“You’re welcome. Anything you want, Sky, you know you can just ask.”
“I do, Kit. But I’m starting a new chapter, and I don’t want to need anything from anyone else.”
“I hear you.”
We hung up. In the ensuing silence, I admitted to myself that, despite Ren’s advice, I couldn’t be sure about someone who thought, even for a moment, that I was capable of using him.
While it was true that I didn’t technically need another person to be alive and happy, I did very much want someone in my life who could fully embrace all of me—specifically my queerness and my desire to stand on my own two feet.
And Kit Baker, it seemed, was not that man.
17
KIT
“Dad,”chirped the—and I might have been reading into things here—disappointed British voice. “Your knee. You don’t need to carry heavy things. Me, Mom, and McKenzie have it covered.”
I waved him off, setting the last of the boxes in the small, updated kitchenette. “My son is moving into his first apartment. I’m getting the damned MRI next week, so I’m here and I’m going to help.”
“We’re exactly fifty feet away from Mom and Brandy’s house,” he pointed out. “We don’t really need your help.”
“Ouch.”
Despite Reed’s protests, the four of us got a lot accomplished, even though everyone colluded to prevent me from lifting anything over ten pounds. With his things more or less in place, we gathered in my son’s tiny living room. Cynthia had her Notes app up and was making a list of the basic items he still needed while Reed pulled McKenzie into an affectionate hug.
That was going to take some getting used to.
I’d perhaps catastrophized this move, but the barn was about the same distance from either house, and this really was a nice space for him to explore his independence.
Reed and McKenzie started kissing as Cyn and I reviewed her list and split up what we’d take care of.
A few minutes later, the digital voice piped up. “Mom. Dad. Can you go now?”
“We’re almost done,” Cyn answered, still occupied by the list making. “Is something wrong?”
He started typing out a determined staccato, which got our attention.
“McKenzie and I would like to have sex now.”
McKenzie clapped enthusiastically. “Yes, please.”
My jaw dropped. They were having sex? Who let that happen? I turned to Cynthia, who’d turned a bright red.
“Um, yes. Of course,” she said, putting away her phone. “You deserve your private time.”
“Wait. We’re letting this happen?” I asked, incredulous.
“We started having sex six months ago. Why did you think I wanted the apartment so bad?”
His artificial British voice was starting to grate on whatever nerve was making my right eyeball twitch.
Cynthia took one look at me, hooked her elbow around mine, and walked me to the door. I brought us to a halt, asking over my shoulder, “What about protection? You don’t want McKenzie to get pregnant.”
McKenzie grinned, then did one of her verbalizations, like a purr-chirp. “My mother already gave us condoms.”
Great.
I mean, yes, him being sexually—herk—responsible was objectively—oh, God—a good thing. And I’m sure I’d be okay with it.
