I need to stop before I get seriously injured, but I can’t just leave this mess, so I start hauling it into the barn.
The chicken coop needs cleaning. It always needs cleaning. An endless task like trying to sort out my own mess. When I’m done with the logs, I attack them with furious energy, scraping and scrubbing while Elvis watches from his perch. The rooster’s occasional comments sound like criticism, but maybe that’s just guilt talking.
By late afternoon, I’m physically exhausted and starving. My muscles tremble with effort at each simple movement, but my mind feels clearer, like manual labor has scraped away some of the confusion clouding my thoughts.
Dusk paints the world in shades of apology as I trudge toward my house, my muscles screaming with each step. Finn’s silhouette on my porch stops me short. He’s sitting on the bench I have on the porch, hunched against the evening chill. The sight sends a load of fresh guilt through my system.
“You look like hell,” he announces as I approach, his voice carrying more concern than judgment. His eyes track over my disheveled appearance. Work-stained clothes, bleeding hands, the cut on my cheek I’d forgotten about until now.
“Yeah, well.” Words fail me as I reach the steps, body suddenly too heavy to move farther. I sink down beside him. “About this morning?—”
“No,” he interrupts, turning to face me fully. “Let me go first.” His shoulders square like he’s preparing for something difficult. “I’ve been a terrible friend lately. You’re right. I haven’t been there when you needed me. And I’m sorry.”
The simple admission catches me off guard. “Finn…”
“I’ve been dealing with…stuff,” he continues carefully. “Things I’m not ready to talk about yet. But I let it affect our friendship, and that’s not okay.”
“You know you can tell me anything, right?”
His smile carries an edge of something I can’t quite read. “I know. And I will, when I’m ready. But right now, I miss my best friend. Miss knowing what’s going on in your life.”
The words break something loose in my chest. “I hooked up with someone,” I blurt out.
His eyebrows rise slightly, but he doesn’t seem surprised. “And?”
“And I should regret it.” My voice catches on the words. “But I don’t. Even though it’s complicated everything, even though it’s probably a huge mistake, I can’t make myself sorry it happened.”
“Why would you want to regret good sex?”
“It’s just…complicated.” The word feels inadequate to describe the mess I’ve made, but it’s all I have.
Finn has this knowing look that makes me wonder if he knows how I feel about Bastian. Whenever he’s mentioned his brother in the past, I’ve always been so busy pretending I don’t care, so he won’t find out how I feel, that I’ve probably missed the fact that he’s provided the information voluntarily.
His hand finds my shoulder, squeezing gently. The gesture breaks the last of my defenses, and suddenly, we’re hugging properly.
“I love you, Tay.”
“Love you too, Finn.”
Movement catches my eye over his shoulder. Bastian stands at our property line, watching us with an expression I can’t read from this distance. Our eyes lock across the space between us, and for a split second, I want him to be the one whose arms are around me, but he turns away immediately, retreating with long strides that carry him quickly out of sight.
My heart hammers in my chest as I pull back from Finn’s embrace. The evening air feels suddenly colder. “Let’s getdrunk,” I suggest impulsively. “Forget all the shit in our lives for one night.”
“God, yes.” He follows me inside, complaining dramatically about the house’s temperature. “Do you not believe in heat? Are we practicing for winter survival scenarios?”
I shove him playfully toward the thermostat while heading for the cabinet that holds Dad’s old liquor collection. The bottles clink together as I pull out likely candidates: whiskey for courage, vodka for honesty, rum for when things get really interesting.
“You’re going to freeze to death in your sleep,” Finn continues, fiddling with temperature controls. “They’ll find you perfectly preserved like those mountain climbers, except surrounded by apple crates instead of snow drifts.”
The familiar banter feels like coming home as I line up shot glasses on the counter. “You volunteering to keep me warm?” I tease, earning a snort of laughter.
“Not with you stinking like that. Besides, I’m pretty sure that job’s taken,” he returns without missing a beat. Before I can process that, he claims a bottle of whiskey and heads for the living room. “Come on, let’s see what truths we can extract from each other.”
“Let me grab a quick shower first. I wouldn’t want to harm your sensitive nose.”
“Honey, I love the smell of sweaty man like any other warm-blooded gay man, but I draw the line at chicken shit.”
I grab the nearest pillow from the couch and throw it at him. As I disappear to my room, I shout at him to order some food, which, depending on how lazy he’s feeling, means a call to order takeout or a short walk to his parents’.
