3
Buzz
"Do you think this is gay?"
Ramzi asks, pulling back his foreskin to clean his dick.
I side-eye him from my shower.
The heat of the water cascading down my back is nothing short of heaven, especially after a tortuously long double shift, but it doesn't compensate for the six-three, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound lunk of idiot beside me.
"What are you referring to?" I ask.
"Two dudes showering next to each other or you playing with yourself?"
He looks up, grinning cockily.
"You wish I was playing with myself. This isn't even approaching semi-chub territory."
He shimmies his hips, sending his floppy cock flapping.
"You should see this monster when he comes to life."
"I'll pass. But thanks for the offer."
"Anytime, Buzz. Anytime."
He does a few helicopter spins with his dick and starts laughing.
I roll my eyes and turn off the water.
Ramzi Harring can be a clueless idiot, but he's a lovable clueless idiot. More than just my engine partner, he's become family. The whole crew here at Clovelly Fire Department have to an extent, but he and I have grown especially close.
A fact I have to downplay around Courtland, technically my only 'official' best friend. Because yes, grown men in their early thirties are more than capable of acting like high school sophomores.
I walk over to the long wooden bench that splits the shower room in two. On one side, communal showers; on the other side, our lockers and a general dumping ground for our shit.
"I mean, this setup."
Ramzi keeps talking, thankfully moving on from washing his dick to soaping up his armpits.
"Open showers and shit. Is this what gay porn is like?"
"Some of it,"
I reply casually, drying off.
"Usually starts with a dumb straight jock wandering in, asking all sorts of annoying questions, and ends up with him getting gangbanged so hard his asshole resembles a meat patty."
Ramzi's mouth falls open, but he quickly cottons on.
"Doesn't sound so bad actually,"
he says with a shrug.
"You're an idiot."
"True, true,"
he mutters, laughing to himself again.
I turn my back so he doesn't catch me smiling. As weird as it sounds, saying all the wrong things and constantly giving each other grief feels good. Like it allows me to be who I am, just like it allows him to be his freest, truest self. No pretenses. No judgment. Nothing but unconditional love and support.
Even if he is a little clueless about gay stuff. But when the town selectman floated the idea of defunding Pride last year, no one protested louder than the dude currently humming to himself under the shower.
Ramzi was so incensed, he organized a charity car wash and made the rest of the crew join him in turning it into a shirtless charity car wash. Pretty sure the small-town record for most abs on display in one day was officially broken that day.
"What's with the nice threads, man?"
he asks, padding over to me, naked and dripping wet.
I toss a towel at him. It's sad that apart from my own, his is the dick I've seen the most lately.
"I'm going to Arnold Whitman's funeral, remember?"
"Right. Forgot it was today. I'm so fucking tired,"
he says, toweling off.
"Does that mean Court will be back?"
"It does."
I sit down, dry off the soles of my feet, and wrangle on my socks.
"Spoke with him about an hour ago. He's on his way."
"How long’s it been since he was here?"
"Not that long,"
I shoot back defensively, yanking my dress shoes out of my duffel bag.
It may have been an innocent question, but there's something about Courtland Matthews that rubs some people the wrong way, and I always have this impulse to defend him.
The thing is, Court can come across as standoffish until you get to know him. Even maybe a little arrogant. But he's not. He just has a hard time getting what's in his head and his heart out past his lips.
And he has his reasons for not returning to Clovelly as often as I'd like.
If people could see the Courtland I see, they'd probably be hopelessly in love with him, too.
Actually, no, that's probably just a me thing.
"Is he staying a while?"
"Don't know. I assume he'll go back to Boston for Thanksgiving with his family."
"Doesn't his mother live here, though?"
My jaw clenches.
It's been over a decade since Court's mother and my father blew up our lives, and I've gotten over it.
Well…
I'm…mostly over it.
Because they didn't just turn two families' lives upside down, they also killed any chance Court and I had of becoming more than just friends.
I mean, I'm probably reading it wrong, but that's the fantasy that's lived in my head for the last thirteen or so years. Court had invited me to prom as his date. We both came out freshman year in high school and remained the only out gay guys until graduation.
We were making a statement.
In my head, though, I conjured up a fantasy about how our prom night would end. Starting with a kiss, slightly awkward and clumsy. Then he'd say something to break the tension. I'd laugh. He'd brush his fingers against my cheek and tell me I was cute all dressed up. I'd say he scrubbed up pretty good, too, and then we'd make out, all hot and heavy, and it would lead to me losing my virginity to my best friend, the guy I'm secretly in love with.
But before any of that got to happen—a week before to be exact—his mom and my dad broke the news they'd been having an affair.
The fallout was nothing short of horrific.
Mom kicked Dad out, and Court's father packed up and left Clovelly, taking Court with him. I lost him to his calling after that. First, his undergrad. Then four years at Harvard Med. Followed by a brutal OB/GYN residency. And now he's back from a six-month stint working with women in rural Africa.
For a few days.
At most.
Like always.
In hindsight, maybe our parents' cheating scandal worked out for the best. Not for our families, obviously, but for Courtland and me. He's too brilliant to be confined to one place, and I'm a small-town boy through and through. Chances are, we probably wouldn't have worked out as a couple anyway.
But a part of me will always wonder…
"Hey, dickhead."
Ramzi snaps his fingers in front of my face, jolting me back to reality.
"What?"
He points to my shoe, his trademark cocky grin reappearing.
I look down.
Shit.
I’ve somehow managed to knot my finger into my shoelace.