4. Finn
4
FINN
Anyone know how to make friends with your old best friend? Asking for a friend.
“How you doin’, Hot Mess?”
I walked through the tall archway in the entryway of Mason’s house. The place wasn’t quite a mansion , but it was only a notch below it—a big, beautiful house with endless natural light, nestled in the trees at the edge of his ranch.
“Tired,” Mason said, giving me a smile. “Ready for a massage, I’ll tell you that much.”
He looked like he always looked—his nickname was Hot Mess for a reason, and that’s because he always kind of looked like a model off-duty mixed with a good ol’ southern boy. He had a good build, but more days than not, he had dark circles under his eyes, shaggy hair, and a permanently sleepy look.
“How’s Chomp doing after his spa day yesterday?”
“Never seen a happier horse in my life,” Mason said. “I swore he smiled at me when I went out at noon.”
“I’d believe it. Chomp’s a smart cookie.”
Mason had inherited all ten acres of Minton Ranch when his dad had passed away. It was some of the most beautiful land in Bestens or for miles in any direction. He had six horses, a few short trails, arenas, a couple of round pens, and more box stalls than he’d ever need.
The land was horse heaven, and the house itself was just as impressive.
I hauled in my heavy, portable massage table, ready to get started on his weekly massage appointment. Mason had started getting massages from me shortly after I began volunteering with his horses, and at this point, I saw Mason most days of the week, whether it was for the horses or for therapeutic massage.
Ori had been convinced Mason wanted to fuck me ever since he saw us together a couple of Christmases ago.
But it was bullshit.
Ori just thought any gay guy wanted me, but I was damn sure Mason just deeply appreciated my help. His father had run one of the most successful horse riding schools in the state from this land, but since he passed, Mason had let a lot of the business slow down, taking on fewer and fewer clients as time went on.
He was dealing with his own grief. His dad had been a rock star at running the business, and it was clear that Mason felt in over his head.
I’d been volunteering to help with the horses ever since. He still had one other guy on payroll who came around to help with maintenance of the horses and property, but things were night-and-day compared to the way his dad had run it.
Mason needed my help , not my cock.
I set the table down in his living room, starting to unfold the legs below it. His living room was covered in various bottles, boxes, and for some reason, multiple colorful feather boas.
“Big night last night?”
Mason gave me a slight smile. “Haven’t even slept yet.”
“It’s five in the evening, Mason,” I said.
“I know,” he told me. “I had a little too much fun last night. And this morning. And I really need to start slowing down.”
I gave him a look. “Are you going to slow down?”
“Doubtful.”
That was another way he’d been handling his grief: he said yes to anything , whether it was a party or a trip or random ideas any of his friends had. He was a softie, and one of the nicest people I knew, but every time I saw him he had another insane story to tell.
Mason refused to say no to any life experience, and sometimes that meant his life was a hot mess, even if he was trying to live it to the fullest. We all loved him, and we all didn’t know what he’d do next.
He sure fuckin’ needed the stability and care of regular massages.
I got started working on him a couple of minutes later, easing my thumbs into his right side levator scapula and his traps.
“There is a whole nasty little cluster of tension here beside your shoulder blade,” I said a few minutes into the massage. Mason tensed up a little on the table in front of me, even as I lightly massaged the area.
“It feels like a little slice of hell itself right in my upper back,” Mason said. “God.”
“We’re definitely not going to be able to work it all out today, but I can make some progress,” I said. “I know you’re going to laugh in my face, but I really just have to say it—”
“The way I live isn’t helping, I know, I know,” Mason said.
I tended to tell him something similar almost every week.
He knew the drill.
“I don’t have to say yes to everything. I know,” he said. “Last night’s party was worth it, though.”
“I love a good party, too,” I told him. “But if they start to happen every day—”
“Then you’re a hot mess,” Mason said. “I know I am. Ouch. ”
“That is a doozy,” I said, lessening my pressure on another awful knot a bit lower next to his shoulder blade. “I’m going to work on the muscle groups that connect to this, rather than going anywhere near the cluster itself, today. It needs rest.”
“I have to go to my friend’s taiko drum concert tonight, but I promise I’ll try to sleep afterward,” Mason said. “After the afterparty, at least.”
“Taiko drum concert?”
“They’re those super cool Japanese drums,” Mason said. “My friend Yuji in Nashville is really good at them.”
“And you have to go to the afterparty?”
“Well, I got invited,” Mason said, like it was that simple. “And Yuji is such a sweet guy.”
“Or you could cancel both of those things, get some sleep, and see Yuji later on,” I said, with nothing but kindness in my tone.
“I promise I’ll sleep,” Mason said. “Eventually.”
No one could tame Mason.
But maybe that was how he liked it.
“Going to work an area on your arm that’ll be a little tense,” I said. “Just breathe for me, okay?”
Mason may not have listened to me much about his lifestyle, but he always listened during his massages. He breathed deeply and evenly as I ran slow strokes along his upper arm. I could tell that it was tense but not painful, and finally, as the massage went on, I was even able to relax him enough that he fell asleep for a while.
Ninety minutes later, when the massage was over, Mason didn’t seem like a hot mess at all. He was calmer, and when he stood up, I could see appreciation in his eyes.
“You’re a miracle worker,” he said. “You always are.”
“Your body knows what it needs,” I reminded him.
He nodded. “I’m still going to go to the taiko show. But maybe— maybe I’ll skip the afterparty and sleep.”
“Damn right,” I said.
He pulled out his phone to send me a payment. Mason always tipped extremely well—he was always overly generous since he’d gotten his inheritance, and I’d seen him leave hundred-dollar tips on the bar at the Hard Spot many times, too. His heart was always in the right place, even if he didn’t take care of himself enough.
“This is why I’m rallying to go to the concert tonight,” Mason said, swapping to a photo on his phone. “Hot as fuck, right? He’s going to be there.”
It was a picture of a guy that kind of looked like a young Clooney.
“I see,” I said.
Mason smiled. “He’s sexy, and I’m going to flirt my ass off and hope he enjoys my kind of chaos,” he said.
“Very cute.”
“Thanks for humoring me, Finn.”
“Hey, I can appreciate a good-looking guy just as much as anyone can,” I protested as I started to break down the portable massage table.
As I headed home, I realized that Mason hadn’t even crossed my mind as a potential hookup for Ori. Ori had asked me about gay prospects in Bestens the first night he got back, but… well, nobody I knew seemed good enough for Ori, anyway. Mason was a good person, but Ori needed someone a little less wild.
I didn’t know what Ori needed.
In the week since he’d been in my house, we’d stayed out of each other’s way. This week had been busy and full of massage clients, and Ori had been working in the diner every day, too.
Last week my date with Maddy Hagerson had gone to shit. It ended with her crying on my shoulder about another guy, who she was clearly still in love with.
That was another thing Ori and I had butted heads about endlessly. He said I was too picky about girls, and that used to piss me off royally, back in the day. I told him to fuck right off every time he commented on the fact that most of my relationships ended by my decision, not the girls’.
Maybe it could seem a little egotistical, but deep down, it wasn’t.
I just wanted to be with the right person.
Not that I knew what the fuck that meant.
It had continued until now, and over time, Ori had gone from saying I was too picky to not commenting on my relationships much. He’d grown and learned, just like I had.
But over time I’d also learned that Ori was partially right. There was nothing wrong with dating many women, but I was starting to think my standards were only serving to keep me alone, more often than not.
It was exhausting. I was tired of dating, to say the least.
So damn tired of trying to find the right person for me.
Ori wasn’t back yet when I got home.
I was beat, after being up since six, running over to the ranch to shovel horse shit, then running home to shower and get ready for a long day of clients all across town.
I rinsed off in the shower. I made a rum and coke in a tall glass and parked on the living room couch with a chicken pesto sandwich.
Ori usually got home around nine. I threw on a documentary about wildlife and summoned the will to stay awake as I waited for him to walk through the front door.
I was on my second documentary, two hours later, when I finally heard the front door opening. I was struggling to keep my eyes open as I watched antelopes galloping across the screen, but as soon as Ori walked in, I perked up, nodding his way.
“Yo,” I told him.
“Oh, hey,” he said, coming through the door.
“Long night at the diner?”
He shrugged. “It was an easy night, actually.”
“You’re home a little later than usual,” I said.
He put his keys down on the little table by the door, kicking off his shoes. Ori looked good in the fitted black T-shirt and dark denim he usually wore to the diner.
When he set down his little sketchbook on the coffee table, I saw a new watercolor he’d painted of a big, iced cinnamon roll. It looked delicious.
“I got caught up,” Ori said. “I was talking to the new guy my parents hired.”
“Thomas? The baker?” I asked. “Thought he only came around to bake in the early mornings.”
Ori nodded. “My mom had apparently been nagging him about meeting me, too, so he swung by. She thinks because we’re both gay we’re going to instantly go googly-eyed and start fucking each other.”
I puffed out a laugh, shifting on the couch. “Yeah. That’ll never happen.”
“You don’t like him?”
“Too nice for you,” I said. “I’ve met him a couple of times when I’ve visited Danielle at the diner. He doesn't seem like your type.”
Ori waved a hand through the air. “I don’t have a type.”
I lifted an eyebrow at him. “Bullshit.”
He stifled a yawn. “Only thing I have is an anti- type.”
“Cowboys?”
“Bingo,” Ori said. “Anyway. I’m going to go shower and crash. Tired as fuck. Night, Finn.”
He was already in the kitchen pouring himself a glass of water.
Was he trying to avoid me?
I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned the blow job I’d gotten from another guy. Ori had been acting different ever since, and for once, I felt like he wasn’t saying everything that was on his mind.
“Sure you don’t want to watch a little British Baking first?” I offered. “They just put all the seasons back up on streaming. It’s been a while since I watched British people laugh and cry while they put frosting on cakes.”
“Too tired,” Ori said.
Fuck that.
I was sick of feeling like Ori was a glorified hotel guest in my house.
As if we didn’t share years and years of fucking history together.
I wanted… him .
I wanted to feel like I knew him, again. Like I could mean it when I told people he was my friend.
I’d thought the Baking Show offer would have been a surefire bet. Ori and I had both always loved any cooking or baking show. We’d watch them and try to imitate people’s voices or demeanors from the show, and he loved my shitty impressions of British accents.
It was time for a Hail Mary.
“Come on,” I said. “Cuddle with me. I’m lonely.”
He gave me a look from the kitchen that was something between a death glare and a look of pity. As if I’d said something wrong. “Need to go to bed. See you.”
He was gone a moment later, taking his glass of water off to the guest room.
That was another thing Ori used to fucking love.
He used to call me his “straight guy teddy bear.” He loved teasing me that he wanted to cuddle up while watching shows. I used to act like it pissed me off, and half the time I’d end up shoving him away and we’d get in fights, instead.
But I’d never disliked sharing the couch with him.
I missed when we were younger and we’d play video games on his parents’ big sofa, the sides of our bodies shoved up against one another as we gripped our controllers and battled it out in the games.
Some sick feeling of guilt rolled through my chest as I reached for the TV remote, turning it off.
Maybe we’d lost that sense of closeness a long time ago.
But it sure felt really fucking fresh all over again now.
He didn’t want what I wanted. He didn’t want to rekindle jack shit. He wanted to hate the way I looked, the way I acted, and the only thing he seemed to enjoy was fighting with me.
I wanted to tease him. To feel like he was… I don't know.
My person, again.
I exhaled, getting up and padding over toward the kitchen. I grabbed a jar of homemade caramel that Christina had left here, pouring some into a pan on the stove.
I stirred until the caramel was hot and bubbly, then cut the heat. I drizzled it over some vanilla ice cream.
I ate alone while standing over the kitchen counter.
I was fucking pissed at him.
Ori didn’t seem to need me for anything, now. Back then, I always felt like I had to protect him. In high school I’d constantly covered for him, telling teachers that the only reason he didn’t show up for class that day was because he was sick—not that most of the teachers ever believed it.
And when my football teammates would say Ori was weird, I’d always try to brush it off, saying he was just shy.
That one was a real stretch.
Ori could be quiet when he decided to be, but he sure as shit wasn’t shy . I was pretty sure I’d never known anyone more confident, really.
A couple of guys at school had bullied him real bad. He had rotten fish shoved in his backpack, got followed home after school, and had Gatorade poured down his back in the halls. Whatever shitty thing the guys could cook up that day, Ori got the brunt of it. Once, they’d nabbed one of his sketchbooks from his hand and ran off with it. Later, Ori found them burning it with a Zippo lighter, standing on a side street near the school. One of the guys’ dads had come out of the house nearby, and when Ori expected him to intervene, all he’d done was laugh and call his son a “wild one.” Even the adults were awful to Ori, sometimes.
Ori didn’t tell me most of that until later, of course.
He never liked feeling like he had to be protected or defended. But it pissed me off to this day.
I could have done something.
I could have done so much more, if Ori’s pride hadn’t always gotten in the way.
I turned out the light in the living room. My chest was tense as I walked down the narrow hallway toward my bedroom door, just across from the guest room. Closer than Ori had been in years, and yet it felt more dead between us than it ever had before.
I threw on my sleep shorts, turned out the light in my room, and went to bed.