I never bought into the Winkelmann v Katona family feud where my family (the Winkelmanns) supposedly fucked over Beau's family (the Katonas) in a land deal with the council about the position of the bridge. There were no backroom deals, no blackmail, no under-the-table money exchanges. We're talking about the position of a bridge in a small New England town for Pete's sake, not some high stakes New York property development deal.
Despite our families, becoming friends with Beau was a no-brainer. He was a slightly shy but totally cool kid, period. That he was as obsessed with football as I was and shared my dream of playing in the major league when we grew up sealed the deal. We were best friends, and there was nothing our parents could do to stop us.
But one thing did, and it ended a friendship I was convinced would last until we were old and gray.
My heart gets heavy just thinking about that game—the collision, the impact, Beau hitting the turf and not moving. In that moment, screw team rivalries. That was my best friend lying there. I was kneeling beside him before the trainers finished rushing the field, and I stayed until they strapped him onto the stretcher, watching helplessly as my best friend got taken off the field.
How we went from best friends to not speaking a word to each other in almost fifteen years still baffles and hurts me in equal measure. Why did he?—
My phone buzzes, and I amnotin the mood anymore. Sabrina can fucking wait. I'll be home soon enough, anyway. I cross onto the bridge and am fumbling around under the bag to turn the damn phone off when Granny's serum falls out.
"Shit," I grumble.
Sabrina provided bullet point instructions on how to ask for it at the spa, and it cost a pretty penny, too, so I don't want to risk breaking the stupid bottle. With one hand on the wheel, and my eyes on the road, I lean over and pat around to find it on the floorboard. It's rolled over to the right, and I canjuuuustfeel it brushing against my fingertips when?—
"Shit!" I slam on the brakes, but it's too late. I've nudged the car in front of me. "Shitting shitty shit shit!"
The driver sticks his arm out the window and indicates ahead and left. I nod so he sees it in his rearview. We drive off this damn cursed bridge and pull over onto the shoulder.
He steps out of the car, and?—
Shit!
It's Beau.
He starts walking toward my car, and I'm gripped by this insane…fear, I guess? We haven't spoken in so long, andthisis the thing to end the silence? Some bullshit fender bender literally on the bridge that's connected a town but divided our families?
The sun's hitting him directly, so he still hasn't recognized me, but I have front row seats to the Beau Katona gun and artillery show. Because he doesn't just have massive biceps, his whole rig is a series of rugged muscles and hard lines, highlighted to perfection in a simple gray T-shirt and joggers that cling to his solid legs just right. And because some things never change, he finishes it off with his usual backward baseball cap.
He halts suddenly a few paces from my car, recognition dawning on him. His lips move. His preferred curse word spills out of them. With a mess of feelings percolating within me, I unbuckle my seat belt and get out of the car.
My legs are lead, every footstep requiring more energy than powering through a fourth-quarter drive with nothing left in the tank.
"Fuck," he repeats.
This time I'm close enough to hear the deep rumble of his voice, see the tufts of dirty-blond hair poking out the sides of his baseball cap and the dark, week-old stubble taking over his jawline.
"Shit," I respond.
We were such perfect friends, either one thousand percent on the same page, or, on the odd occasion where we differed, like our sexuality, we complemented each other seamlessly, right down to something as trivial as our choice of swear words: hisfuckying to myshityang.
"Sorry about the…" I awkwardly gesture at his bumper.
He barely moves his head, his brown eyes staying on me. With some people, you can read their emotions on their face, or through their body language, or in the tone of their voice. With Beau, it's always been his eyes. Deep, earthy-brown, and capable of displaying every emotion from joy to rage and everything in between.
I can tell what he's thinking or feeling before he verbalizes it.
Or, rather, Icould.
"It's fine," he mutters.
It really shitting isn't. Nothing about this situation is fine. I'm staring into the eyes of the man who used to know me better than anyone. That's still true today since I've never felt so open and free with anyone else, not even the women I've dated. I may be straight, but the man standing a few feet away from me is my soulmate.
Pressure builds behind my left eye, but I push past the lump forming in my throat, stare at my former bestie, and say,"There's a good chance you'll say no, but it's been too long, Beau. Can I—Can I buy you a drink?"
2
Beau
