A blazing sun hangs high in the afternoon sky, creating a radiant effect on the surface of the lake water.

This is about the best my life has ever gotten. Reposing languidly on a pale purple chair float, I relish the warmth of it on my skin, seeping through each pore, feel my muscles slacken with relaxation. A balmy wind gently ruffles my hair as I bob gently around the lake, absorbing the sun's golden rays.

And then the sensation is shattered as my chair pitches forward into the scintillating water. My cry slices the hot air and I gasp sharply for breath just before my entire body slips underwater. Chilling cold is all I know in this moment. Every nerve screams out in shock at the abrupt temperature change. I kick madly for a moment, when I feel an arm wrap around my waist and lift me towards the surface. Coughing and sputtering, I brush my sopping hair out of my eyes and blink them furiously.

"Bret," I gasp, still winded. I sag reluctantly in his arms, my body still tingling with the shocking chill. Pert and cheeky, he smiles down at me. And that strikes flint inside me.

I punch him square in the face.

"Fucking asshole..." It's not an overreaction because he keeps doing this shit.

The big, brutish oaf came into my room this morning with the sole purpose of smacking me in the face with a pillow - and then promptly ran out of the room. I wanted to choke the vexatious prick with my bare hands.

"Calm down, darling."

"Ugh..." I groan, raking my hand down my dripping face. "Aren't you supposed to be making out with Sammy or something?"

He hikes a shoulder in a half-shrug.

"She wanted shopping, dude. I'd rather stay here and swim with you."

I wasn't swimming-

"Where's your dad?" I ask deftly, and it's a marketable skill the way I can so causally bring Rudy into any conversation.

Another shrug, and this time the passivity irritates me.

"How should I know?"

Sighing, I hoist myself up the ladder before clambering onto the dock. My punching hand smarts all the while; as it turns out, punching is painful for both parties involved.

"His birthday's coming up."

"Yeah, so?"

"So I don't know what to get him."

"You always figure out the best present," Bret assures me, following me to my towel. "He still has that big, colorful-ass card you made him last year on his desk, you know."

I flush, drying myself off. "Hey, man, how come you never get me anything for my birthday?"

I hum noncommittally. We're too close for that. It would kind of be like getting myself something. Pointless. Besides, I know our friendship isn't contingent on formalities like that. Rudy... Rudy needs to be wooed.

We find the man doing some outdoor cooking, looking deliciously scruffy in the morning light filtering through the treetops.

As for what he's cooked up, I don't know what it is. Something hardy, and gritty, with red beans floating around in it.

"Dad, that looks disgusting," Bret sneers.

"Siddown and eat, son," Rudy retorts, and suddenly I feel weirdly yearny.

I grab a bowl and spoon some of the stuff into it, then bravely take a sip.

"It's delicious, Rudy," I declare loyally.

We eat a quiet, simple breakfast, and then sit around planning where we'll go when Sammy brings the car back.

In the meantime, Rudy proposes a hike, just us guys. I send up a silent prayer of gratitude that Sammy decides to bless us with her absence just long enough for this opportunity.

We change into suitable clothing and Rudy leads the way with his map.

I've missed the crunch of foliage under my feet and the way the sun casts dappled patterns on the dirt through the canopy of trees overhead. But I have to admit that the rugged, bearish good looks of my guide definitely distract me from the view I should be enjoying, and I do a bit more tripping and bumping into things than I'd like to admit.

Bret finds my impairment amusing.

"Dude, close your eyes," he implores. "Trust me. It can't be worse than your current motor skills." Eyes shutting obediently, I start walking forward with his hands on my shoulders. "We're coming up on a dip..."

He counts the seconds and describes the distances and somehow we manage this way until I think I can feel Rudy turning around and staring questioningly.

As we hike, we keep an eye out for cool-looking plants, birds, and animals and photograph them. Bret and I pass a water bottle between us to keep hydrated as the temperature ramps up to sweltering. Sweat drips along the curves and divots of Rudy's back through his thin t-shirt. I really should be more into the natural beauty around me, but Rudy's ass looks so deliciously tight and round in those shorts. Delicious. No jury in the world would convict me.

The sun beats down on my head with an oppressive heat, and I envy Bret that damn baseball cap he always wears. 

•••

The town is small but bustling with tourists and shoppers. I'm a man on a mission, hunting for the perfect gift for Rudy. It's the opportune moment, because Bret and Sammy are keeping him busy shopping elsewhere. If Bret can just not fuck up this one thing...

The ideal gift is something that will remind him of me. Something that says I love you without saying 'I love you.' I want to give him soap or a body wash - something that can touch his body in ways that I want to but can't, something I can live vicariously through. I want him to think of me when he's touching it to his body, imagine me touching his body. So I buy him a body wash that I think is a combination of his favourite fragrances and which should suit his natural scent. Sandalwood, soap and old, supple leather - with notes of citrus.

I get him a little boat keychain which can be construed as a simple keepsake to remind him of his boat, but which I really hope will remind him of the night he took me out on it, just the two of us, and we swam and watched the stars and grew a little bit closer. I can only hope that memory means half as much to him as it does to me.

Next, I need something musical. Rudy always invites Bret and I to these country music concerts that could not be less up our alley, and I'll stare at the ticket in my cart for ages, wondering if I'm prepared to sacrifice all that time and money for a concert I didn't even want to go to, just to be close to Rudy. And then I think: I'll make that money back, but I can never get the opportunity back. Anyways, the point is that I know all of Rudy's musical favourites. I pick up some oldies I don't think he has yet and then top the gift off with a bag and card.

Bret's texted while I was shopping, asking to meet at an ice cream parlour once I'm done.

I approach the ice cream parlour laden with bags, the sun warming my skin. Nearby, the waves of a small lake lap gently against the shore, and birds twitter cheerily in the treetops clustered among the edges of the path. I sit down at a small, round table in the courtyard attached to the store and pull up an extra chair. Bret's taking forever, but I'm always armed with a book. A soft wind lifts my hair lightly off the nape of my neck, and I gradually lose awareness of my surroundings in favour of immersing myself in the fiction.

I race through the last few chapters of the book record-fast, staining the last page with my tears. It's official; I'm gonna need the author to pay for my therapy.

I can't believe I just read about five hundred pages of beautiful, compelling, slow-burn romance, only for it to all go up in flames. Literally.

It pricks that familiar vein of grief inside me that makes it feel like my chest has been hollowed out and stuffed with lead. Why the fuck I keep choosing this pain over and over again rather than giving up on books is a fucking enigma. For the sake of the passerby, I manage to mostly keep it together, until Bret gets back and notices my pinched expression. He puts an arm around me and the floodgates open; I start sobbing hysterically.

"When you open your own bookstore, you can make sure you only sell books with happy endings," he murmurs.

It's humiliating. I never wanted to dampen the mood on this idyllic vacation on such a beautiful day. But I just need a shoulder to cry on, and Bret has always been that for me.

Rudy and Sammy hold off until I'm okay again, and then Rudy wordlessly wraps an arm around my shoulder and draws me close and I think I might lose consciousness. My fickle heart does a pleasant kick and instantly forgets the sad book ending.

I hang back to chat with Rudy while Sammy and Bret walk ahead of us. I'll admit that much of what he says goes over my head, as my head is swimming with thoughts of him fucking me silly in his garage, but his presence alone just ignites my body.

The scattered sunset light looks like the horizon vomited glass after glass of auburn sherry. Bret and Rudy have coaxed a small fire into existence and we sit around it on logs toasting marshmallows and other miscellaneous oddities. Rudy starts strumming on his guitar and Bret and I pass a bottle between us, while Sammy keeps the conversation going.

At some point in the night, when we're all laughing and a bit buzzed, Rudy says something and winks across the fire at me, and it may be the single unfairest play in the history of unrequited love ever.

•••

The Palmer residence is the first on our route home, followed by Sammy's place, and culminating with mine. I let myself hope Rudy will drop everyone else off and then it'll just be the two of us, him driving me home. That was a mistake. Because I'm crestfallen when he proposes that Bret drop him off first and then circle back after leaving the rest of us at our respective apartments. Of course he's got work to do on the ranch. That's the problem with agonizing over him for so long, crafting this elaborate story inside my head about how he secretly wants me too, misconstruing and misunderstanding everything. It makes me so oblivious to facts.

I sit in the backseat after he's gone, sullen and quiet, stewing over the life choices that have culminated in me taking something so small and insignificant so seriously.

My mood is not helped by a flirty Sammy taking ages to say goodbye to her boo. I don't like the way Bret is around her. In front of a girl, you have to put on your most charming self and keep up appearances. In front of your buddies, you can just be yourself.

"Why can't you come over tomorrow?" she whines in her annoying, nasally voice.

"Gotta go to work," Bret murmurs, and I can hear the smirk in his voice from behind.

Sammy huffs a long sigh.

"Why do you have to be a firefighter?" She puckers her lips petulantly.

Bret chuckles.

"You wouldn't understand. No offence."

I understand. She won't admit it but she likes that about him. Bret always runs crotch-first towards any attractive girl he can woo with tales of thrilling heroics.

"Baaabe. I'm serious. It's dangerous, and I worry about you."

"I'll see you soon, Sammy."

Sammy rolls her eyes and takes a step back with a sigh.

"See you soon, baby."

After she's finally got all her stuff back into her place, Bret starts talking about how we need to hang out with people, the guys from the station or his football friends or something. I've always got a little smidgeon of imposter syndrome around the latter. I'm not as close to them as Bret is. For one thing, everyone single one of them has girlfriends or fiancées. Then there's me, single because I'm hung up on my best friend's dad. The truth is I know of a lot of people but I don't know a lot of people. My circle is small and I'm usually alone or with Bret.

My happy place is the bed in my cramped apartment, wherein I love to read, daydream about Rudy, and write. I converted two entire walls of my bedroom into a bookshelf. It's funny because I sometimes find myself stressing that the shelves are bound to overflow and collapse, damaging my books. Then, in the next minute, I'm on my way to the bookstore to buy more books because I'm stressed.

I don't act in my best self interest, if the way I've been pursuing Rudy wasn't a good indication.

•••

"What's wrong, princess? Keep going. Push, push, push - three more."

I'm struggling to complete my rep like a fish trying to breathe on land, and Bret thinks he's helping. It's a little difficult for him to sympathize, though; he doesn't understand how hard it is to build muscle tone when you're not genetically blessed.

While I struggle, Bret catches a glimpse of his reflection and obviously likes what he sees because he snaps a picture in the mirror as soon as he's done spotting me.

Next is the treadmill. We each ramp up the speed, racing each other far out of our comfort zones, with the same competitive spirit that had us excusing ourselves from high school parties to go wrestle on the lawn.

I'm a trembling mess when we're finally walking out the gym doors. Bret gets off on that; I don't. I don't like my knees feeling like jello. But I come along because he pressures me to do better. If not for him, I'd be in bed all day floundering in books. Bret's greatest joy is watching his muscles grow to uncanny proportions. Mine is when a library book I put on hold is finally available for borrowing.

"The usual for lunch?" Bret suggests.

"Yep."

Needles of rain pelt us as soon as we step outside. Neither of us was prepared with an umbrella, but Bret comes up with the idea while we're standing at a crosswalk to hold his jacket out like an awning. I get underneath it with him and we stand there soaking in the smell of soap and his distinct cologne.

The place we go to is a tiny, hole-in-the-wall sandwich joint that makes the best Reubens. There's hardly room enough for us both to stand in line, so I wait outside under the doorway awning while Bret orders, and start scrolling through social media. Opening Instagram, I find Bret's new post at the top of my feed. I must admit - not even begrudgingly - that it's a good shot. I heart it and comment: Back is huge 🔥🔥. It fills up the whole goddamn frame.

When I look up again, Bret is holding out a distinct not-Reuben.

"I bought you this," he offers.

"But I don't want that. I want my usual."

"It looks good; try it."

"But I always..."

"You eat it." Bret shoves it into my face. "Come on; you'll like it."

The unseasoned fuck got me a sandwich with onions and goat cheese and spinach.

But I must admit - very begrudgingly this time - that this is way better than what I wanted. Somehow the flavors actually work; the onions are caramelized and sweet and compliment the tangy goat cheese really well. There's a crunch of something else, too, that I don't investigate in favour of wolfing down the sandwich.

Almost as soon as we arrive back at the station, the blare of the alarm says you thought, bitch, to my plans of napping the afternoon away. An accident with multiple injuries is described over the PA. The squad, truck, engine and ambulance are responding, sirens blaring. Turns out a building's foundation collapsed and the entire zone is unstable.

I climb out once we reach the destination, and survey the scene while donning my helmet. It's still drizzling, the air thick with dust and dirt from the rubble. Chief calls for a ladder.

"Be careful, Bret," I call after the cocksure fool who volunteers to go down and tend to the victim trapped at the bottom.

"Not my first time entering a hole, Evan," he throws over his shoulder with a supercilious grin. "Going in..."

I help get a harness ready to pull the victim up in. Judging by the size of the opening, I decide to run and grab a saw just in case it's needed. Mostly I just want to keep busy so I don't have to be looking down at Bret trying to get himself killed. He'll succeed one of these days if he keeps up his smug, arrogant attitude that prioritizes the ladies' impressions of him over his own safety. To be fair, though, the lady paramedics and firefighters are swooning.

Pulling the vic up in a harness proves to be challenging.

"Evan!" Bret shouts up at me from below. "I need this hole opened up."

"Got it." I get to work enlarging the opening with the Sawzall, sparks flying.

Small rockslides have my heart racing.

"It's gonna give," someone shouts. "Pull back."

"Bret, you stupid fuck, hurry up!" I below.

It's an agonizing minute before the victim emerges through the top of the opening. Bret follows, unscathed and smugger than ever.

My nap is now well-deserved, I think as I calm my racing heart. It's hours of work before we're able to leave the scene. Between that and the brutal morning workout and the lack of sleep I got last night - because I'm still not done crying over that book - I'm altogether not fucking happy to be accosted by the other firemen as soon as I walk through the kitchen.

"Yo, Evan, what's for dinner?" Kevin bellows in his quintessentially booming voice.

"I'm tired, guys. Someone else make something."

"How about some of your lasagna?" It's as if no one hears me.

"He said he's tired, man, leave him alone," Bret defends me.

"And we're hungry-"

"And apparently, you're also lazy fucks."

This gets a rise out of Kevin.

"Come again, Bret?" He frowns, head cocked to the side, as he approaches.

Bret stands his ground.

"I said you're a lazy fuck. Evan's tired; leave him alone."

"Or what? I'm curious."

"Or I'm gonna beat you to a mummy." Kevin scoffs in surprise. "And if you don't think I'll do it, you'd better look into my eyes and study them."

"Whoa, whoa. Alright, we're all tired," Macy tries, ever the assuaging one.  "Kev, Evan's not your maid. Bret, you don't need be the hero all the time. Save it for the field."

Bret shoulders roughly past both of them and I trudge along behind him, fuming inwardly. Bret is, simply put, a Neanderthal. It's stressful, always having to stop him from physically rearranging some guy's face-meat over absolutely nothing.

"Nice going, idiot. How did you know a little negativity was just what I needed tonight?"

Bret gives me a bewildered look.

"I was defending you. And aren't you bringing negativity to this situation by calling me an idiot?"

"No, Bret. You were an idiot before I pointed it out. That's called a reality check."

Later, Bret and I lay on the bed in our room, me on the bottom with my arm flung over my eyes and Bret on top of me playing video games. I can literally feel his heart racing as he gets amped up over the game. And that makes my heart race. And my heart is tired.

"Okay, Bret, that's enough. I wanna go to sleep."

"Okay," he grumbles reluctantly. 

As soon as Bret turns off the light, I conjure up the hottest mental image of Rudy I can, and snuggle contently into my pillow.

"Turn on this side," Bret mumbles. I ignore him in favour of tracing my tongue down Rudy's pecs. That is, until I feel a sharp slap on my ass. "I'm talking to you," Bret insists. "You won't get proper sleep facing the window, 'cause even with your eyes closed, the light from outside fucks with your melatonin and circadian rhythm and shit-"

"Ugh, shut uuup."

I oblige, turning to face him, and promptly close my eyes again. Where was I? Ah, yes, that perfect man nip...

As if Bret wasn't annoying enough policing which side I sleep on, I wake up to find he'd hogged more than his share of the blankets, and rolled on top of me during the night, crushing my bladder.

•••

Dayum. Rudy can get dirty but he cleans up nice. Chelsea's sister is getting married today, and my favorite cowboy is dressed in a crisp black suit that fits him like a glove.

Throughout the ceremony, my gaze drifts to Chelsea and Rudy sitting on the bench in front of me. Measuring the distance between Rudy and Chelsea, I secretly revel in the Evan-sized gap between husband and wife. I take this as confirmation of the lethal effect of marriage on intimacy, and only feel slightly guilty about it.

I just might need to go wash my brain out with soap...

As if on cue, by some karmic, cosmic intervention, Chelsea's palm slides over Rudy's and their fingers entwine. A stab of pain lances through me. It feels like a kick in the teeth. I tell myself, of course he has to be lovey dovey towards his wife during a wedding. It's expected.

But their love just seems so real. It's like stepping out into the cold glaring light of day after hiding away in a basement for a week. And the overwhelming sensation of inappropriateness seems to be enough, for the moment, to quash by taboo feelings like a spider underfoot. I'm ready to abandon this ridiculous hopeless crush. Like a smoker who's quit smoking a million times before, I think: that's it. That's enough. I'm absolutely over this old man, and from now on I'm only going to be interested in people my age...

Minutes later, he turns to where I'm sitting behind him and says, "Evie..."

Fuck! "Lookin' good, Evie." My heart hurtles, warmth spreading through my body.

After the ceremony, I gravitate naturally towards Rudy. Chelsea is off congratulating the couple and Bret is being dragged around by Sammy like a trophy. We talk about that foal that's due soon, an exciting prospect for Rudy. We talk about chickens, and sheep. And make plans to go trail-riding soon.

As we converse, I notice his lanyard strewn on the pew. I reach out and tangle my fingers in it, pretending it's his hand. Getting his DNA all over me. The keys jingle so it's impossible for him not to notice. It's one of those innocuous gestures of mine that can be construed as absentminded but which, if he and I are even remotely close to being on the same page, comes across as kind of flirty and sensual.

I emerge from my semi-trance when I hear Rudy casually mention: "Bret's gunna drive ya to the reception." He follows this up with some excuse for why he can't do it that I miss in favour of licking my wounds and fighting to keep the disappointment off my face. At this point, I'm convinced I've misstepped and scared Rudy off. Something I did must've been too much. And I haven't even said a word of how I feel about him.