I’ve already drafted what I want to say to Mason in my Notes app. I’ve laboured over that text so much it’s overcooked and I can’t be arsed trying to make it better. I copy and paste it and send the whole neurotic crapload to Mason: a motherlode of insecurity.
‘He’s gonna leave me on read,’ I say at once. ‘Goddammit.’
‘Hammer’s seen my DM but he hasn’t replied yet either,’ Zeke says, looking at his phone all forlorn.
We stare at the mute skyscrapers of Perth lording over us and the rest of the city.
‘Well, we tried,’ I offer.
Zeke snorts. ‘Our lives are just massive tyre fires, aren’t they?’
I chuckle. ‘No shit.’
‘This isn’t where I thought we’d be by now, when we came down to Perth. Like,thisis what our lives panned out like? Really?’
‘The gays need to change the slogan,’ I say. ‘No more IT GETS BETTER. Just a big neon billboard of WELL, IT COULD BE WORSE, FAGGOTS.’
Zeke cracks up, like full belly laughter, and I join him.
My phone vibrates. My heart jumps that it’s Mason replying – but it’s a phone call from Vince again.
‘Um, something kinda fucked and/or awesome just happened,’ Vince begins.
Vince posted on the Tool Shed’s Insta that we were closed, which, given Xander’s boycott, made it seem like the bar had caved in and shut down. The bar’s detractors started dancing on our grave in the comments and in their own stories – including our nemesis, Xander Sullivan, who shared the post to his followers with a comment of:That’s what you get for being exclusionary! Bye bye! Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke. xo
Vince, noticing the pile-on and the incorrect assumption, phoned Ahmed, who pointed out local news outlets were already running the story of Curtis’ death, so it would be wiser to mention it, pending further details. Vince edited the text of the post to say the bar was closed due to the shock passing of its owner.
The tone of the comments immediately changed. Tributes began to flood in for Curtis, expressing shock and upset that he was gone.
But we weren’t the only ones affected: Xander didn’t know the post was edited. His caption was still up, now referring to a post that announced Curtis’ death:That’s what you get for being exclusionary! Bye bye! Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke. xo
The backlash is biblical. Zeke and I open Insta on our phones while Vince is still on the line, watching Xander’s followers turn on him in real time. They slam him for disrespecting the dead, for being cold-blooded and sadistic, for celebrating the death of a community hero. He’s called a grub, he’s called amoral, he’s called putrid. There’s already a headline about him on a tabloid news site:Bad Taste: Influencer’s Vile Comment Goes Viral. Xander’s Insta shows he hasn’t been online for an hour: he hasn’t even realised this is happening or taken his post down. Must be sleeping off a hangover in his mansion or something.
‘Like, what do I do?’ Vince asks down the phone line. ‘It’s his own fault for being a dick, right?’
Me and Zeke exchange a look. ‘Xander’s favourite saying is, “You reap what you sow”,’ I point out, smirking with supreme satisfaction. ‘I think he just did.’
‘Does it make me a bad person if I say it’s the most beautiful karma I’ve ever seen?’ Vince asks.
We assure Vince it doesn’t, because we think it is, too. It’s like Curtis bitch-slapped Xander from the grave.
We scroll Xander’s destruction with glee until one of our phones vibrates with a new notification.
‘Yours or mine?’ I ask, hoping it’s Mason. ‘I can’t look.’
Zeke winces. ‘Mine. Hammer replied to me.’
‘What’d he say?’
‘He just got home from the stadium. He asked me to come over to his house.’
‘Booty call?’
‘Maybe? I don’t know what to make of him right now. I’ll tell him I’m with you.’
‘Dude, no. Don’t blow off a hookup to keep me company. I’ll be fine on my own.’
‘No, you won’t,’ Zeke says matter-of-factly.
