33. Johnny

Afew days after Kurt and I decide to be boyfriends, I'm outside on Kurt's ground floor patio, using his sleek, shiny barbecue.

To be honest, I ain't sure that I'm not dreaming this whole experience of being with him, because from where I was, this is a complete U-turn. I don't recognize my life right now.

I'm flipping a big hunk of brisket when a throat clears behind me—one I recognize. I'm glad he knows not to startle me. Then two arms slide around my middle. I link my left hand with his, rings sliding against each other, as he puts his cheek between my shoulders. "What'cha doing, babe?"

Babe. I like his names for me almost as much as I like calling him precious. But he's so precious he has no idea.

"Thought I'd make you some brisket," I say. "It's been cooking on low for hours. Should be gettin' real tender. Wait until you try Mama's special sauce."

He sniffs appreciatively. "It smells great. Thanks. Need some help?"

I shake my head and turn around to kiss him. Kissing, cooking, all these kitchen gadgets. It feels established. Not permanent, but more than temporary. I've always kept my own places pretty spare, so I could pick up and leave whenever I needed to. So being surrounded by all Kurt's appliances and extras makes me feel settled. Like I'm putting down roots.

Also, cooking seems to make the violins go quiet.

Kurtmakes the violins go quiet, which is more important than an air fryer, my mental voice scolds. But this is all so new, and my brain is in such turmoil, that I think I should cut myself some slack. If what I can do is grill a brisket, well, then, maybe I celebrate that.

While the food cooks, Kurt comes out with glasses of water, which reminds me of something I've noticed. "You don't drink the beer in your fridge," I say. "Is that because of Vegas—one hangover too many?"

He shakes his head. "Not that. I decided not to drink around you, since I figured you couldn't have it while they were tinkering with your medication."

My heart swells at his thoughtfulness. "Drink your beer," I say. "If you want one. I think I can have one every once in a while. But I'm good without it, too." I sip the water. Something else dawns on me. "You got rid of the Gatorade, didn't you?"

"Yes," he whispers.

"Thanks."

We eat on the patio with the dull roar of Highway 1 below us. Just beyond the row of houses on the other side of the highway is the beach, where all kinds of people are out—surfers, folks sitting on the sand, people walking their dogs. One dog's pulling its owner like it's mushing on snow, and I point it out to Kurt.

"Would you want a dog?" he asks, and danger bells go off in my brain. Because he's the sort who would come home with a puppy if I asked for it.

I do want a puppy, but I ain't gonna burden him with one.

"Never had any of my own," I say. "But on the ranch, there was a pack of them. I loved them all, even the unruly hounds."

"That's kind of a nonanswer."

"I feel like if I say yes, a dog's gonna show up here."

"It could. Would you want one? What kind? A mutt or a purebred?"

"I couldn't support one of them puppy mills. Yeah, there are reputable breeders, but I think I'd want to adopt one from the pound. I feel like I'm not in a position to be able to take care of a dog, though, and I'm not sure there's enough room for one here."

"Okay. Got it." He tilts his head. "What if I brought one home anyway?"

I open my mouth, but no words come out.

He smiles even broader. He got me. He knows I'd love it.

"I see. Okay. What kind of dog?" Kurt asks.

"I like 'em all. Bigger dogs, probably, but I care more about personality. Not sure there's enough room for a big dog to run here, though they could go on the beach."

"Where would you want to live if you could live anywhere?"

I bark out a laugh. "You'd best not be planning to come home with a new house for me, darlin'." I'm joking … mostly. This is Kurt, after all, and who knows what ideas he'll get in his sweet, pretty head.

"We're just talking," he says, shooting me a smile. "Didn't you ever play that game when you were a kid, making up around-the-world trips or planning out your dream house? I wanted a pool and a trampoline and an art studio and a separate freezer just for ice cream. I mean, not all of that is ridiculous, I suppose, but the point is, it was a fantasy."

I don't rightly remember any such imaginings. Before Mama got sick, I wore myself out running around on the ranch with the dogs and the horses and the goats, not thinking up things that were never gonna happen anyway. And after … I was busy trying to do extra chores anywhere I could, to help out with the bills. "If you say so," I tell him. "Well, I don't need a big house or a fancy one, but I wouldn't mind having a bit of land and privacy," I admit. While the condo is up high and not so easy for people to see into, it's still in the middle of a city.

"Like in Hidden Valley?"

"That's too expensive."

"Setting aside the price," he says.

"Then, sure. I mean, yeah, open space and fields and trees. That's more my speed."

He nods. "That makes sense. You definitely seem happier out in nature, and with animals." He takes another bite of brisket and makes a happy noise before telling me about a meme Sam sent him earlier in the day, and we talk about this and that as we finish our meal.

I hope it's ridiculous to imagine he'd think about moving on my account. Everything he's already doing for me is too much. A house would be … well, I don't know the words for how much, much too much it would be. Even if he says he don't need to be paid back, I still feel wrong being a kept man. I wanna contribute, and I'm only just now barely starting to feel like it's a possibility that I ever could.

After we finish eating, Kurt does the dishes, shooing me away when I try to help. I look around his great room and realize the place is starting to feel like home to me. When I first got here, everything was so … him. Which made sense, it being his house. But now there are little touches of me all over the place, too: my hat hung up on a peg, my boots by the door. The cowboy poetry book he gave me on the coffee table. A to-go coffee mug he bought me sitting on the drainboard. My award on his shelf. He even framed some old photos of mine that were in the bottom of my suitcase.

I do like it here, even if it ain't the country.

"Do you want to watch a show?" Kurt asks.

"Don't mind if you want to," I say. "The shows that just manufacture drama annoy me, but I trust you to pick something good."

"Well, let's see what you think of some better-written shows."

I plop my ass on the couch and spread my legs, and Kurt settles between them. I decide immediately that if watching TV means curling up with him on the couch, I'm on board.

He puts on The Last of Us, since I'd told him I hadn't seen it—though he warns me it covers some tough subject matter. Once the story gets going, I'm enthralled.

"Wow. This is … wow."

"I know," he says. As the drama (good drama) continues, I think about the way the show portrays society. About how there are still individuals trying to do the right thing, even when the institutions are going to hell.

When we get to the episode with the same-sex couple who lives a beautiful, ordinary life in the middle of the zombie apocalypse, though, I'll admit it. My eyes get hot. Dang. "Why're y'all making me watch this," I huff. "You coulda told me it'd hit me in the feels. I'm not just talking about the heavy stuff at the end of the episode. I'm talking about the part where they get together at the beginning."

"I know. The actors said the intimacy coordinators really helped their performance."

"Intimacy coordinator. I've heard that term, but I ain't come across one."

"They should be standard in porn, and I bet there are some. Just not at the studios you worked with, I guess." He gives me a small smile. "You'd be a good one."

"I wonder what I'd have to do to become one," I say. "Then that could be my job when you're out being a senator or graphic artist or whatever else you decide to do. Since I'm not gonna do porn no more."

"I'm sure you can find out."

"Now that you've had a moment to process it, what do you think about being married to a porn star?" I ask. "Or former porn star." I'm kinda afraid to hear his answer, but I guess the masochistic part of me wants to know.

He gives it some thought. "I guess my knee-jerk reaction was just that. Sex workers have such a stigma in this country, and most everywhere. But why is that? Because they're evidence of our bodily needs? Or is it that we like to feel better, higher, bigger, more important than someone? Is it our Puritan heritage that wanted us to renounce all things related to the flesh? It doesn't totally make sense to me."

I nod.

"I do think, though, that I may have some internalized issues with it," he continues. "Because if I'm married to a porn star, then that means I like porn. Or people assume I do, anyhow, and since they happen to be right …" He shrugs. "I admit that's not something I wanted the whole world knowing."

"Internalized … ?"

"Criticism. Judgment. Because no matter how much therapy I've done or how open-minded I think I am, there's still a part of me that thinks that sex is taboo."

"Yeah. I get it." I sigh. "Question: What would you think about it if I were still doin' porn? Would it piss you off?"

Kurt looks at me intently. "I've been able to sidestep that, since you retired before we met."

"So I'm pushin' ya. Not sure there's a right or wrong answer. Just curious how you really feel."

"I'm feeling pretty damn possessive of you, so the idea of you touching anyone else … wouldn't make me too happy. I understand that it's a job—that someone goes and performs, and it doesn't necessarily have anything to do with emotions or cheating or shit like that—but I just … don't want to share you."

I squeeze his hand. "I don't wanna share you, either. While I enjoy sex, I like that I have a different job now." That reminds me of something I've been thinking about, and it's the perfect opening. "I know you say I don't need to pay you back for all the money you've spent on me, don't need to keep track. But I still want to. It's gonna take me a while to earn my keep financially, though, what with going to therapy all the time and the ranch not paying that much. So I thought of another way I could maybe even things out a bit." I raise a playful eyebrow.

"For the record, I don't feel like we're uneven, but based on your expression, I'm intrigued. What are you talking about?"