Page 4 of Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang Us, Daddy

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 timehe’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 timewith 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 sexuallyenteredme 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 Iclick 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.

CHAPTER 2

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