I don’t reply.
A phone vibrates again. I’m sure it’s mine this time, so I check my phone excitedly, but there’s nothing. Mason’s seen my message now, but no reply. He did leave me on read.
‘Hammer says you can come, too,’ Zeke says, reading his latest message.
‘Ew. Gross. Tell him threeways are more your thing. And jocks aren’t my type.’
‘It’s not a hookup,’ Zeke shushes me. ‘I think he just wants to see us.’
Hammer’s penthouse apartment in South Perth is simultaneously swish as fuck and barren like a desert. There’s no fixtures or posters on the walls and the furniture is plush and expensive but also generic and colourless.
The Big Dog is freshly showered, wearing a Mad Hueys tank top and a fresh pair of Eagles training footy shorts and foam Billabong thongs. He’s hobbling a bit – maybe he hurt his leg during today’s game.
‘Lads,’ he booms at me and Zeke as he opens his front door, like we’re a couple of footy mates. ‘Come in. Wanna drink?’
We hold up our sweating bounty from Thirsty Camel.
‘Way ahead of ya, dude,’ I say.
Hammer’s got the evening footy game on his big-arse TV screen – I couldn’t give a rat’s who’s playing – but he leads us past the living area to his kitchen. We grab a new drink each and refrigerate the rest while Hammer pours himself a fresh glass of whiskey. He leads us out onto a balcony with a spectacular view of the city and the river, the twilight skydarkening enough that the first stars have begun to demand attention.
‘Beautiful,’ Zeke says, cracking a fresh vodka can. ‘How the other half live, ay?’
Hammer looks bashful, which is like seeing Kanye West look humble. He puts on a Dom Dolla song on low volume on his phone for ambience.
My nostrils curl. ‘Jeez, what’s that smell? It smells like cum out here.’
Hammer’s face goes even redder suddenly. ‘Uh. Must be them cum trees.’
‘Thewhattrees?’ I blurt out.
Zeke smirks. ‘I know the ones. Some kind of pear trees. The smell is definitely … cum-adjacent. But I thought they usually flower in summer?’
Hammer yanks a patio chair out from the table with unwarranted aggression. ‘How the fuck am I meant to know when plants are in season? I’m not a bloody botanicalist.’
Zeke doesn’t correct him that the profession is botanist. I always liked that about Zeke, post-high school. He’s smart enough to know more than most of us, but he’ll almost always hold his tongue rather than correct someone in front of other people.
Once we’re all seated around the glass patio table, I light a dart and Zeke says to Hammer, ‘So? What happened?’
Hammer spills the beans. The DMs were from his own brother, Doug. They had a blue over it and it’s sorted. Doug’s not gonna out him. He got through the footy game with his heterosexual façade intact.
‘I got a lot to think about,’ Hammer mutters into his whiskey. ‘Not sure what I wanna do next.’
‘Right,’ Zeke says, his fingers tapping the side of his vodka can. I know he probably wants me out of here so he can have Hammer to himself. His restraint is impressive.
‘How are youse?’ Hammer prods. He glances at me – like a friend, for once, not a punk he’s calling a goth. ‘I’m sorry about Curtis, Charlie. It’s hell sad.’
‘Appreciated, dude.’
‘Is your Arab mate okay? His boyfriend?’
‘Husband,’ I correct. ‘They were married. And his name’s Ahmed. And no, he’s not okay. His family’s with him now so we’ve given them space today. I’d rather not talk about Curtis right now. I’ve been thinking about him all day.’
‘Roger that,’ Hammer says efficiently. He shifts his gaze to Zeke. ‘You got the all-clear, out of hospital all good, mate?’
‘Good as new,’ Zeke assures him. ‘They gave me some brochure about substance use, but. For amyl. How embarrassing. I feel so stupid.’
‘You’re not stupid, mate, you’re the smartest bloke I ever met,’ Hammer says quickly.
