24
Courtland
"Buzz is in the shower. He'll be out soon,"
I say, placing the gifts that arrived in the mail a few days ago on the coffee table and plonking myself on the couch in front of my laptop.
I'm met with a chuckle from Scooter in the top right corner of my screen.
"So why aren't you with him?"
I roll my eyes.
"Because we're just friends."
"Technically husbands,"
Cyrus supplies from the left side of my screen, smiling.
No matter where we are in the world, the four of us always spend Christmas Eve Eve together. It's a tradition we started in my first year of college and have kept up every year since without fail.
We mail our gifts to each other on December 1 to make sure they arrive in time, and then on December 23, the four of us hang out, chat, and open them in front of each other. It's a much-needed injection of fun before being forced to spend time immersed in the traumas that are our biological families.
Scooter is in LA. Filming of KUWTV has wrapped, but his dad is visiting him this year, which is why he's staying on the West Coast. And Cyrus is in Milan, pretending to be working on next year's summer campaign, though the three of us secretly suspect he's spending the holidays with his Italian agent, which for some reason, he's been unusually coy about.
"Why are you in a Speedo?"
Scooter asks Cyrus when he stands up to get a glass of water.
"Just got back from the shoot. Cute, isn't it?"
He angles himself toward the camera, showing off a neon-yellow low-rise and ultra-tight mini Speedo stretched across his narrow hips.
It's cute all right, and also, a sledgehammer to my fragile ego.
"Can you cover up, please?"
I say, grimacing.
"Don't need to be reminded how gorgeous you are. Especially since I've been spending way too much time in Lola's kitchen."
"Fine." He sighs.
"I'll grab a robe. Americans are such prudes."
"I will remind you that you are also an American,"
Scooter teases, but Cyrus has already left so he either didn't hear him or simply pretended not to.
"Now that it's just the two of us, is it safe to talk about the Z-word?"
I crane my neck and can still hear the shower running.
"Yeah. It is."
"Any update?"
I might not have said anything to Buzz about Zane's psychotic behavior, but that didn't stop me from confiding in Scooter. He's the same age as we all are, but he's light years ahead of me in both maturity and pragmatism. I can always count on him for giving good advice.
"Nope. Haven't seen him since Bullshitkissgate. Happy to keep it that way, too."
"And things are good with you and Buzz?"
"Yeah. I mean, I would like to see some more of the guy. He's always at the station, I'm at the inn, we barely see each other."
"That's not ideal."
"Tell me about it. He said they’re hiring some new recruits in the new year, so his workload should ease up."
"Good. You need to make a move, man."
"I'm not so sure," I say.
Scooter's way too smart for me to play dumb with. He found out how I feel about Buzz years ago without me having to say a word. Sometimes, I think he wants us to get together more than I do.
Actually, no. That's impossible.
No one wants that more than I do.
And therein lies the crux of my problem. My feelings aren't reciprocated. Buzz may not be interested in Zane, but he's also not interested in me.
Cyrus returns, wearing a robe.
"There. Better?"
"Much,"
Scooter and I reply at the same time.
"Sorry I'm late."
Buzz rushes in, drying off his hair with a towel.
My gaze lingers on the sliver of smooth skin between his rumpled shirt and the waistband of his pajama pants, and I can’t help but wonder how it’d feel to run my fingertips over it.
"All good, man,"
Scooter tells him.
"You guys will need to sit a little closer so we can see you."
I grin at the fucker. He never misses an opportunity. Not that I'm complaining.
Buzz tosses the towel onto the floor and settles in nice and close next to me, smelling like my body wash. He asked if he could use it since he prefers it to his, and I told him I didn't mind at all.
I hook my arm around his shoulder as we begin our annual holiday ritual with our closest friends.