Page 67 of Loving You

“I’m so sorry,” Henrietta began. “I didn’t?—”

“It’s fine,” he said, cutting her off. It wasn’t fine,but he could overlook it just the once. “But if he comes here again, call the cops and trespass him. He’s not welcome.”

Turning on his heel, he glanced down the hall at two charts sitting in the little bins beside the door. He could take a minute or two to calm down before he started the first patient, and he needed that. His stomach was twisted around itself.

What he needed was to speak to Monty. He couldn’t keep this to himself. Monty needed to know that his father had gone this far. Walking to his desk, he opened the top drawer and grabbed his phone, startled when he saw Monty’s name on the screen already.

Monty: Can I see you tonight?

Bronx: Yeah. We need to talk, actually.

Monty: Oh.

Bronx: Not like that.

Maybe it was like that. He had no idea how Monty was going to react when he finally confessed his feelings.

Bronx: Want me to come over?

Monty: Yes, please. I’ll be home when you’re off. See you then.

Bronx sent a heart in response in spite of himself. He didn’t know what was going to happen—what he was going to say, how it was all going to end. But something had to give. He was in love with Monty, breaking both of their rules, but it was time to tell him.

It was time to rip the Band-Aid off. Now or never. Do ordie. All of those ridiculous metaphors that meant the same thing—it was time to come clean because he was tired of living in a world where he wasn’t Monty’s and Monty wasn’t his.

Bronx debated about going home to shower. He had on a fresh set of scrubs, but having a cat nervous-shit all over him left a lingering smell that the office sink couldn’t quite scrub off. It was par for the goddamn course that day, and all he really wanted was to see Monty.

He had no idea how it was all going to go, but goddamn, he could at least sneak in a few kisses and maybe a long hug before it all went to hell.

He drove over as quickly as he could without getting popped for speeding and fidgeted at the door after ringing the bell. It took so long for Monty to answer Bronx started to panic about getting his info wrong, but then Monty threw the door open, looking frazzled. Somewhere behind him, Bronx could hear a loud alarm wailing.

“I burnt dinner,” Monty said, sounding on the verge of tears.

“Oh, sparky. You’re supposed to setmeaflame, not the house.” Bronx took him by the face and kissed him in spite of the lingering stench clinging to his skin. Monty didn’t seem to notice—which was probably a side effect from the smoke, and he groaned into the kiss before peeling away.

“I need to fix it,” Monty said.

Bronx reached into his scrubs pocket and pulled out his wallet, pressing it against Monty’s chest. “Throw it all away and order something. Heavy on the carbs for me. Preferably with a ton of cheese. It’s been a rough day.”

The alarm finally quieted just as Monty closed the door, and he looked worried. “What happened?”

Bronx sighed and grabbed Monty’s hand, kissing it. Just the feel of his skin was comforting. “I’m going to tell you all about it, but I need a shower first. Ten minutes before we closed, I got pooped on by a very spicy kitten.”

Monty looked like he was holding back a laugh. “Oh no.”

“Mm. Do you mind?”

Monty went up onto his toes to give Bronx a proper kiss. “No. I don’t mind. Borrow whatever you want, and I’ll have something edible waiting for you.”

Bronx wanted to hold off, but he also wanted to get clean before Monty’s olfactory senses came back online, so he hurried to the bedroom and closed the door behind him. The whole house smelled a little like charcoal, but it was better than what was happening at the office.

He peeled away his scrubs and tucked them beside the toilet before turning on the water and stepping under the warm spray. Monty’s soap was lightly scented, and it lathered up exactly enough for Bronx to wash away the last of his day.

He wished Monty was with him there, but knowing he’d have him soon was enough to get him through. It didn’t take long for him to dry off, and once he was certain he no longer smelled, he dressed in a pair of borrowed sweats and a hoodie that actually fit him well enough. He checked his appearance in the mirror, not entirely satisfied, but there wasn’t much he could do about the age lines in his face.

He’d be a liar if he didn’t admit that Rod’s words had gotten to him. It was something he thought about. At some point, their age difference might matter. He’d be a witheredold man while Monty was still in the prime of his twilight years. Eventually, he’d be less partner and more caregiver to Bronx, and then what would happen?

Regret? Resentment?

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