Chapter Three
Moving Forward with Maturity? sounds good and all, but a couple weeks later, when the gears seize up on the winch we use to haul the traps up out of the water, the first cracks in that plan start to arise. I break down and start to lose my shit over something stupid simple.
A spectacularly immature tantrum, really.
But, in the grand scheme of things, is it that simple? I meannn… If I can’t haul traps, can’t bring in lobster. Can’t bring in lobster, can’t afford to pay the guys. Can’t pay the guys, they start to whine. See? There is a bigger picture here, and now I have a valid reason to be so utterly pissed.
“Son of a fuckin’ bitch!” I yell, kicking the motor to the pulley. “Who has been maintaining this shit?!”
“Uhh, we thought that was you, Cap,” Marcus, one of my sternmen, mutters.
Caleb, the other, pauses banding claws to nod in agreement.
Caleb doesn’t vocalize since he sustained a vocal cord injury years ago, so Marcus typically does the talking for both of them—oftentimes knowing what Caleb is going to say, even before he signs it.
They have this crazy mental telepathy thing going on.
I wonder if they can read my mind. Projecting titties in three… two… one. I narrow my eyes at both of them. After a beat, Caleb signs something, plucking at his bib slickers, and Marcus interprets, “C wants to know why you’re staring at his chest.”
“Umm. You have spectacular pecs?” I reply, a little chagrined knowing that my mind was not just read.
No word of that is a lie, though. The man does have a physique I would kill for.
Well, maybe kill is a little aggressive, but I’ll be real honest—if I didn’t think he’d toss me overboard like it was no big deal, I’d ask to motorboat those pecs. Just once. Just to test it out.
Caleb’s brows pinch. He signs "thank you," but the expression on his face tells me he has more questions.
I do too, bub. I do too.
“What does his chest have to do with not keeping up with greasing the gears?” Marcus asks me.
Caleb shoulders past me, eyeing me warily as he bends down to try to get the parts working again. Talks with his hands, works with his hands—Caleb’s hands are a fuckin’ godsend on a day like today, I tell you what. I wonder what else he does well with those hands…
Shit, nope. Not going there. Caleb is a straight, spoken-for man.
Oddly enough, both he and Marcus have girlfriends named Lauren.
That’s weird, right? If it weren’t for knowing that, I’d be certain that Marcus knows exactly how talented Caleb can be with his hands.
I’ve always suspected that there’s something more going on with those two—similar to the way I suspected things were going on with Evan and Brooks, many moons ago.
“Once a month, Cap. That’s all it takes. It’s not that big of a job,” Marcus adds, snapping me back to reality.
I sigh out in frustration. He’s right. I haven’t been keeping up on maintaining the Lobsta Mobsta like I should be.
Not like Wagner and his four man crew dote on The Codfather, anyway.
Dad has dedicated his life to that boat, and sometimes, growing up, it felt as if he also dedicated more of his life to those three sternmen of his—more than to Mom, Evan, and me, that’s for sure.
What used to make no sense to me when I was younger, is starting to make more sense to me now. I, too, am consumed by just this job, and when I’m not out here on the water, I’m at Portside with Marcus and Caleb. Dad and his crew too.
For the last year or two, however, it’s increasingly obvious that I’m spending even more time at the pub than they do.
Oftentimes staying well beyond the time the rest have all gone home, sacrificing whatever precious few hours I should be sleeping.
I can’t help it. Gordy’s right. The apartment is too quiet when the girls aren’t there.
Also, since the apartment I live in is one I took over when Evan moved to Alder Notch, I’m reminded even more that I don’t have my bro nearby to annoy like I used to.
Sure, I know I can just make up some excuse that I need advice about parenting and he’d only be a phone call away, but I try not to do that too much. I don’t want it to be overtly obvious that I’m just lonely and want to talk to my brother.
Besides, he’s got his own happy little bubble he’s in.
He’s now re-married—their anniversary is my friggin’ birthday, those thunder thieves—and is living his best gay life.
He’s thriving, really. Since Colt and Morgan have gone off to college, Ev and Brooks have been busy building up and running a summer camp for grieving youth, along with adopting and raising my four-year-old niece, Tallulah.
Hell, my brother and his husband are even cat dads.
Well, cat and raccoon dads. They’ve got a pair of beefy bastards named Noodles and Meatball, that they like to say are wild, but those things are domesticated as fuck. You can’t tell me that them being front and center in their most recent Christmas card is wild.
Caleb flashes his hands in the air, snapping me back online, and Marcus interprets, “All set. Simple enough fix, but… if you maintained it, it wouldn’t have to be repaired at all.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, then I promise, “I’ll do better about keeping up on it.”
Caleb nods. Marcus, unhelpful shit that he is, adds, “You planning on doing better about being on time in the morning too? Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time at Portside, flirting with Masterson all night, you’d get up when your alarm went off.”
I scoff. “For the record, I don’t flirt with him. And I know you and Caleb have this weird psychic thing going on with each other, but I didn’t realize you and my ex-wife were channeling too. I already know I’m shit at pulling my own weight, so let's not delve into all the reasons she left my ass…”
Marcus chuckles, miming his mind being blown. “Oh, was that why? My crystal ball must be blurry since it told me you have erectile dysfunction, and that’s why she left you. They make pills for that, you know.”
Caleb signs something again, but his hands move so fast, I can’t understand it all. Something to do with his chest, I assume. I wait for Marcus to interpret, but instead he just busts out in laughter, Caleb doubling over beside him silently huffing out air.
I scowl. “What’d you say?”
Marcus interprets, “He said, maybe it isn’t ED at all.
Maybe it’s because his pecs are what really do it for you.
He wants to know if you’d like to touch them so you can see if they get you up.
” Then he side-eyes Caleb. “I, for the record, am not going to allow that, by the way,” he adds with a growl.
An interesting show of possessiveness, for sure, since I’m quite certain they both have girlfriends—but that’s neither my bull, nor my rodeo.
My scowl morphs into a frown. “I don’t look at dudes like that,” I huff.
And, alright, that might be a teensy lie.
I can’t say as I never have. I mean, after Evan came out, I obviously had questions.
Like, first of all, how had he hidden all that for years?
Was it so easy to be attracted to men and just never admit it?
If so, had I ever been attracted to men, and just never acknowledged it?
I mean, of all the GQ covers I languished over back when I was young enough to not have to pop ibuprofen like candy, it was the David Beckham covers that piqued my interest the most.
Granted, I think Ev knew he was attracted to dudes way back when, but he covered it up by asking Miranda out.
Then he accidently knocked her up and felt like it was the upstanding thing to do by marrying her and raising their family together.
So, I don’t think his discovering his own sexuality was something that happened later in life, I think that his later-in-life realization was just a byproduct of his circumstances.
Me, on the other hand? Well, I think it’s common knowledge that I’m a bit…
well, fucking clueless. There have been a few times, at the bar, fighting with Gordy—not flirting—where I’ve found myself starting to sport wood for no goddamned good reason.
I’m pretty sure I’ve always attributed it to being drunk, horny Gannett coming out to play—too confused to know what to do with the adrenaline.
And yes, adrenaline boners are a thing. I used to get them all the time back in high-school, when I played football. You try getting tackled to the ground by a sweaty brute and not pop a chubby.
But herein lies the ultimate question, have I been flirting with Gordy? Like, is there some sort of attraction there? Is that why I find myself poking the bear, night after night? Does causing him ire provoke me?
No, that’s just me getting underneath his skin for shits and giggles. It has to be.
Marcus snickers. “That far-away gaze tells me you do look at dudes like that. Someone clearly has you all twisted up in knots right now.”
“You guys don’t seriously think I flirt with Masterson, do you?
I mean, that’d suggest that perhaps I’ve reached a whole new level of dumbassery.
And besides, it’s pretty clear that the man doesn’t swing that way.
Not with the shit he gave my brother about it, anyway.
No, I’m not flirting with him,” I ramble, not sure who I’m trying to convince more at this point—the guys or myself.
Caleb smirks, signing something with quick hands. I look to Marcus to interpret for me, since there’s no way I can keep up. “He says, ‘And there it is. That someone is GORDY.’”
And, even though I know there’s nothing wrong with Caleb’s hearing, I reply with one of the few signs I’m overly familiar with. Double birds.
“Fuck you both,” I grumble. “I just want him to be my friend. That’s all.”
Marcus snorts. “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”