Shit, can I ask a question like that? It’d been my first attempt at asking for pronouns, but Jaxon—Sadie’s son—enjoyed talking about what he’d learned in Rowdy’s after-school classes, and I enjoyed listening to him. Apparently, you’re not supposed to assume.
Either way, I felt like an asshole.
“No, honey, you’ve got it exactly right. I am a man, he/him/his pronouns. I just happen to be a man who is very much in touch with my feminine side.”
“Is that why you like sparkly makeup and those pretty nails?”
“Yep.”
“My ex said she always hated wearing makeup, and only ever got her nails done because I like long nails so much,” I admitted. I grabbed bottle of mezcal again and took another sip, not sure why I was runnin’ at the mouth like this. “Isn’t that something? She loved me so much that even though she didn’t enjoy sleeping with me, she was still willing to put on the makeup and the nails—and the lace, too—because I liked it?”
A fact that still confused me.
“It takes a long time for women to overcome the indoctrination that a man’s pleasure comes before her needs, especially if that was reinforced in her family dynamic.”
My lip curled when I thought of Cynthia’sfamily dynamic. Sky’d mentioned his tyrant of a personal trainer, but he’d clearly never met someone like Cyn’s father. He’d been more upset that she’d decided to go to college than the fact that she’d gotten pregnant—and married—so young.
“Reinforcedis a nicer word than I’d use,” I finally said.
“Now imagine not fitting into one of the two very specific boxes.” He gestured at me. “You? In your Wranglers, Lucchese’s,and that Stetson you’re always wearing? You fit so perfectly into the man box, and you don’t even have to try all that hard.”
“Hey, I take care of my appearance.”
“You do, honey. You have a sense of style; I’ll give you that. But I’m guessing this isn’t cosplay. You probably enjoy what you wear and feel more like yourself in it.”
“I do.”
“But your wife didn’t fit into her box very well at all, did she?”
I shook my head and . . . shit.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said as I tried—unsuccessfully—to surreptitiously wipe a tear from my eyes.
“You didn’t,” I sniffled. “I got orange juice in my eye.”
“You must’ve really loved her.”
“Yeah, and it was hell findin’ out she’d been faking it all along.”
Skylar rubbed my arm, his expression empathetic. “I’ve heard you talk about your ex-wife before. She’s good people. She was just living in the same heteronormative soup you live in. She was doing the best she could, and I doubt very seriously that she faked her affection for you.”
“Affection,” I sneered, as he pulled back the gel pack to examine my knee.
“Looky there. The swelling’s gone down a little.”
Skylar gave me an assessing look, then opened his light blue medical bag—I was sensing a theme—and took out a balm along with some black disposable gloves. “Now, this isn’t exactly legal, but you’re not officially a patient of mine and Woody’s friend makes a powerful THC rub that’ll help.”
Normally I’d protest—I ain’t ever even smoked pot—but the mezcal had barely touched the pain.
“At this point, I’ll try anything.”
“Then let’s work on those muscles, sugar,” he said, taking the bottle from my lax hands.Smart.
Sky got after it, careful of the joint. With a few minutes under his talented hands, the large muscles eased up their pull on my knee.
“You are so good at making my muscles stand down,” I said, barely holding back a moan.
Most of ’em, anyway.
