Chapter One #2
We may not have a conventional relationship—most people call what we’ve got going on a "lavender marriage”—but here’s the thing: we’re not married.
We thought about it a few times since it’s obvious we’re each other’s soul-person, but financially, it just makes sense for us to be single for tax and insurance purposes.
Namely, our “single” status means Brody gets to keep the Medicaid he so desperately needs.
Marcus and I still bought a house together, live together, co-parent Brody together, though, and have built a life together.
Sure, he’s gay and I’m straight—so I guess that does put us in a mixed-orientation long-term domestic partnership—but it has worked for us for over a decade now.
For all intents and purposes, that man is my person.
My soulmate. We have an arrangement that works well enough to keep things civil with his family since he’s still very deeply in the closet regarding his sexuality when it comes to them.
His parents think Brody is biologically his, and they think that we’re in a steady, monogamous, heteronormative relationship.
My parents and two brothers both know the true nature of our relationship, however, but have never given us a lick of grief about our set-up.
Whether it’s because they’re more open to non-traditional relationships, they know how much I love Marcus, or because they know I’m just stubborn enough to do what I want regardless of their opinions, I’m not entirely sure.
Whatever the case may be, they’ve been accepting, and I can appreciate that wholeheartedly.
My family and I once had concerns that this partnership was nothing more than being a beard for him, but seeing the way Marcus intimately cares for me has allayed all those worries.
I truly don’t think he even wants an emotional relationship like the one we have with anyone else.
He simply seeks just sex elsewhere from time-to-time—so it's not always just with me—and that’s understandable.
In fact, I’m okay with it not always being with me.
Maybe, in time, I can get to that point where it's not always just with him either…
Having made sure everything is all squared away, I take a minute to touch up my makeup before heading out to the first appointment of the day—a step I don’t usually put too much thought into, but when it comes to Caleb, I suspiciously always find myself making sure I put the extra effort in.
I grab my keys off the entryway table, and lock the door behind me before heading to my car.
Time to meet Caleb Dupris at the physiatrist’s office.
“This doctor is trash,” Caleb signs to me, his face pinched in frustration. “He keeps addressing you instead of talking directly to me. Can you remind him that I can hear him?”
I’m on it before Caleb even gets a chance to finish that question, however. “Dr. Desmaris, if you could please address your patient when speaking, he would appreciate that.”
The pain medicine doctor clears his throat and adjusts himself to regard Caleb. “My apologies. I forget that you are mute and not deaf.”
“Regardless,” I interject, “ interpreter speaking here, but when utilizing interpreter services, it’s still good practice to address your patient, so as not to dehumanize them. Maybe, while you're at it, you could work on fine tuning your bedside manner?”
Dr. Desmaris scowls a little, like a scorned puppy, before replying with, “Of course.”
While I'd rather not get fired over it, I feel like I need to issue such a reminder at ninety percent of my visits, whether my client is deaf, hard of hearing, or—less often—mute. It baffles me some providers go through all this medical school to learn the ins and outs of how the body works, yet still sometimes need reminders of how to interact with people as if they’re not just a medical record number.
I'm nothing if not an advocate for the patients I work with, and you can call it personal all you want, but I won't cow down to such behavior if it means there's more understanding in the world my son is growing up in.
Caleb signs “thank you” to me, and he and the provider carry on with the visit.
After things wrap up, I ask him if he’d like to grab a cup of coffee with me down at the hospital cafeteria.
We’ve got about twenty minutes left of this session, and Caleb looks like he’s about to tear his hair out with frustration over how this visit just went.
He’s been dealing with off-and-on severe upper back pain since an accident he had a number of years ago, and to him, it feels as though he’s getting nowhere with all the specialists he’s seen.
There’s an opioid epidemic in Maine—everywhere, really—and it seems as though everyone would much rather write him off as a drug-seeker, rather than get to the root of the cause.
Today, he and his doctor settled on some physical therapy to try to help.
“Do you want your usual?” I ask him.
He makes a nodding motion with his fist before signing, “Please.”
When he tries to pass me his debit card, I brush him off. Not only has he bought me plenty enough by now, but I’m running out of ways to make the way I compulsively have to watch my drink be prepared appear casual. “My treat this time. Today sucked, I know.”
He puffs out a huff of air from his lower lip, tossing a few of his short strands of hair up and off his forehead.
Being a huge Supernatural fan, Caleb is a dead ringer for Dean Winchester.
Well, maybe not a complete clone—Caleb’s hair is a brighter blond, his teeth are less perfect, and he’s quite a bit shorter—but those expressive eyes, that rough stubble he regularly has, that smoldering look he always dons?
Yum. Probably not supposed to say this about a client, but this is simply in my mind, so I’ll repeat myself for the millionth time: this guy is lava-level hot.
“Thank you,” he says to me again, and it takes me a moment to register that he meant for breakfast, and not because I just called him out as being drop-dead gorgeous in my mind.
When I return, I set his preferred black coffee down in front of him, and then pass him one of the two croissants I saw looking all lonely in the bakery case.
Couldn’t just let these little fellas be abandoned like that.
“Hope you like chocolate. These look like they have Nutella or something in them.”
He grins, a dimple peeking out on his left cheek. “I do. I’m a sucker for anything chocolate, really.”
“Noted.” I wink at him before taking an overly suggestive bite of my breakfast treat.
Fuck, I’m not just toeing professional boundaries this morning, I’m punting them by actively flirting.
But seriously, how many times do I ever get to just sit and talk to a scorching hot man like Caleb?
Can you blame a girl? It’s not like I’m ever going to get an opportunity like this otherwise, since I refuse to go to bars or go out clubbing like most singles my age.
And apps? Forget about those. Swiping my way through those all just feels icky to me now.
I dunno. Probably just a me thing, I guess, since it never used to bother me…
you know, before. Call it fear-based if you want, but I believe in meeting someone organically.
Our hands could brush over artichokes at the grocery store or something and then, next thing you know, I’m naked in his bed, having hot, no-strings-attached sex—where absolutely no one’s feelings get hurt when I go home to my family at the end of the day.
Eating chocolate stuffed croissants in a hospital cafeteria? This could be my artichoke meeting! Besides, who will find out if I flirt just a little? I mean, can’t we just look at this as a little exercise? I’m just doing some of that homework my therapist keeps harping on me about, after all.
“So,” I hum, crossing my legs under the table. “We’ve got a little time to kill. Let’s chat about something different for a change. Tell me something about yourself. I feel like all I know about you are your diagnoses, but not you, the person. Well, other than that you’re a big fan of chocolate…”
A soundless chuckle causes his throat to bob, calling to attention the jagged scar there. He purses his lips quickly, his eyes casting down to where he’s twirling his coffee cup nervously. He lifts his hands to answer. “I used to be a big-mountain snowboarder. That’s how I had the accident.”
“What’s a big-mountain snowboarder?”
He smirks. “It’s like regular downhill snowboarding, but not at a resort, and not on groomed trails. There are no lifts or anything, just steep, natural terrain—backcountry stuff. For adrenaline junkies.”
I nod. “I guess to hell,” I scoff, taking a sip of my coffee.
“I can’t even stay upright on a pair of skis on the bunny slopes.
The last time I even attempted skiing, I wound up bear-hugging a few trees.
I imagine I resemble a newborn foal out there, testing my legs out for the first time…
” I’m rambling. I know I’m rambling. Can’t help it.
Caleb’s lips thin, and he looks back down at the table again. “That’s how my husband started out too.”
Oh… he’s married. And to a man, at that. I mean, obviously to a man. Husband, duh. My eyes flick down to his bare ring finger.
He must catch where my gaze landed because he pulls a chain out from underneath his shirt. On it, there are two matching black wedding bands. “The accident. We were up on Mount Washington. He didn’t…” His hands fall, like letting words trail off.