Page 79 of Kitty Season
“What he said.” Brady smiles. “Why, you going to come after all?”
“Nope, and I don’t want you to go either. There’s somewhere else we need to be.”
Ignoring all questions, I hustle the boys into the car and we almost make it all the way home before Troye, who’s paid more attention to the skin my short skirt exposed than he has his surroundings, finally realizes where I’m heading.
“Unlock the doors, Quinn. No fucking way.”
“Yes fucking way. I mean no fucking way, I’m not unlocking the doors so you can jump from a moving car, and yes, we are having dinner with my parents.”
“Quinn, your mom is one thing, she’s a woman attracted to men, she can’t resist me.”
“Oh please.”
“Shut it Brady. As I was saying, your mom may love me, but your old man wants to dig up your pool, bury me in the hole, then rebuild it.”
I reach over and pat his cheek. “You’re worrying about nothing, babe. He’s too cheap to pay for all that water.”
Brady releases one of his beautiful belly laughs, but it dies like Troye suspects he will, when I pull into the drive. Dad’s waiting on the door step. Shovel in hand.
“Yeah. See. Mock the guy who suggests dinner, drinks and death, but why else would he have a shovel, Kitty? Why?”
I honestly have no answer, so I don’t even try. “Come on boys. Let’s get this over with.”
Dad doesn’t move an inch as we climb from the car. It’s unsettling.
What’s terrifying is Mom popping out of nowhere with a still whirring hedge trimmer. She’s wearing denim coveralls smeared with dirt, and that’s equally unnerving. “Oh, you’re here already? What time is it? David, you were supposed to keep a watch of the time.”
“Too busy potting,” he grumps, before glaring at his players. “Becker. Basse. Glad you could join us.”
“He doesn’t look happy.” I hear Brady whisper just before he steps forward, hand outstretched, ready to greet with a handshake, or to disarm. Hard to tell.
Dad doesn’t let go of the shovel, just transfers it from right hand to left. “Did you get those extra stretches in today?” He’s speaking to Brady but glaring at Troye.
“Yes, Coach.”
“Excellent. What about you, Becker? You been resting? How’s the head?”
“Never had any complaints.”
“Oh my God.” Brady groans.
Mom laughs.
And Dad? He takes the sharp-toothed machine from his wife’s hand. Now he has two weapons. Great. “What did he say?”
“No complaints, Mr. Harris.” Cool as a cucumber, Brady inserts himself between the raging bulls, bravely places a hand on Dad’s shoulder and steers Dad towards the door. “He said he’s not had any complaints … since he left the hospital. Hey that’s a nice hedge trimmer you got there, Coach. What you trimming?”
“Hedges.”
It’s going to be a long night.
Inspiredby the words of the youngest psychology professor in BC history, my intention in coming here tonight was to reveal the polyamorous relationship I harbor no shame over.
Yes, it was a bit of an ambush.
And no, I didn’t think Dad would roll out the red carpet and accept him, or Brady, or any of this. But Troye is not what my dad once cruelly called him,a tattooed piece of carny shit.He’s a fighter. A strong, proud, capable man who needs someone to believe in him. And that someone is me.
Brady, too.
