Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang Us, Daddy (Murder Daddy #3)

1. Nate

CHAPTER 1

NATE

N o one ever said fatherhood was easy. For the past two decades, I’ve raised my son the way I wish my father would have raised me. While my dad was cold and distant, I went out of my way to be warm and welcoming. Where my father never showed an ounce of emotion, I radiated joy like sunshine. Every bit of that sunshine was thanks to Tatum; it’s been easy being his dad.

From toddler to twenty-something twink, I raised my son to know he was safe and loved. He’s off on his own journey now, living his big, beautiful life in Winawana, Washington, taking his mother and her new girlfriend along for the ride. When he left, I thought my shot at fatherhood was over, but now, I get to do it all again, and I couldn’t be happier.

It’s still dark outside as I move through the house, tiptoeing so I don’t wake my new housemates. My son may have taken a big piece of my heart when he left to find his bliss, but he didn’t leave me empty-handed. No, my boy knew I was going to be lonely, so he left me two of the very best souvenirs in the world.

Bennet Anderson and Benjamin Applebaum.

It’s their first day of work, and I know they need their rest, so I try to keep quiet as I prepare for the day.

I’ll tell you, I couldn’t be prouder of these boys. When Tatum first introduced them to us a year ago—before he met his now husband, Abdulov—I knew the Bens were special. Benji and Bennet have felt almost like sons to me from the moment I met them. There was a strong, instinctual urge to bundle up the little guys and keep them safe. When Tatum broke things off with them by high-tailing it to Washington after a (n alleged) kidnapping, I lost touch with them. But my boys never left me. They were always here, tucked away in a tiny corner of my heart.

Earlier, on my way downstairs, I peeked into their room—my son’s childhood bedroom—to find them cuddled up next to each other, legs tangled together, arms splayed at uncomfortable angles. They sleep that way every night, always in adorable matching pajamas—but then, they wear matching clothes at all times, so that’s to be expected. Some might call it a coping mechanism, I simply find it adorable. When they sleep, they always face each other, so close their noses nearly touch.

They’re precious, my boys.

When Bennet and Benji moved in, they were still in a state of shock. Heck, I think we all were. The ink on my divorce papers was barely dry before they came barreling back into my life. The Bens were just coming out of an abusive relationship, and I think they needed me just as much as I needed them. They don’t always come to me when they’re in need, though, and I have to admit, it breaks my heart to hear them crying in their room at night. Our bedrooms are right next to each other, and the walls are paper thin. I try my best to give them their space, but it physically pains me to hear them hurting. Maybe one day they’ll seek refuge in my arms, knowing I’ll never let anyone hurt them. I hope they will, at least. Benji and Bennet are the same side of the same coin, and I’m just a wrinkly, old dollar bill aspiring to be a penny, just so I can understand some of what they’re going through.

After fixing their breakfast and packing lunches for their first day, I head up to their room, humming that old Lisa Loeb song that was on TV last night. I know the boys pick on me because of my love for ‘90s pop, but deep down, we all know they love the way I’ll sneak up behind them and start singing Ace of Base or Natalie Imbruglia directly into their ears.

Benji’s still sleeping, but Bennet’s wide awake, kissing trails across his best friend’s forehead. I sit at the foot of the bed and squeeze Bennet’s ankle.

“You ready for your first day, kiddo?” I ask.

Bennet gives me his trademark bashful morning smile and sits up, leaning closer to me. “I’m not a kid.”

I stare down at his Hello Kitty pajamas and arch an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?” Feathering my fingers through his hair, I scratch his scalp. Usually, he pulls away from my touch, but today, he doesn’t. Today, he sits in front of me, allowing me to comfort him. “Are you nervous?”

I don’t know why I expect him to answer me. While Benji is my little cuddlebug, Bennet’s always been the standoffish sort. Even before their ex-boyfriend broke their hearts and their trust, Bennet was the quiet one. Rarely speaking unless spoken to, he tends to hide in his head, hoarding his emotions and carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. But when they’re alone? When they’re alone, my Bennet comes alive. He dances and sings and makes ridiculous faces. He reads gay romance novels aloud—acting out scenes like they were written just for him—while his best friend, Benji, sits at his feet, hands clasped to his chest, clinging to every word. I hope one day he’ll open up to me the same way. That’s not to say he’s uncordial, because Bennet Anderson is one of the sweetest souls you could meet. He just keeps to himself, is all.

I move past him, wanting to gently nudge Benji to wake him up, but Bennet grabs my wrist before I can make contact. “No, Nate. I like to wake him up.” He bats his lashes, looking almost heartbroken. “Please? He likes when I’m the one who does it.”

His possessiveness is nothing new; he’s always looked out for his friend. It’s hardly surprising after everything they’ve been through. They’ve been best buddies since they were toddlers, rarely spending any time apart. After Benji came out as gay, his parents kicked him out. Bennet convinced his mother to let him stay with them, but she was hardly a mother at all, leaving them to fend for themselves as she fell deeper into her drug addiction. Then they lost her at nineteen. Really, all they’ve ever had is each other. Now they’ve got me. Their touchstone. A window to the outside world. A surrogate father.

I wish I knew them back then. I wish I could have been there to keep them safe. Even though I don’t know what they had to do to survive, it kills me to think of the possibilities. For years, it’s been them against the world. While I understand the reasoning for their codependency, it doesn’t stop me from wanting to break down the walls they’ve built to keep others out. I want—no, need —them to know they can trust me. It’s an urge I can’t really explain, but it’s always there, bubbling higher and higher, like milk boiling on the stove.

Bennet kisses both of Benji’s eyelids, softly tickling the side of his neck with his fingers. Through their bedroom window, I spot the first signs of the morning sun, and in the half-light, their matching blond hair almost seems to sparkle. Bennet’s big blue eyes are practically radiating love as he watches Benji slowly stir.

Benji’s mouth opens and closes a few times, yawning, displaying a stunning set of pearly white teeth. When he spots Bennet, a gentle smile spreads across his face. They link hands, weaving their fingers together. Judging by the pleading look Bennet gives me, I figure he wants a moment alone, probably to reassure Benji that he’ll look out for him during their first shift as co-receptionists at the agency where my son-in-law used to work. Initially, I’d been hesitant to allow the boys to work for a hitman-for-hire corporation, but I know they need time away from this room, and after saving Abi’s life recently, I feel like I can trust Agent Meadows. Besides, they’ve hidden away for the last two months, and my boys need contact with the outside world.

I head toward the door, wanting to give them their privacy, but Benji’s voice stops me in my tracks. “Nate?”

I look over my shoulder, surprised to see his eyes locked on my butt. I glance down, thinking Bennet may have placed another ”Kick Me” sign on my backside like he did the other day. Well, he claimed there was one there when I caught him looking last time, but then he gave me some half-cocked story about a rogue racoon that must’ve snuck in and snatched it off my backside when we weren’t looking. A ridiculous story, but my boys have never lied to me, so I called pest control to come check things out. The last thing I want is them being infected with rabies while they sleep. I’d never forgive myself.

When Benji’s eyes meet mine, they widen. “Sorry. I thought your pants looked wet, but it’s just the fabric.”

I’m not sure what he’s talking about. I’m wearing a pair of gray pajamas, so there would be no mistaking a wet patch for dry poly cotton blend. Chalking it up to his still being half-asleep, I give him a kind smile.

“What did you need, son?”

“You didn’t give me my good-morning hug.” He puffs his bottom lip out, pouting. At his side, Bennet motions me over, inviting me into their bubble. These moments are few and far between, but I’ve never felt more alive than I do when they allow me a glimpse into their secret world. I return to my place at the foot of their bed, opening my arms and inviting Benji in for a morning hug. Benji blushes, but for the life of me, I have no idea what’s got him so nervous. I open my mouth to ask why he’s so worked up, but when he rises to his knees, letting the blanket fall, I quickly realize the source of his embarrassment.

Yep. That’s an erection.

He hobbles toward me, his arms held out like Jesus on the cross, his morning glory bouncing up and down beneath the thin fabric of his pajamas. I’m pretty sure I can see an outline of the head.

He wraps his arms around my shoulders, burying his face in my neck. The way he’s angled, his erection jabs into my side, and I have to bite back the urge to tease him about it. He’s not in that place yet. Maybe one day we’ll be able to playfully goad each other, but we need to work on trust first.

His erection presses snugly against my hip again, and I figure his knees must be achy, because he keeps rocking back and forth. Giving him a quick kiss on the forehead, I pat his butt, motioning for him to let go. He doesn’t though. He just holds on tighter, like he’s scared I’ll disappear.

“Are you gonna miss me today?” he asks, sounding a little breathless.

“Of course I will.” I have to hold back a grunt when his morning wood slams into me again, even rougher this time. “Are you okay, buddy?”

Bennet snorts a laugh, and when I look up at him to ask what’s so funny, he’s shoving the blankets away and standing up. He’s got a tent in his pajamas as well, but unlike his other half, he shields it with his hands. Bennet makes his way to the closet, shoving down his pajamas until all he’s wearing is a pair of tight hot-pink briefs.

I can see why my son was smitten with Bennet. If I were gay or bisexual, I’d never take my eyes off the guy. As my son Tatum might say, the man has a bakery back there, and whoever lands him and Benji as romantic partners will be snacking endlessly.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring at Bennet, but my attention is pulled back to Benji when he cries out, “Nate!”

I stare at him, concerned. I’ve got my hand against his cheek, studying his expression, trying to figure out what’s wrong. “Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?”

Again, Bennet chuckles, but Benji is staring up at me with wide, fearful eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, sounding panicked. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to?—”

That’s when I feel it. Warmth. Wetness. It’s seeping through his pajama bottoms, and the longer I stare into his eyes, the more worried he becomes. I should probably be more upset about the fact his semen is seeping out of the fabric, making my abdomen damp, but I’m not. It’s not like it’s the first time a man has accidentally ejaculated in my presence. In my profession, it comes with the territory.

The sound of Benji’s sniffle alongside the sight of tears forming rips my heart in two. He looks terrified. I cup his cheek, praying it will put him at ease.

“Hey, you’re okay. It’s fine, I promise.” I kiss his forehead again.

“I didn’t mean to?—”

I shake my head. “I said it’s fine, Benji. You’re not the first man in the world to accidentally spill over on me, and you sure as heck won’t be the last. Last week, I watched a patient ejaculate into his own mouth. I promise, there’s nothing you can do that I haven’t seen already. Now, I’m going to head downstairs and set the table for breakfast, then I’m getting dressed. You’ve got twenty minutes to get ready, then I’m coming up here and dragging your lazy bones downstairs.” I dart my eyes down at his crotch. “Go on. Get in the shower so you can clean yourself up.”

“You should probably shower, too,” he suggests, pointing at my side. Looking down, I spot the smallest hint of semen on my t-shirt. Not wanting to make him feel bad about it, I wink at him.

“Maybe I’ll wear it all day just to get under your skin.” I pause long enough to chew my cheek. “Well, I guess you would be the one getting under my skin, technically, but you know what I mean.”

His eyes widen, the pupils blown wide and wild. “You will?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Bennet groans.

“Language,” I scold him, but it just earns me a death glare. Patting Benji’s knee, I rise from the bed and head over to Bennet, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “I really wish you wouldn’t talk like that, buddy. You’re too pretty to be using ugly words.”

His cheeks darken. “You think I’m pretty?”

I nod. “You’re one of the most handsome men I’ve ever met, Bennet.” I pull him in for a hug, because I need him to believe me. His self-confidence isn’t very high after everything their ex-boyfriend put them through.

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” I assure him. He’s smiling, but he can’t seem to maintain eye contact with me. That’s okay. As long as he’s present and takes the words to heart, it’s enough for me.

“You said, ‘one of.’ Who else are you talking about?”

I roll my eyes, because it’s a silly question and he already knows the answer. “You and Benji look like twins; who the heck do you think I’m talking about?”

He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. That’s okay too. He’ll open up to me when he’s ready. I just know it.

“Nate?” Benji calls out as I walk toward the bedroom door. I glance over my shoulder at him. “Will you?”

“Will I, what?”

He licks his lips, his eyes locked on my shirt. “Will you really wear me all day long?”

I was only joking when I said it earlier, but the look he’s giving me tells me he’s not in a joking mood. “You want me to wear your semen, son?” He bites his bottom lip, nodding nervously. For the life of me, I can’t think of a single reason why he’d even ask. It’s a strange request, but it’s not one I’m entirely opposed to. No, it’s not very hygienic, but that doesn’t bother me. When you guide couples through sexual awakenings for a living, you’re bound to get your hands dirty. “Tell me why,” I finally say.

“It’ll just make me feel better knowing I’m with you, I guess. There’s so much new stuff happening today. I’m scared, sir.”

My heart flutters, then my inner-protector comes out in full force. Benji knows how worried I’ve been about them starting this job. Heck, my lack of enthusiasm for their new career path is probably the reason he’s so nervous. It’s my fault, and the realization hits me like a ton of bricks. I have to make things right.

“You’re sure it will help?” I ask. Benji’s eyes widen like he didn’t expect me to agree. His head seesaws up and down rapidly like a kid who’s been asked if they want to go to Disney World. “I slept in this shirt, so I’ll have to wear something else to work,” I tell him as I approach. Lifting the tail of my shirt, exposing a small slither of skin for him to paint. It’s more skin than I’ve shown in ages. After losing touch with my son over the course of six months, I put on twenty pounds, and I’m not terribly comfortable in my own body these days. Benji doesn’t seem to mind, though. “Go on. Put some on me. Right here, buddy.” I pat my hip.

“I was just joking,” he whispers. “You don’t really have to.”

“All jokes come from a place of truth. If you think this will help you cope today, go on. I’ll keep it on me all day, I promise. When you get scared, you just think about me, knowing I’m wearing you around town, and know you’re safe. All right?”

His jaw trembles, and the corners of his eyes look rather misty. “Yes, sir.” He reaches into his underwear, and his hand wraps around himself, collecting his cooling cum. When his hand emerges, it’s coated in semen.

I want him to think I’m supportive, but I can’t seem to reconcile how so much cum can come from such a small man. His hand is drenched.

“How much do you want me to put on?”

“However much will make you feel safe, little guy.”

“I’m real scared,” he admits. “I think I’ll need to give you all of it to feel better.”

Goodness gracious. I figured he’d want to swipe a sticky finger across my tummy and call it a day. I wasn’t expecting him to bathe me in cum. The sight of relief finally stretching across his face after months of panic and seclusion makes me feel unstoppable, though; knowing I’m the one who has pulled the hurt out of him and guided him to this place of trust.

“Okay,” I agree. “If that’s what you need. Go on. It’s okay, Benji. I’ll wear all of it.”

He stares at my exposed skin like someone dying of thirst might stare at a tall glass of water. His hand creeps closer and closer until it’s finally pressed flush against my hip. It’s cool against my skin, but I don’t mind it as much as I expected. It’s thick like lotion and smells of bleach, but I’ve always enjoyed the scent of Clorox, so it works out just fine.

I’ve got Benji all over me, and I think the knowledge of that comforts me just as much as it comforts him. When I leave for work, I’ll have it as a constant reminder of how he feels safe and secure while he’s away from me.

I tug his face up by the chin and crinkle my nose at him, playing the fool to earn another smile. . . and my God, the man smiles at me. Before he can react, I reach for his nose with my knuckles. When I pull away, I’ve got my thumb tucked between my index and middle fingers, wiggling it back and forth. “I got your nose.”

Benji cackles. “Give it back!”

And, because he’s been such a good boy for me these last few weeks, I do just that. I tap the tip of his nose and grin. “There you go, buddy. All better.”

He glares at me. “You forgot my favorite part.”

“Did I?” I scrunch my eyebrows together, feigning confusion. There isn’t a drop of confusion in me, though. We both know dang well what he’s talking about.

“You have to kiss it so it’ll stick.”

I smack my hand over my mouth. “My gosh, you’re right.” Of course, I haven’t forgotten the kiss. It’s my favorite part, too. I kiss his nose, letting my lips linger until he’s purring like a kitten. “All better?” Once he nods his approval, I flash a smile and stand up. I turn and head toward the door, making a pits top by the closet, pressing a hand against the small of Bennet’s back and whispering into his ear, “Make sure to pick an outfit that will make him feel confident.” My voice is barely a whisper because I don’t want Benji to overhear. When I look back, I realize there’s no need, because he’s not paying us any attention. He’s standing by the bed, tossing his shirt over his shoulder before sliding out his pajama bottoms. His back arches at such a fascinating angle. Not wanting to invade his privacy, I look away. “And pick something that will make you feel special too, Bennet. ’Cause you’re really special to me. I’ll make you see it, one day. Just you wait.” Bennet’s breathing gets a little shaky, and he leans back, resting his weight against my hand.

“Thank you, Nate,” he finally whispers, and then he pulls away. Inside I’m buzzing over what he’s just given me.

I’m going to break those walls down one day, and when it happens, it’s going to be glorious.

I give him a quick kiss on the head before patting his butt and heading toward the door.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” I overhear Bennet say as I close the door. “You’re fucking shameless, Benji.”

“Nope. I just know what I want.”

He’s right. Benji knew what he wanted, just now, and he took it. He wanted me to wear him as a reminder, and that’s exactly what I plan to do. I couldn’t be prouder if I tried.

Making my way downstairs, I pause, staring at an image of the Bens with my son that’s hanging on the wall. In it, they were happy. Joy permeates the air around them, almost making it seem like the picture itself is alive. I tap my son’s face in the picture and give him my sincerest smile.

“I’m going to take care of them, Tate. I promise.”

There’s a coo coo clock on my wall, and the tick-tick-ticking of the clock’s hand has an almost hypnotic effect, lulling me into a state of zen. While I wish I was able to drive my boys to work this morning, I’ve had a standing weekly eight o’clock appointment with Pastor and Mrs. Brooks for two months. While I could have called and asked to reschedule, we’ve been making progress in our quest to uncover the source of Miles Brooks’ impotency issues. No matter what we try, the man simply cannot maintain an erection.

Unfortunately, he isn’t the only one.

We’ve gone through all my tried-and-true methods for erectile dysfunction cases, but nothing seems to stick. Tallulah Apostolic Church’s new thirty-three-year-old pastor has been prescribed every medication under the sun, but the only time he’s risen to the occasion was when he caught me changing shirts before their appointment last week.

I’m sitting in my leather armchair, and the unhappy couple is directly in front of me on the sofa, not making a move, despite my instructions. Sighing, I grab my glass of water from the small end table next to my chair and take a swig. “I can’t help you if you’re unwilling to help yourselves,” I finally say, breaking the twenty-minute silent streak we’ve all been stuck in. They’ve been staring into each other’s eyes, fear heavy on Mrs. Brooks’ face, while a look of shame washes across her husband’s.

Mallory Brooks is an attractive woman. She has the makings of magnificence, but hides it behind frizzy red hair that flows long past her rear end. But then, I still proudly wear a ring of hair around my bald head, so who am I to judge? Though their congregation has less than forty members, you’d think you were speaking with royalty when speaking with her. She has a general air of superiority to her, but not in a cruel way. It’s as if she knows she’s meant for greatness, and she’s getting a little antsy, wondering what’s taking so long.

“My husband, the pastor,” she starts, even though I’ve known the man most of his life, “is a homosexual.”

I close my eyes and sigh, because I know what’s coming next. The same thing that happens every time she unnecessarily outs her husband during their therapy sessions.

“I have overcome!” he shrieks in a high-pitched voice that grates at my eardrums. “Damn you, Mal. Damn you straight to Hell. Why do you always have to bring up that period of my life? You know I’ve prayed through it.” He turns to me, nodding proudly. “I’m here, I’m not queer anymore, and you’d better get used to it.”

Mrs. Brooks rolls her eyes before grabbing a copy of Highlights Magazine from my coffee table and casually thumbing through the pages. “He’s been spending all his time with the sodomite across the street. He claims to be praying the tragic twink through his demon of homosexuality, but who’s to say?”

Pastor Brooks gasps, clutching his chest. “What I do with Dare-bear is between us and the Lord. I cannot break pastor/parishioner confidentiality. Souls are on the line.”

“Dare-bear,” Mrs. Brooks mouths, shaking her head mockingly.

“Darren Davenport is going to be my shining star,” Pastor Brooks declares proudly, not paying his wife’s disdainful look a bit of mind. “He’s making so much progress in his heterosexual awakening, and it’s all because of me. I’ve designed cutting-edge reparative therapy methods that I’m sure will be tried-and-true by this time next year. We’ll have them all cured soon enough.”

“So,” I hiss, gripping my pen tighter, resisting the urge to thrust it into the young pastor’s neck. I’ll stand for many things, and reparative therapy isn’t one of them. “You haven’t sexually satisfied your wife in. . .”—I glance down at my notepad and nod—“over a decade. Let’s talk about that.”

Pastor Brooks blushes furiously and looks away.

“He hasn’t sexually entered me in ten years. He’s never satisfied me,” Mrs. Brooks corrects, pointing at a page and grinning before nudging her husband, “Miles, look! This little princess looks just like your fruity best friend. She’s got a rainbow-colored dress on and everything.” She shoves the magazine against her husband’s chest and lets go, sending it falling into his lap.

“For the love of?—”

“I don’t even mind that he’s a sodomite, it’s the fact that when we got married, I was promised a life of luxury. I was meant to be a pastor’s wife, and I was supposed to revel in the local celebrity status that came with it. Ever since Miles took his father’s role as pastor, the church numbers have dwindled. We’re down to less than forty parishioners.” She glares at her husband. “Because no one wants to be preached to by a sodomite.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Mrs. Brooks, if you say the word sodomite again, I will end this session. I won’t stand for homophobia.”

She sighs like the weight of the world is on her shoulders. “Sorry, I forget how fragile your kind is. The point is, I gave up my life for a man who promised the world, for him to deliver nothing but disappointment, so you’ll have to excuse me for not taking the time to be politically correct.” She turns and glares at her husband, hissing, “Sodomite!”

“Dang it, Mal,” Pastor Brooks mutters. “I’m doing this for you. I’m trying to become the husband you deserve, and you’re not even trying.”

“The husband I deserve is a heterosexual. You can claim you’ve overcome until Jesus returns for the rapture; it doesn’t change the fact that you’re gay. You’re always going to be gay. Can’t we just settle into a sexually and emotionally unfulfilling marriage and stop pretending we can fix this? There’s no fixing it, just like there’s no fixing the way we’re going to grow old and die in this backwoods, hillbilly city.”

“I’ve already told you, I’ve got a deal with KARQ, public access television, for a fifteen-minute show bi-monthly. I’m laying the groundwork. Darren and I are building an ex-gay empire.”

“You’re building a one-way train to Hell. That’s what you’re building.”

“Listen, I don’t think we’re getting anywhere with this today. You’re just bickering back and forth,” I try. “Perhaps we’d be better off?—”

“Absolutely not,” Pastor Brooks interrupts, his voice insistent. “We paid for an hour. We’re taking the hour.”

“Fine. Rip each other to shreds,” I say, kicking back and staring at my phone as they unleash holy Hell upon each other. Honestly, I’m kind of a wreck as it is. My boys are out there, starting their first day at work at their fancy new jobs. I should be happy for them, but all I feel is an overwhelming pang of dread, because I don’t know if they’re safe. I have no idea if they remembered to take their lunches to work. And then there’s hydration. God knows my Benji has the memory retention of a chronic stoner. He’s useless without Bennet or me to remind him to practice basic self-care. It’s not that my Benji is flighty, he just gets lost in his head sometimes. He gets stuck on a thought and can’t let it go. I can’t count the times Bennet’s had to remind him to go tinkle when Benji’s doing his pee-pee dance. Not to mention the way I have to remind him every morning and every night to brush his teeth. I type out a quick text to him, pretending to jot down notes behind my legal pad so the Brooks’ can’t tell I’m ignoring them.

I hope you’re having a wonderful day, boys , I send to our group chat before looking up to make sure the coast is clear. The Brooks’ are still ripping each other apart, so I know I’ve got a minute. I lift my legal-pad phone shield long enough to snap a selfie of me making a gagging face to show how terrible this morning is going for me, then hit send. When I pull the phone and legal pad down, Pastor and Mrs. Brooks are glaring at me.

“Sorry,” I say, my cheeks a little darker. “It’s my sons’ first day at their new job.” I didn’t mean to call them my sons, but dang if it doesn’t feel right. I’ve watched over them. Given them endless hugs and unyielding devotion. Heck, I’m pretty close to getting them a new car to replace their clunker. If that ain’t the father/son bond to end all father/son bonds, I don’t know what is. But it’s not like the bond I share with my real son, Tatum. If it were, the Bens would leave me on read without a reply for weeks. That’s not the case, and my phone vibrates in my hand. When I click the chat thread, I’m greeted with a picture of my good boys in their car, headed to work. They’re both holding their lunches, which instantly puts me at ease. How the heck did they know I’ve been worried about their lunches? I know they have this shared non-biological twin magic thing between them where they can read each other’s minds at times, but I’m not part of that bond. Their alleged twin telepathy doesn’t usually extend to me, and it feels almost magical to be a part of their fold, for however much or little as I can be.

“You have children?” Mrs. Brooks asks. At first, I think she’s genuinely asking, but then she just uses it as ammunition, hissing, “I’d have children too if I hadn’t married a sodomite!”

And with that final quip, I end our session, sending Pastor and Mrs. Brooks away with a stern warning that I will not abide blatant homophobia. Once they’re gone, I pull out my phone and bring up Spotify. When I press play, Cher is asking if I believe in life after love. For the Brooks family, I certainly hope so. When I think of my Bens, I know it’s true, because I’ve lost my first-and-only love, and now I’m living my best life. I kick back on my office sofa and snap another selfie of me blowing a kiss before sending it to my boys.