Brett shakes his head and clears the lump in his throat. “I was going to ask if you’re married?”

“Oh,” Pierre chuckles, “I wish. Haven’t found the right guy.”

“I see.” Brett attempts a grin. “Jackie and I…” the muscles of his face crumple and he moans. “Sorry, fella.” He claps his hands over his mouth to stifle the sobs.

Pierre stands at the cart for a moment, uncertain, then relocks the wheels, goes over and puts a muscled arm around Brett’s shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s okay, buddy.”

“Oh God, oh God, oh God.” Brett turns into Pierre’s chest weeping. “It’s not okay. I’m sorry, Jackie. I’m so sorry.”

“Shh, you got this, yeah? You’ll be fine,” Pierre whispers in Brett’s ear. He pats his back and rocks him gently from side to side.

I am gobsmacked! One, that my cowboy is crying in another man’s arms, and two, at Pierre’s professionalism in containing his pleasure at having Brett Haney in his embrace. Another nurse (one who, let’s say left Valentine chocolates for my boyfriend) might not have the willpower to restrain herself from enjoying such a moment.

There is a knock at the door. Brett jumps out of Pierre’s arms and swipes at his eyes.

“Who is it?” Pierre calls out.

“Stim-puppy,” a deep male voice answers.

Several sharp yips echo in the hallway.

Pierre looks at Brett who shakes his head furiously. Pierre opens the door a crack. “Sorry, we’re in the middle of a procedure, would you mind rescheduling? ‘Preciate it.”

Pierre closes the door.

Brett clears his throat, does his chin jut thing; an attempt to reconstitute some semblance of his tough-guy self. “Thanks, man. I-I’m okay now.”

“You sure? I can stick around?”

“No, no, but I appreciate your um, and if you wouldn’t mention…”

Pierre brushes him off with a wave. “Already forgotten.” He rolls the cart to the door.

Brett dashes to his aid. “Here lemme get that.” He opens the door and stands back to let Pierre through.

“Hey, Pee-yayer is it? I say that right?”

Pierre laughs. “Pierre,” he pronounces adding the accent. “It’s French for Peter.”

“Mind if I call you Pete?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, thanks again.” Brett shuffles and looks at his feet. “I just gotta’ ask…Goddamnit Pete…what do you press? About two-fifty?”

Pierre grins. “Three hundred, actually. You?”

“Not quite that,” Brett manages a chuckle. “But I bet I’d beat you at arm wrestling.”

That’s the man I wanted to marry. That’s my guy.

SLOW DISSOLVE TO:

INT. BEL AIR MANSION

DAY

NOVEMBER