12. Bash
CHAPTER TWELVE
BASH
Bash: I know this is random, but giving you a heads-up that I’m donating a kidney to a friend. So if I’m MIA for a bit, I’m probably just in the hospital.
Tripp: Jesus. When is this happening?
Bash: Tomorrow.
Tripp: And you’re just telling me now?
Bash: Didn’t want you to get all sappy on me or something.
Tripp: Well, I do think it’s pretty cool that you’d donate a kidney to a friend. I don’t think I like anyone that much. Lmao.
Bash: One day you will.
Tripp: Maybe. For now, I will just admire your generosity from afar.
Bash: Okay. Good luck with the end of the season. Catch you on the flip side.
Tripp: Ugh. Yeah. End of the season is looking like it will be sooner rather than later. Maybe I’ll come visit you sometime. See your place.
Bash: I’d like that. Drop me a line.
West strides out of his kitchen with a shit-eating grin on his face and a kidney-shaped cake in his hands.
He stops at the head of the table, right beneath the banner that reads We’re going to miss you, Daddy!
“Bash, congratulations on finally finding your perfect match,” he announces to the dining room full of our friends.
“None of us expected it to be Clyde, but sometimes the heart wants what the heart wants. And I, for one, could not be happier for you. Or him.”
A ripple of laughter rolls through the room as he sets the white cake on the table for everyone to see.
It’s covered in…veins? Capillaries? I don’t fucking know.
The decorative icing has done an incredible but disturbing job of making it look like an anatomically correct kidney.
In perfect script it says Bon voyage, Kidney!
And all I can do is groan.
Only West.
Beside him, Skylar shakes her head but stares up at him with stars in her eyes. Like no matter how ridiculous he is, he still hung the moon for her. I sometimes wonder if it’s because he’s so ridiculous that she’s found peace with him.
Rosie has dropped her face into her hands, and Ford has his arm slung over the back of her chair—the only thing he gives West is his typical dry eye roll.
Rhys’s deep, rumbling chuckle filters in from the other side of the table. Arms crossed over his broad chest, he looks downright amused.
Amused enough that his wife, Tabitha, shoves an elbow into his ribs along with a threatening sounding, “What are you laughing at? I made that cake.”
He turns his smirk her way with an innocent shrug. “And? That just means that even though it looks disgusting, it will taste delicious.”
The warmth between them—the teasing and prolonged eye contact—makes me feel like an interloper.
It makes me think of Gwen.
And finally, I let my gaze flit to the opposite side of the table. To her.
Gwen’s cheeks are rosy, her smile bright and genuine.
Her eyes sparkle as she appraises the horror that is my cake.
She has her lacey white blouse unbuttoned far enough to show the slopes of her ample cleavage.
Those buttons stood no fucking chance, and she owns it.
Her subtle confidence might be the most attractive thing about her.
Still, she looks different now than she did earlier, when those big doe eyes welled with tears.
Tears for me . Happy tears.
It threw me for a fucking loop. I hated it, but a part of me loved it too. Because for a moment, it felt like someone in the world really saw me—and liked what they saw.
When Gwen looked at me today, I hadn’t felt like a second choice.
“Tabby, I think it’s beautiful. How could a healthy kidney be anything but?” she gushes in her typical Gwen way. I swear she can find beauty in anything.
“See?” Tabitha pokes Rhys. “Gwen thinks my kidney cake is beautiful .”
I shake my head and look back toward West, who is watching me, eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas. “So? Do you like it?”
I roll my lips together, trying to keep from laughing. “You’re an idiot, Weston.”
He brightens further. “Calling me an idiot is your love language, so I will take it. I love you too, man. Stay safe tomorrow.” Then, glancing around the table, he lifts his champagne glass and waits for everyone to follow suit.
“Here’s to Bash and his kidney,” he says as everyone raises their glasses.
“You just might be the most thoughtful asshole I know. Cheers, to you and that big soft black heart of yours! And to Crazy Clyde!”
I give in and chuckle now. West will wear a guy down like that, and after looking around the table at all my friends here today, it didn’t feel as hard to let that amusement trickle out.
The others laugh, and we all gently tap our rims in a salute around the table with a shared murmur of “To Crazy Clyde.”
Clyde needed to check into the hospital early for surgery prep and couldn’t be here tonight. But tomorrow morning I fully intend to tell him that everyone gave a toast for Crazy Clyde —I think he’ll get a real kick out of that.
Gwen and I toast last, and it feels like everyone is watching us. I don’t think it’s lost on anyone that after months of avoiding her like the plague, I’m the one who extended the invite today.
I did it to be polite. This isn’t an elementary school birthday party. Hell, I’m forty years old. I don’t need to exclude someone just because I’m all tangled up over her.
I’m mature, dammit. I can totally be around Gwen. This invite was a peace offering.
Our eyes catch and hold. For one beat and then two. Even as chatter breaks out around us, I can’t look away.
And though Gwen is younger, she’s no little girl. She holds my gaze back just as boldly. I’ve thought that maybe she’s angry, going out of her way to be polite but secretly resenting me.
After all, I’m the one who got the number wrong. I’m the one who didn’t try harder to track her down.
I don’t know why she and Tripp broke up. He never told me, and I sure as hell haven’t brought it up with Gwen. But I can’t shake the thought that I caused the demise of that for her too.
Yet looking at her tonight, I don’t get the sense she’s irritated by me at all. Have I been beating myself up in my head for no reason? It’s on the tip of my tongue. To ask her. To just spit it out so I can stop torturing myself wondering.
But the moment slips away when West slides a slice of cake in front of me. “Dude. You have got to try this. Our Tabby Cat outdid herself.”
Gwen shoots me a small quirk of her lips and a second silent toast, then she turns away to chat with Skylar.
I watch her as I hold the glass to my lips but put it back down without drinking. I know alcohol consumption before this procedure isn’t recommended. But I didn’t want to ruin everyone’s fun. Then I regretfully turn my attention to West and the cake.
It’s delicious.
But not delicious enough to steal my wandering thoughts away from the woman seated across from me.
As is fairly typical for me, the large group atmosphere becomes more irritating than fun. The music plus the chatter makes it loud, and being the center of attention is pretty much my worst nightmare.
There’s a reason I keep to myself. There’s a reason I built on a private piece of property.
And it’s because I like my peace. I enjoy my time alone.
In fact, I don’t even usually feel all that lonely.
It’s doing me no favors in the dating department—there’s a large part of me that’s avoiding that scene altogether.
Especially considering what happened the last time I felt a spark of connection with a woman.
Still, there’s something about coming home from a long stretch away working a fire and finding space and silence. I’ll sit out on my balcony and decompress. The birds, the lake, the swish of the breeze through the trees—that’s how I rejuvenate.
Not by surrounding myself with friends.
No, I do this for them. They need this. They wanted this, and as much as I love to see everyone together, my social battery drains rather quickly.
It might also have something to do with the fact that everyone else is drinking while I’ve officially hit the point in the night where I need to fast before surgery.
I’ve retreated to the kitchen for some breathing room, and everyone else is huddled in the living room playing an old game of Operation that West dug out of his crawl space “special for this party.” The buzzer is going off a hell of a lot more than it has any right to, which is resulting in a chorus of laughter each time.
It makes me smile even though no one is here to see it.
Seeking some quiet, I slip from the house during one of those more raucous moments. Spring is in the air, and the nights are growing warmer. Still, it’s spring in the mountains, and I rub my hands roughly over my arms for the friction.
West has a stunning property. A sweeping stretch of land near the lake, just outside of town. His old farmhouse sits back in the trees—not along the shore, like mine. But I know that just down a narrow, winding path, it opens up to a panoramic lake view.
Drawn by the sound of the water lapping at the shore, I shove my fists into my jean pockets and head toward the lake.
Dense pines line my path as I pass a small guesthouse on my way.
Warm, dim light filters from inside, and I peek in through the window, wondering why it would be lit up at all.
The space looks tidy but unused, not lived.
Except for the small, gray mouse in the corner. It’s nibbling on a piece of cheese that looks suspiciously similar to the Manchego on the ornate cheese board Tabby laid out earlier. My brows furrow, but I decide it’s not my issue. I can mention the mouse to West later.
I continue toward the lake, the inky ripples highlighted by the bright moon. I haven’t let myself think much about the fact that surgeries go awry sometimes, but taking the last steps down the short drop to the shore, it hits me I might never see this view again.