Chelsea has been gone for less than a day and her absence is already markedly apparent in the house.

I find myself picking up dirty socks and underwear the way she typically has to. The firehouse conditioned me to do shit like that.

Roger will be home from school soon. It's his last week before summer vacation. I grab Chelsea's apron and start fretting about what to make for a late lunch, gaining a newfound appreciation for all the things she has to worry about. I love Rudy, but he fucked up.

I'm always the one to watch Avery whenever Rudy and Chelsea need a babysitter, so he's in good hands. I've just put him to sleep in the living room bassinet when someone startles me.

"Oh." A hand settles lightly on my waist, instantly kicking my pulse into overdrive. "I walked in 'n' seen you with yer hair 'n' that apron there 'n' fer a second ah thought it's Chelsea." Rudy chuckles, his hand moving up to knock my shoulder.

Be still, my beating heart. His tanned, crinkled face frames his toothpaste-ad-teeth beautifully. Even the glints of of silver in his beard and hair make him look more delectable.

The ghost of his touch lingers on my hypersensitive waist.

"Oh um." I duck my chin, suddenly shy. "I've got your birthday gift. I know it's a bit early, but..."

I scramble to produce the bag from behind the couch where I stashed it.

Holding it awkwardly out to him, I feel my cheeks flush hot. My notions of intimacy through the proxy of these little gifts seem silly here and now. I wish I'd just gotten him something normal and socially acceptable, like a gift card.

"Aww, Evan..." He reaches out to hug me, catching me off guard. The hug is a bit awkward, with me accidentally stepping on his foot, but I lean into it and squeeze him tight. Maybe too tight. There's room for plausible deniability, though; it could just be a sign of my sincerity. If that isn't plausible, then I probably seem like a weird, clingy and overly affectionate kid to him.

Rudy says he'll open all the gifts together, and he wants to go for a run to clear his head. No sooner has he left than I pick up a crumpled pair of his underwear from the laundry basket I brought down, and fall back on the couch with it over my face. And it's all kinds of creepy and inappropriate. I sniff the heady fragrance with a moan, reaching down to rub myself through my jeans. Biting my lip, I glance wearily around to make sure I'm alone. Nothing but the dog barking in the yard. Then I get up and steal his shirt from the basket too. I bury my face in it, inhaling deeply. It's him. Pressed against me. And that mental image combined with the recent memory of our bodies pressed together is enough to get me going. Fumbling hands work at my zipper, my ragged breaths filling the air. I trail my finger through the underwear and put my finger in my mouth in a desperate bid to taste him. And then, scalding hot with shame that isn't enough to stop me, I jerk off on the Palmers' couch to framed, half-naked photos of Rudy on the beach with his family.

When I finish, I glance furtively out the window for the millionth time. My heart is racing with the possibility of being discovered, but the coast has remained clear.

That doesn't mean I'm not a sick piece of shit.

Standing up and crossing over to the sink, I spend about five minutes just washing my hands and face with frigid water.

I don't stop until baby Avery starts crying, and then curse myself for running the water so loud.

I pick him up and rock him on my hip while preparing some formula because he's showing signs of hunger.

When his milk is warmed to the right temperature, I give Avery the bottle and he suckles in earnest.

The jangle of keys at the front door makes me perk up. It's not Chelsea; it's Bret, with Roger in tow.

"Hey, little man, how was school?" I ask Roger with forced cheer.

"I got new books!" He gushes, and proceeds to rummage through his backpack for them.

"That's great!"

Bret sets his keys down on the hall table.

"Mom still not home yet?" He asks me in a low voice.

"Nope."

Bret gives me a tight look that clearly expresses his displeasure at being given another reason to hate his dad.

"You're good with kids, man," he appraises after a beat.

"Yeah, I guess." Looking down, I realize Avery is already falling asleep again.

Bret lopes up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Looking outside, I catch sight of Rudy in the distance, wiping sweat off his chiseled, hirsute torso with his shirt and slinging it over his shoulder in one fluid motion. There's no other way to describe him; he's sex incarnate.

The guilt is unbearable. I can't believe I'm getting so hot for Rudy with his infant son in my arms and his other young son reading out loud in the corner.

That's it. I need to get laid, pronto.

I open Grindr in a fervour and start hunting. Setting Avery down and moving into the kitchen, I alternately work on fixing the boys a snack and looking for a snack of my own on the app.

I hear Bret's footsteps coming downstairs. He rounds the landing and makes a beeline for the pile of backpack detritus his little brother dumped on the ground when digging for his new books.

"Roger! Come here, you little shit! What does Evan look like to you, our maid?!"

Roger slumps over and gets his hair tousled roughly for his indolence. "Apologize to Evan."

"Sorry, Evan..." Roger sulks.

I rush over to pick him up and hug him fiercely, kissing his forehead.

"It's okay, bug. Bret's just a big, fat meanie." I catch sight of Bret's expression over his shoulder and realize I'd better back him up. Roger really should be cleaning up after himself, and a scolding isn't effective if Bret says one thing and I say something else. "Who happens to have a point. We always clean up our mess, right?" I smile and flick his nose, then can't resist kissing his forehead two more times. I just love him. God bless his sweet little innocent heart. He's a good kid and a bookworm to boot. I'll talk to Bret later about the tone he used with him.

My phone pings and it's my choice stud replying.

As usual where testosterone-fuelled young men are concerned, these things move fast. We agree to grab dinner tonight. I ask him what he likes and says he loves meat, followed by a winking emoji. Good thing Ft. Worth is know for its steak. Actually, I think almost every city in Texas is known for a kind of food. San Antonio is known for the best Tex-Mex. Around Austin is where the original German and Czechs settled, so there's a lot of amazing German and Czech food there, like kolaches. And so on. But that's...probably not what he meant.

"Will you guys be okay for dinner?" I survey Bret. "I'm going out."

"Where?"

"On a date."

"But I gave up being with Sammy to hang out with you." Bret pouts.

"Well, now you can hang out with her."

"Evaaaan..."

"Come on, Bret, put on your big boy pants."

"Where're you going?"

I give him the name of the restaurant.

"And who's the lucky guy?"

I show him the profile picture.

"Ooh, get some!"

"Thanks, I'm planning on it."

I whip up some sandwiches with lettuce, tomatoes, cold cuts and the tiniest bit of mayo for Roger and Bret, make sure Bret remembers how to feed Avery, and then it's time to get ready.

Bret follows me upstairs, where I go over to my closet and start rummaging through it with a huff of despair.

"Can I wear something of yours? I have nothing nice."

"Wear those jeans that stick to your ass; those are sure to impress."

I take his advice and then pick a top after strewing the floor with half a dozen different options.

When I emerge from the bathroom in the outfit, Bret licks his middle finger and jabs it in the air in a lewd gesture. I think that means I nailed it.

•••

I have to blink just to convince myself that what I'm seeing is real. Bret didn't really bring Samantha to the same restaurant as me and Mason. He's not really walking towards us right now. Part of me clings to the hope that this is just a coincidence and, after introducing himself, Bret will walk away and leave us alone. But no such luck with my best friend; there never is. My date has been all charming smiles so far, but his face clouds with confusion when Bret walks up to our table. 

"Hi, there," the idiot beams a thousand-watt smile at Mason, shaking his hand. Sitting next to me in the booth, he leans in to murmur in my ear: "you've never looked sexier."

Mason turns a fleeting and puzzled frown on me as if to ask, did you seriously invite another guy? I flash him the most reassuring, I-don't-do-group-sex smile I can muster. 

"How nice," Mason manages stiltedly, torn between conveying his confusion and pretending like he wasn't just completely blindsided by his date.

"Breeet," I smile with deceptive cheeriness. "What in the fuck are you doing here, my brother?"

"Oh, I thought we could do a double date! Mason, this is Sammy, my girlfriend."

"Uh, well, it's..." The man looks to me for help, hopelessly flushed.

From the matching flush on Sammy's face, I'd say she's just as surprised right now.

"It's only our first date, as you know," I remind Bret somewhat bitingly. "Would be nice to just...get to know each other a bit, in private."

"Yes, I know, but Evan really talked you up, Mason, and I wanted to meet you."

"Charmed," Mason grimaces, now totally put off. Bret is making me sound like such a desperate loser. He's honestly so stupid sometimes I just want to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze.

I'm flushed as a beetroot from head to toe, and stewing in silence.

Overall, Bret's surprise arrival tanks the entire evening. Mason is so weirded out he looks like he can't get out of there fast enough. If only I could say I were shocked at Bret's behaviour.

"Why do you always do this?" I hiss when Mason gets up to 'use the washroom.'

"Do I really need to remind you?"

Unbidden, my mind conjures up the image of the night that started all of this. I'd found the perfect Grinder hunk to take my virginity; he'd booked the hotel room; it was supposed to be a romantic night. But he was a sadist and I changed my mind pretty quick; it ended with me calling Bret to come pick me up after I was almost raped. My friend was out of his mind with rage. He tried to stay calm interrogating the bellhop and receptionists, trying to get the guy's room number because I wouldn't tell him, but by the end he was just shouting at everybody at the top of his lungs.

Bret beat the crap out of my Grindr date behind a dumpster in the hotel parking lot...it was bad. Glasses breaking. Grunting. Fists flying. Punches landing. I remember Bret saying to me afterwards, his lip split and his face red from the neck up, "He is a fucking piece of shit. I swear if that piece of shit comes near you again I'll kill him." He didn't come near me again; the last I saw of him was his retreating figure running off into the dark night. Bret looked...animalistic. I'm his best friend, but I'd be terrified to cross him in the dead of night.

"Shut up," I mutter, but there isn't much heat in it.

Dinner is an awkward affair, needless to say. Bret is bubbling with one-sided conversation; Sammy barely says a word, and I just want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

Mason does find his way back to the table, which I wasn't expecting. Afterwards, I manage - by some miracle - to convince him to continue the date in private. We agree to go to his place.

"I hope you two don't have sex," Bret whispers sidelong to me. "Not on the first date."

"Hooking up is literally the entire point," I hiss in reply, staring straight ahead.

I get in my car and follow Mason to his place, where I start to feel more relaxed. It's reassuringly clean and normal-looking, and we enjoy a night-cap and some Netflix.

I'm just...not in the mood for sex, I realize with growing trepidation. Mason is good-looking, but I'm not feeling the same sexual pull Rudy exerts on me. It took me years to fall for Rudy. I've barely known Mason a few hours, and Bret sabotaging our date didn't help.

My phone lights up with a call from Bret, and I go into the guest bathroom to answer it. I'm somewhat grateful for the reprieve from Mason's intense bedroom eyes.

"Are you having sex?" is Bret's greeting.

"Why would I answer the phone if I was?"

"Um, because it's me?"

I sigh.

"The truth is...I learned something about myself tonight. I can't be with someone I don't have an emotional connection with."

There's a pause, in which I imagine Bret nodding.

"Come sleep over. I can stick it in you if you want. Three, four dollars."

I burst into laughter. He's not gay, but three dollars is three dollars...

It's hard to reconcile the explosive laughter that bubbles from me with the diarrhea excuse I later give Mason before making a break for it.

•••

Sleepover it is.

I'm at the Palmer's, on my way downstairs, when Sammy's voice halts me in my steps.

"I hope you never pull that shit again," she threatens.

I watch the confrontation from the top of the stairs.

"It was a double date, not an attack."

"You made me think we were both invited. I was humiliated."

"So?" Bret downplays it. "Evan needed me there, whether he realized it or not. Guy could've been a complete psycho."

"Look, the next time Evan decides to have a dangerous hookup with a stranger he met on some dating app and you feel the need to play guardian angel, just leave me out of it."

Bret bristles, stiffening like an arrow.

"Don't fucking talk about him like that."

Sammy crumples her face up in confusion.

"Like what? I'm confused; was my description of the situation less than one hundred percent accurate?"

"It's harder for him to find someone," Bret reasons, spreading his hands, "much harder than for you. That's why he's on Grindr, okay? Romance doesn't just fall into everyone's laps. Some people have to actively look for it."

Sammy shakes her head with an almost despairing smile.

"I don't care. I really don't. I just want to be left out of it. What about that do you not understand?"

"Don't act like that." Bret's jaw appears tight.

"Like what?"

"Like such a cold bitch."

"A what?" Sammy blinks, appalled.

"You heard me. He's my best friend and I won't have you talk about him that way."

"First of all, you don't get to control who or what I talk about, much less when it's the simple truth. Secondly, I thought I was your best friend. We've been talking about marriage, for fuck's sake."

Bret shakes his head like she's delusional, which, if she thinks she's his best friend instead of me, she most certainly is.

"I can't deal with this right now." He rakes a hand through his hair.

Sammy scoffs.

"Oh, you can't..? You know what, fine. Fuck this. And fuck you." Grabbing her jacket and keys, she whirls around and walks out the front door.

"Sammy...wait..." I'm appalled to see Bret reaching for her, as if he regrets defending me.

Fuck that.

The door slams, reminiscent of Chelsea's departure. Seems the Palmer men don't have much luck with women.

The rest of the night is strained. It's obvious that Bret is distracted when he comes upstairs, mulling over his relationship issues. It's weighing on my mind, too.

Finally, I blurt: "break up with her."

"What?"

"Just break up with Samantha."

"You fuckin' hearing yourself right now, E?"

"Admit it. You only love her for her body. She has the personality of a dirty dish rag. And even when she's not here, she's ruining bro time."

Bret flinches back from me as though slapped.

As soon as I've said it, I regret it. First of all, what I said isn't true. I'm just defensive because I'm the reason for their conflict. Secondly, I had no right to disrespect his girlfriend in front of him. I can't stand it when he does that with Rudy, and Rudy and I aren't remotely close to 'together.' I'm about to apologize for overstepping when Bret sighs.

"Evan... I'm sorry. I didn't know you felt like that."

I blink.

"I just...don't like sharing my best friend with anyone, much less someone so..." I don't dare push my luck.

Bret shakes his head.

"You're not sharing me, man; you've got me."

•••

The sun is a fiery, red ball in the sky, dipping low behind the horizon. My heart races at the prospect of spending the night in the barn with Rudy. Bret won't be joining our foaling sleepover tonight due to Sammy Issues, and I'm not upset about being alone with Rudy one iota.

Humming to myself, I stroll down the almost empty yard, bathed in the red glow of the setting sun, to catch Bella.

This time, I'm armored with a supply of carrots.

Unlatching the gate, I slip inside and call to Bella. The filly whinnies sharply and trots over to me.

"Hey there, girl!" I rub the filly's velvet nose. Bella eyes the enticing carrot stretched out across my palm and steps forward boldly, allowing herself to be caught. Smiling, I clip the filly's halter and lead-line on, then led the submissive horse down to her stall.

I open the grooming kit and remove a body brush, deciding to give her a good grooming.

The electric lights go on, as the light quickly fades outside.

The smooth, rhythmic strokes are the only sounds filling the warm, quiet air in the barn. As I work, Bella dozes off. Her muscles relax under my fingers.

I spot Rudy up in the loft over the mare's stall, shaking out the sleeping bags and clearing a sleeping area. I trot keenly up the stairs to join him, the solid wooden planks making my footsteps resound dully across the vast hay loft. The loft runs all the way along the length of the stalls, with wooden railings that overlook the entire barn. Directly above, stars are beginning to twinkle through the enormous skylights that line the edge of the loft. The air is filled with the sweet fragrance of fresh hay and wood, a pleasant horsy scent lingering over us.

"Rudy," I breathe, and it's all I can say with the way delight is choking my heart.

Rudy smiles and lifts a hand in greeting.

He's not alone; there's a bleating baby lamb lying on the straw a few feet away. I expect all ranchers are good with cattle and sheep, but Rudy... Watching him rub the baby with straw in the flickering golden lamplight, shadows playing across his handsome, caring face, I've never loved him more.

"I wasn't expectin' her so early. She's a runt," Rudy murmurs, giving the lamb her bottle. "Ewe rejected her."

"Oh no..." I know that can happen for many reasons. The ewe may not be a good mom, either because she's too young or lacks a maternal instinct, may resent the lamb because of the birth pain, or - as is probably the case here - she sensed that the lamb is probably too weak to survive.

"Luckily, ah've got colostrum," Rudy smiles. "Figure ah'll feed 'er a few more times 'til mornin,' 'n' then try trickin' another ewe into adoptin' 'er."

He could've just put her down. It hits me how hardworking and capable and sweet the man is. If Chelsea could see him right now, she'd forgive him for a fault as petty as forgetting about their anniversary.

She'd kiss him the way I'm dying to right now.

I can't stand to look at him. He's tempting enough on his own, but holding baby animals, he's downright irresistible. My love for him has reached a peak; it's becoming unbearable to be around him. My self-restraint is wearing thin like a frayed rope ready to snap - and I fear that I'll snap soon. It could be hours or days or weeks, but at some point I will say or do something stupid and betray my emotions; I can feel it brewing like a storm.

Collecting myself, I walk to the end of the loft and gaze down at the panorama below. Horses have their heads out over their half-doors, nickering gently into the warm, still night. Loose wisps of straw float in the breeze from the open barn doors on either end of the aisle, and the song of crickets and cicadas wafts softly in.

Deciding to go check on the mare's progress, we trudge down the stairs and peep over the mare's half-door expectantly. But to my disappointment, the horse is quiet, munching peacefully at her hay net and occasionally swishing her tail. Rudy goes in to check her water and fix her tail bandage.

Maybe it won't happen tonight. She's not showing any signs of restlessness, not even a nicker.

"Where's Bret?" Rudy inquires when we're back up in the loft.

"With Sammy." I sit next to him with my back against the wooden wall. After a beat, I add, "do you think Bret's gonna propose?"

"I reckon he will. It'll be a big weddin.'"

"And you'll wear your cowboy hat, I presume?" I smile, flicking it gently.

"He 'n' his men'll all be wearin' cowboy boots 'n' hats. Havin' men wearin' hats in church kinda goes against Chelsea's raisins', but fellers've been doin' it fer ages."

"You gonna miss him? I mean...I know I will. I always just wanted to have him to myself..."

"To be honest, kinda feels like Bret left a long time ago."

"What do you mean?"

"Physically, he's here, but mentally, Sammy's more family to him than his ma 'n' I."

Rudy must be comfortable with me, must really trust me. This is a deeply personal issue to share, and just the kind of thing I want to encourage him to share more of.

"What about you and Chelsea? How's your relationship?" I ask frankly.

And Rudy starts talking with matching frankness about their marriage. At first, the sex was great. Then it dried up. And once the sex started sucking, everything went downhill. He forgets the things that matter to her, mostly sentimental stuff; she forgets those that matter to him, mostly physical stuff. I'd like to think they're just not compatible beyond the sex, but I'm extremely biased.