‘You did a Maccas run without me?’ I ask Charlie, sliding into the armchair next to Ahmed. On the TV, some punk singer is climbing the stage’s metal scaffolding.
‘Calm your tits: I got you a McMuffin and a hash brown,’ Charlie says, hurling a Maccas bag at me.
‘Aw. Thank you, man,’ I say. Nice he thought of me when I wasn’t in the room.
‘Both of you stop talking,’ Ahmed says, sucking his green juice through a metal straw. ‘Some of us are past thirty. This hangover might be the one that kills me.’
‘Good thing you’re not melodramatic,’ Charlie mutters. ‘And you’re pastforty.’
I eat my greasy Maccas. Outside in the courtyard, Rex rips a massive burp.
‘Gross,’ Ahmed whispers. ‘I know Curtis likes him, but it’s like living with a neanderthal.’
Rexisa gross neanderthal, and that makes me more attracted to him.
My phone vibrates. A text from Jack.Hey bro, missed u at footy training today – u not keen? If u wanna cum down next training, it’s Tuesday 5.30 pm at Coolbinia Reserve. Lemme know. Last nite was epic btw tell the owners we all had a good time.
I don’t know how to respond. I could ignore him and be glad I escaped being shown up as a fraud. And yet, I want to join him. Why?
Rex shuffles inside, reeking of Bundy and tobacco, and plops himself in the chair next to me before ripping a massive fart.
‘Pardon,’ Ahmed says, dramatically fanning the air around his face. ‘You say pardon when you do that, Rex.’
Rex grunts. He kicks Charlie’s sofa and jerks his head at the screen. ‘Who dis?’
‘Billy Talent,’ Charlie says.
‘Sick,’ Rex grunts.
Sick is one of the only words in Rex’s vocabulary. If something’s good, it’s sick. If it’s bad, it’s bollocks.
The side door opens from the garage. Curtis bursts into the house in a grey stringer tank drenched in sweat, his muscles dripping.
‘Woo!’ he booms. ‘The gym was bustlin’. Got a great pump.’
Curtis is the only one who isn’t hungover. I think he was so busy meeting people at the bar, having photos taken and being pulled pillar to post, that he didn’t have time to drink, even after closing, when the rest of us celebrated pretty hard.
‘You shoulda come to the gym, Rex,’ Curtis says.
Rex burps. ‘Nah. Too hungover. Tomorrow, chest day?’
‘Abso-fuckin-lutely,’ Curtis booms. ‘Chest day, best day.’
‘Settle down, meatheads, you’re bro-ing out too hard,’ Charlie mutters.
Curtis grabs one of the gigantic tubs of supplements on the marbled bench and sets to making himself a post-workout protein shake. It’s unhinged how many different things he puts into his body – whey protein and creatine, thermogenic fat-burners and extreme-stimulant pre-workouts, turkesterone and diindolylmethane and L-carnitine – and that’s just the legal stuff. Charlie told me he takes a bunch of steroid injections, too – testosterone being the only one I can pronounce. I guess that’s how you get as huge as him.
Curtis raises an eyebrow as he shakes up his protein. ‘Charlie, do you hear that?’ He presses his ear to the shaker cup. ‘It’s the protein talking. It’s saying “Charlie! Come lift with Curtis! Get swole like Curtis!”’
Charlie balls up his Maccas wrapper and hurls it at Curtis. ‘Meathead.’
Curtis chortles. ‘You gotta give the supps what they want, son,’ he teases. ‘One day I’ll get you to lift weights with us. I’ll get my way.’
Charlie stares at the TV, disdainful. ‘Hard pass. Never gonna happen, dude.’
‘All five of us in one place is a miracle,’ Curtis observes, opening the fridge after sculling his shake. ‘We should celebrate last night. I’ll bust out the vagina cake.’
Curtis plates up slices of the pink-frosted pussy gateau from the lesbians. He passes the plates around before sliding onto the couch and kissing Ahmed.
