“Hope you don’t mind a little Dolly Parton,” he said, sneaking another look at me.
“I do love me some Dolly.” I smiled. “Actually, I love all music, including country. Even if a lot of those singers don’t like me very much.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think I ever thought about that.”
“I can’t afford not to,” I said, gesturing at my face full of elegant makeup. “If somebody thinks I’m an abomination, I really don’t want to give them my money. And anyone who thinks I shouldn’t be able to get married can go get fucked.”
He went quiet after that. Thoughtful.
“Growing up around here, you hear a lot of bullshit,” he finally said. “And after meeting you, I reckon the biggest crock of shit I ever heard was that gay men are weak.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Think about it. You’re not hiding, that’s for sure.”
I snickered as he continued. “I understand a little more of what it means for you to walk out the door knowing that, if you come across a homophobe, you’re gonna get chirped at pretty hard.”
“Why do you think I’m like this?” I asked, then didn’t wait for his response. “I don’t want to just get by. Like, that’s a choice lots of people make so that they can stay safe, and I don’t fault them for it. Genuinely. But I wanna know who the people are around me who don’t support me. I wanna know who those motherfuckers are, so I know where I stand.”
“Ever have someone try to hurt you?”
I gave him a look, then returned my eyes to the road. “Guess.”
“What do you do when that happens?”
“Sometimes I end up with a fat lip or a bloody nose, but mostly I end up with bruised knuckles.”
He shook his head. “Why does that not surprise me?”
“Because you know better than to discount the pretty guy with the flashy clothes.”
His eyes tracked down my body. “That I do.” He took in the road ahead of us as he repeated himself. “That I do.”
Kit went quiet again, his thoughts an almost visible line of ticker tape rolling across his forehead. He seemed to want to ask something, or maybe he was just nervous about the MRI. Instead of trying to pry it out of him, I let him stew in his thoughts as we drove into town.
When we pulled into the parking garage of the doctor’s office, he stiffened, crinkling his hat in his hands, ratcheting up the nervous energy.
“I didn’t know how you would be with confined spaces, so I ordered sedation for the MRI,” I informed him, keeping my voice neutral. “It’s fast acting, won’t leave you groggy for too long, and you can refuse it. But if you’ve never had an MRI before, you may want it.”
“Are y’all gonna put my head inside that thing?”
I shook my head. “Because it’s your knee, they’ll put you in feet first. Also, this is an open bore MRI, so it’s roomier than those old tubes you may have seen in movies.”
“Then I won’t get the sedation.” He rolled back his shoulders. “But thank you for considering my comfort.”
“Sedation isn’t only for claustrophobia. If you’re in pain or just super nervous, it’s okay to take the meds. Don’t be a hero.”
He shook his head again. “Bein’ out of control would make me even more anxious.”
I reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “Then you don’t have to take them at all.” Letting him go, I continued, “I was going to do my monthly check-in with Dr. Kleinfeld while you were getting the MRI, but I can walk you over to the office if you’d like. They won’t let me in the magnet room, though.”
“I’m a big boy. I can go to the scan myself.”
I crossed my arms. “And you won’t run away and pretend you did it when you actually didn’t?”
“Thought about it, but I’ve heard about the way you run. I wouldn’t make it very far.”
I chuckled. “That was for a sale on Manolo Blahniks, but you make a good point.”
