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“You’re a saint,” she says and rushes to the bathroom to retrieve it.
I stayed home on prom night. I imagine this is what it must be like for most people, though—a flurry of half-dressed humans running back and forth between rooms.
When Kenzi vanishes into the bathroom, Jason stares at the wall, his brain a million miles away.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask him.
“Do you know where my black blazer is?”
“In the closet. Next to mine.”
“Cool, cool.” He looks down at his hands, which are suspiciously empty. “Where’s my—?”
“Kitchen counter.”
“I love you, man,” Jason says, reuniting with his omelet.
“Love you, too,” I repeat. I’m scrolling through my computer. Even though the glare of my screen, I can feel Kenzi’s inquisitive eyes on me, lingering in the archway.
“What’s up, buttercup?” I ask her, deadpan.
“How do you guys do that?”
“Do what?”
“Say…those words?”
A smile twitches the corner of my mouth. “What? I love you?”
“Yes,” she says, voice cagey, as though the very words are infectious. “That.”
I shrug. “They’re just words.”
“So you don’t mean them?”
I close my computer. “You know me, Kenzi. I don’t have a heart.” I scan her body. “Are you wearing that?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “What’s wrong with it?”
I shrug.
She breaks her composure and laughs. “I’m joking. I’ve got a dress.”
“T minus 30,” I tell her, and she salutes me before standing.
As we get closer to time, however, with the two of them fluttering around me, I start to feel the jitters take hold.
I’m a grown man. An esteemed doctor. I make my own money, and I pay my own taxes, and I do my own laundry.
I shouldn’t be nervous. But I am.
I go into the kitchen and decide to distract myself by putting away the flurry that Jason left—his dirty dish still on the counter. I rinse it and drop it in the sink when I spy a plate of brownies on top of the microwave. Jason is an okay cook, but he has a knack for baking. I stress eat, stealing a brownie and eating it off a napkin to avoid crumbs.
It’s not like I haven’t met Jason’s parents before. Hell, I work for Mr. King. I’ve sat at his desk. I’ve walked through diagnoses with him. I’ve attended galas at the hospital. So why does the thought of eating food across from him for an hour, maybe two, make me sweat?
Maybe because things have changed now. I’ve seen his son’s O face. I’ve sucked his son’s cock. I’ve made him cum with my name on his lips.
Worse than that, I’ve developed, I don’t know. Nagging sort of feelings for the guy.
