never charged him or done an official work up on him.”
Kit stared at me. “You’ve never sent an invoice?”
I shook my head, letting a smile play up on my lips. “Never wanted to dash my own hopes, I guess.”
His face softened and he kissed my temple while Dr. Kleinfeld looked at all of us like we’d just landed here from the Planet Zolton. Brandy took it with her usual aplomb.
“Queers have always had complicated relationships,” she explained matter-of-factly.
Dr. Kleinfeld turned to me. “Wait, does this mean I’m a bad bisexual with my boring relationship where my husband and Ihaven’tslept with our friends?”
“Not bad,” I promised, then teased, “Just rare.”
She laughed, then finished Kit’s prep and took him into surgery with tactical efficiency.
Thankfully, the surgery went better than expected. Dr. Kleinfeld was able to make a repair instead of having to cut away at the torn meniscus, and while that’ll take a little longer recovery-wise, it should result in more mobility and less of a chance that he’ll develop arthritis in the knee. Fingers crossed.
Kit was now out of recovery and high on pain medicine, and it was the funniest thing ever.
“Got a little drool there, partner,” Brandy said, wiping the corner of his mouth.
“Thanks, Brian.”
“It’s Brandy.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“Close enough.”
Brandy and I struggled to get him to the car, but only because he tried to insist he could walk on his own without crutches. Heavy emphasis ontrybecause she was not about to let him get away with that. I mean, I wasn’t either, but Brandy was a little scary when you crossed her.
This whole recovery period was going to be an adventure.
Kit sang along to his Spotify list the entire way back, and Brandy and I shared many,manyslightly hysterical glances in the rearview as I drove us home. Finally, when I pulled into Kit’s driveway, Cynthia and Reed were waiting for us, both looking a little worse for wear. Reed immediately came up to the passenger side, and Kit unrolled the window, singing “Do you hear the people sing?” at the top of his lungs.
Who knew my cowboy was a fan of musical theater?
Reed started typing on his iPad.
“What is wrong with him?” asked the British voice, anxious despite its digital monotone.
“Nothing is wrong with me, my beautiful pain in the ass,” Kit responded, if a little loudly. “I’m feeling the music. Can’t you feel the music?”
Loud, Reed signed, tucking the iPad under his armpit.Can feel it in my chest.
“Exactly.”
Cynthia, Brandy, and I tried—and failed—to hide our laughter. Reed, however, was beside himself. He started swaying and pulled his Totoro squishy out of his backpack. He held it under his chin, pressing it rhythmically, like a heartbeat.
Cynthia smiled and stood in front of him. “Your dad is acting a little silly because he has pain medication. The surgery went well, remember? And part of the recovery is making sure he’s not in pain. Or in as little pain as possible.”
