Page 35 of Ctrl+Alt Submit

“You didn’t have —” Dad’s voice is a husk of itself. He clears his throat. “You didn’t have to fly all the way down here just to see your old man in a hospital gown,” he jokes.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I reply, trying to match his attempt at levity.

He looks over at Errol and shoots a glance at Mom, his eyes questioning. I’m realizing she wouldn’t have had a chance to tell him about us.

I lean towards Errol and grab his hand. “Dad, you remember Errol.” I wait until his chin lowers into a nod. “We’re together.”

“Oh,” he says faintly. I know my parents aren’t homophobic, so I’m not worried about them freaking out or anything. But the timing of this announcement couldn’t be more awkward. I’m inwardly crossing my fingers that Dad approves of Errol —or at least doesn’t say something embarrassing.

“I came back home a couple of months ago, and we reconnected,” I say, maybe unnecessarily.

“Ah.” he nods again. Shit . I don’t think I got around to telling them about my move out of New York City. I’m the worst son ever.

“Errol inherited his Gran’s house, so I’m living there. Sorry, I know I owe you both an update on my life. It’s just been… eventful lately.”

“Sounds like it,” Dad rasps. He clears his throat again. “So, I need to know a couple of things.”

I tamp down the flip-flopping of my stomach and take a deep breath. “Like what?”

“You did go past the old house, right? Is the front door still red? They didn’t dig up your mother’s azalea bushes, did they?”

I burst out laughing. Dad wheezes out a laugh that quickly turns into a coughing spell. “Shit, sorry.” I cringe. “No laughing —doctor’s orders!” I bark with mock sternness.

“I wouldn’t say that,” an unfamiliar female voice says. A woman in a white coat with a stethoscope looped around her neck walks into the room. “Dr. Baxter,” she says, coming around to the opposite side of Dad’s bed and holding out her hand.

She’s petite, with dark hair drawn into a low bun at her nape. The lanyard around her neck says she’s a cardiologist. I evaluate her expression. She doesn’t look like she’s here to deliver seriously bad news.

Dr. Baxter flips through the clipboard in her hand, her movements efficient as her brown eyes scan each page quickly.

“Well, Mr. Knight, I’ve got some of your results back.

The good news is that this wasn’t a heart attack.

You do have a partially blocked artery, so we’re going to schedule you for an angioplasty, but looking at what we’ve got here —” she breaks off to flip through pages again, “I suspect we’re going to have to open that artery up with a stent. ”

“When do I get to go home?” Dad asks.

Dr. Baxter laughs. “Well, that depends partly on how busy my team is and partly on you. If we can schedule it, we’ll get that set for this afternoon.” She glances up. “Have you had anything to eat or drink today?”

Dad shakes his head. “I was out in the yard, doing some pruning before breakfast, so no.”

“OK, great.” Dr. Baxter pulls a pen out of her pocket and makes a note on a page.

“Today?” Mom’s eyebrows go up. “That soon?”

“Yes. It’s a minimally invasive procedure, and the sooner we can get it done, the sooner we can get him home and back to his pruning,” she replies.

A giant knot of tension I hadn’t realized was between my shoulder blades unravels. “That doesn’t sound too serious,” I say tentatively.

Dr. Baxter shakes her head. “No, luckily this wasn’t.” She turns to Dad. “Our fitness and nutrition team will schedule a consult with you before you’re discharged to discuss some diet and lifestyle changes that will keep you from being a frequent flier in here, OK?”

He scowls. “My wife already cooks healthy meals,” he huffs.

Dr. Baxter goes on to talk about minimally processed foods and moderate activity as I hide a smile behind my hand. It tickles me how, even when nearly flat on his back in a hospital bed, Dad’s first thought is about sticking up for Mom.

The mood in the room is considerably lighter after she leaves. Dad still wheezes when he raises his voice, but I’m limp with relief. He gives me instructions about how to make fake flower nectar —sugar water, basically —for the hummingbirds.

“At least they can still enjoy something sweet even if these doctors are going to tell me I’m not allowed to anymore,” he grouses, before suddenly fixing Errol with a look of appraisal. “You got taller. Or maybe you’re not slouching anymore.”

I roll my eyes. “Or maybe you’re lying in a hospital bed and everybody looks taller,” I point out.

Dad ignores me. “The white used to be just in the front, right?”

I cringe, but Errol nods, seemingly unfazed. “Yep. It kind of took over several years ago.”

“Huh. Never thought of dyeing it?”

My embarrassment deepens. “Dad, stop .”

Errol answers him anyway. “It’s OK. I’m kind of used to people asking at this point. And I thought about dyeing it, but I figured it would just look weird and fake.”

Dad pushes his glasses up his nose and squints a bit. “Eh, it sort of suits you. So does being a bit more sociable, by the way.”

I drop my head into my hands with a groan. “I give up. I’m sorry,” I mumble into my palms, wishing I could block out Dad’s voice as he continues to talk.

“Guess you’ve gotten a head start on getting used to the hair. Hell, I’m still getting used to seeing more grays every time I look in the mirror.” He huffs out a laugh, which turns into another wheezy cough. “Ran’s probably going to look like me in another thirty years, so consider this a preview.”

“Dad!” I interject again. “Cut it out!” My voice has crept up.

Errol drops a hand on my shoulder. Even though the exact same thought had crossed through my mind, I’m mortified to hear it out loud.

I don’t have a chance to dwell on it further when an orderly in bright blue scrubs appears in the doorway, pushing a wheelchair.

“Mr. Knight? I’m here to take you downstairs and get you ready for the procedure.”

Dad frowns at him. “It’s fine. I can walk. Just disconnect me from some of these machines.”

“Sorry, sir,” the orderly says. “Since this was a cardiac event, they want you in a wheelchair. Not my rules.”

Dad makes a noise of annoyance but sits upright and lets the orderly untether him from the monitors.

I feel like Errol and I are in the way at this point, so I say our goodbyes quickly.

I make Mom promise to call with an update after the procedure is completed, and promise Dad in turn that I’ll come visit tomorrow.

I should spare Errol the next time around, though.

Hope he’s not sorry he agreed to come with me in the first place.

“Thank you for being a good sport about my dad’s embarrassing nosiness,” I say once we’re walking back to the parking garage. “I swear to God, that heart thing must’ve made him a little loopy,” I say with a shake of my head.

I’m praying Errol doesn’t bring up Dad’s dumb comment about what I’m going to look like years from now.

The fact that it’s even still on my mind is kind of weirding me out.

It doesn’t mean anything . Today was the first day I referred to him as my boyfriend in public, for fuck’s sake.

I’ve got no business thinking about anything us-related that far in the future.