Page 11

Evan

“ Y ou sure you don’t want me to take you to the GP?” I ask the miserable teenager beside me. She’s curled up under a soft, grey-coloured throw blanket, clutching a plastic bowl to her chest as though she might hurl again at any second.

Her skin is pale and clammy, and her eyes are red rimmed from the tears she shed during her last bout of violent vomiting over the toilet.

Mia shakes her head. “No.” She closes her eyes and swallows convulsively. “I just wanna rest.”

“I’m going to get you some ginger ale or lemonade or something,” I insist, trying to think of what else my mum used to do for me when I got struck down with gastro. “Maybe some dry crackers or something, too.”

Mia gags and holds the bowl tighter. “I can’t even keep water down right now.”

I have to admit, getting the ‘your kid is sick’ call from her school was kind of surreal. In all the years I’ve been her Godfather and Jay’s emergency backup, I’ve never once been called into action. I can only assume that Jay was in a meeting, or away from his phone, and I was more than happy to step in in his stead.

It was an eye-opening experience.

Firstly because I blindsided my boss with having to pack up and leave work suddenly, getting the side-eye from colleagues who know I don’t have any children of my own. Then driving across the Gold Coast to her school, feeling worry churn my stomach.

What if there was something actually wrong with her; something more insidious than a stomach bug? What if she threw up again while she was waiting for me to come and get her? What if she was disappointed that it was me picking her up and not her dad?

Then seeing her in the school’s office, looking impossibly young and sad and sickly, gave a tug to paternal instincts I never knew I had. I felt helpless, knowing that there’s nothing I can actually do to make her feel better. She has to ride out the bug by herself.

Has Jay felt like this every single time he’s had to collect her from sick bay all these years?

“You need to keep hydrated,” I insist, but she whines at the back of her throat and it stops me from getting up from my spot on the couch beside her. Instead, I open my arms, “Come cuddle?”

“I don’t want you to get sick, too.”

I shrug. “I’ve got plenty of sick leave up my sleeves. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Despite being sixteen, Mia doesn’t need any more convincing. She shuffles over, leaning her head against my chest, still huddled under her blanket with her bowl held to her chest like a favoured teddy bear.

I stroke her soft, blonde hair —which is a little greasy at the moment, likely from her sweating and illness— and try to ignore the squeezing of my heart at how domestic this feels.

I’ve always been the fun ‘Uncle’, for lack of a better term. Aside from when she was small and I needed to stand in solidarity with James against her temper tantrums, I’ve never really had to do anything quite so… paternal with Mia. I don’t think I ever even changed a nappy when she was a tot. She’s been my best little bud, a partner in crime (pranks) against her dad, and a kid I’ve loved but have only really ever experienced the ‘fun side’ of.

But this? This feels more intense, somehow. More serious. It hits me just how much James has had on his shoulders over the years, but also how much trust he has in me as his backup emergency contact.

I try not to dwell too much on the emotions that realisation stirs up.

We’re best friends and have been since we were nine. Of course Jay trusts me. It doesn’t need to mean anything more than that.

It can’t mean anything more than that.

Can it?

***

“Hey,” Jay shakes me awake gently, and it takes me half a moment to get my bearings.

I must have fallen asleep on his couch with Mia cocooned against my side. My arm is draped around her, holding her close, like I’ve seen James do countless times over the years. The rim of her plastic bowl is digging into my stomach, but I don’t dare move it or her.

“Hmm?” I hum as I try to rouse myself from a half-wakeful state. James’ face comes into focus in front of me. He’s crouching down, his grey-green eyes lined with concern.

“How is she?” he asks, keeping his voice so low it’s barely audible.

“ Wha’timezit? ” I ask by way of reply. He holds up his phone, the lockscreen showing a photo of the three of us taken at the musical in Brisbane a few months ago. My heart gives a tug at the wide grins on our faces.

We look like a real family…

Focus, Evan.

The clock says it’s just gone noon. I picked Mia up around ten. I can’t believe I fell asleep on the couch with her. “She’s been asleep about an hour,” I tell him, my voice gravelly from my nap. I glance at the empty bowl sandwiched between our bodies. “Hasn’t been sick again.”

My stomach does a funny little flip at the emotions that flicker in his gaze as he turns his attention to Mia. “Hopefully the sleep’ll help chase off the bug,” he muses softly. Then he looks back at me with gratitude and chagrin. “Thanks for getting her. I missed the calls. We had an early morning meeting and I totally forgot to take my phone off silent.”

“Don’t mention it,” I brush off his thanks. “I never get to do the ‘dad to the rescue’ thing. It gave me a better appreciation for how you must’ve felt for all these years.”

“I hate that she’s sick, but I do enjoy the cuddles,” he admits, reaching out to carefully brush some of Mia’s blonde locks back behind her ear. “It takes me back to when she was little.”

“She’s always been a sweet kid. Makes me wonder if I shouldn’t have settled down, had one of my own.”

I don’t know where that confession comes from, but it doesn’t sit right with me. Not entirely. Thinking back over the women I’ve dated, none of them would have worked for that particular fantasy, and not only because we obviously broke up. None of them gave me any warm, fuzzy, settling down feelings.

But sitting here with Mia and Jay does .

I shift uncomfortably as that thought crosses my mind. I’m starting to come to a conclusion about my feelings for my best friend, and it’s confusing as all hell.

I can’t deny that I feel some sort of attraction to him. The fact that I’ve had his cock in my mouth and have enjoyed it each and every time is probably a sign that I’m not as straight as I believed I was. And I’ve said time and time again that I love him, because he’s been my best friend since we were nine…

But the ‘benefits’ part of our arrangement has started to feel like more than just sexual release. It’s putting thoughts in my head that I never expected to think, and making me want things I never thought I would want.

Like settling down.

Like having a family.

Like…being with James. As in being with James. In every possible way.

Why can’t I make these feelings stop?

It’s not that I’m ashamed of them, or afraid of what they say about my sexual identity. It’s more that I’m afraid of the damage they can do to my closest friendship. It’s also that I don’t entirely trust that they’re real.

What if I’m only feeling this way because of all the forced proximity between us? Because of the shared orgasms and our history as best mates? What if I were to tell Jay how I feel…only to realise that I was wrong, and that the love I feel for him really is platonic? There wouldn’t be any going back from that.

But what if I don’t say anything and miss a chance to see where this thing between us could go? Assuming it could go anywhere at all…

Ugh .

I really need to talk to someone about this. Someone who isn’t my best friend. Even that thought seems kind of confusing because, if this was happening with anyone else, Jay would be the first person I’d reach out to to help me sort out my thoughts. It’s just that he’s the centre of them, and I need an unbiased perspective.

“You know you’re only thirty-five, right?” Jay’s reply to my random admission brings me right back into the moment. He moves his hand from toying with his daughter’s hair, to squeezing my knee. The simple action sets all of my convoluted thoughts tumbling about again, but he keeps on taking, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “Like…most guys our age are only just starting to settle down. You still have heaps of time.”

“Yeah,” I acknowledge, “you’re right.”

It’s not like I can say anything else to him. At least, not right now. Not until I know for sure what —if anything— to say to him.

***

Between commitments at the school, catching up on my work, and generally stressing out about the fact that I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with my best mate, I miss a couple of our social soccer games. Finally being able to return to the indoor pitch is a relief, like a sliver of normalcy in a life I feel is unravellin at my feet.

I’m buoyed by the prospect of being able to shed my frustrations on the soccer pitch again. To run, and kick a ball, and lose myself in the game. And, when I’ve got my boots on and I’ve stretched out my out-of-practice muscles, I spy Jack’s large, tattooed form slumped on the bench, with one boot on and the other dangling from his hand as he stares unseeingly in front of him.

“Earth to Jack,” I ruffle his hair, and he gives himself a shake before he glares up at me. I return his glare with a grin. “You with us, mate?”

He rolls his eyes, but hurries to get his second boot done up. “Shut up. I was lost in thought.”

“Yeah, we noticed,” I wave my hand vaguely at the rest of the team waiting on the pitch. “Game starts in three. You up for it?”

“Of course I am.”

Something in his tone gives me pause. I can resonate with it. Letting go of my teasing, I ask, “You wanna talk about it?”

Jack’s a bit defensive, though. He arches an eyebrow and cocks his head. “You wanna talk about whatever’s been keeping you from the past few games?”

Uh, nope.

“It’s complicated.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to my life.” He’s usually a pretty happy-go-lucky guy, so I just watch as he gets to his feet and runs through a couple of on-the-spot warm-ups to limber up for the game.

I don’t know why, but I blurt, “I think I’d be better off talking to Connor about my issues. No offense or anything.”

“Why Con?” He asks, and then, while I’m scrambling to not accidentally out myself when I’m not even sure how I identify, he carries on with a shrug. “You know what? It’s not my place to ask. You’ve got his number, right?”

I just nod, still not sure what to say or how to say it.

“Cool,” Jack says. “He’s a good guy and a great listener. I…actually need his advice, too.”

That takes me by surprise, but then I want to facepalm. There’s no way Jack would be going through some sort of sexual identity crisis. “Oh, because of the kids? I figured you’d ask your dad any parenting type questions, not your stepdad.” I can’t help sneaking in that last little tease. Banter’s what we do, after all. Deep and meaningfuls with my soccer mates just feel weird.

Even if I do want to have a deep and meaningful conversation with Connor.

“Stop calling him that,” Jack complains. “Even if you’re technically right, it’s weird.”

“Oi!” Brett calls from the pitch. “Are you ladies planning on joining us?”

“You wish we were ladies,” Jack sasses him as we head over to take our places on the pitch, “have you seen how freaking aggressive the women’s league is? We’d kick major ass if we played like them.”

“I’ll kick your arse if you’re not careful,” Brett tells him, then points his finger accusingly. “Try not to let the ball near the goal this game.”

They toss a couple more barbs each other’s way, and then the game kicks off. It’s rough for a friendly social match. The other team is even more competitive than Brett, and there are yellow cards thrown around by the ref within minutes.

It’s fast-paced, brutal and exhausting, and it proves the perfect distraction from my personal woes. Brett manages to kick the winning goal with five minutes left of play and, while the other team complain to the ref about offside rules, the poor volunteer counts the goal and I’m surprised there isn’t a riot in place of the final few minutes. Once the whistle blows, we shake hands and fist bump the other guys, but it’s pretty obvious they’re not happy, muttering under their breaths about unfair advantage and shit.

I wander back to the bench with Brett, ruffling his short hair and celebrating his winning goal raucously. I haven’t felt this light in ages, and I’m going to ride the high for as long as possible.

I keep joking with Brett as we start packing up our stuff, taking off boots and replacing them with sneakers, then shoving the lot into our sports bags. I’m keeping half an ear on Connor and Jack’s conversation, wanting to catch the former so I can hopefully borrow him for a private chat.

I know I’m probably stereotyping in my assumption that the only out gay man I’m friends with is my best option for such a conversation, but Connor is a good guy. He’s open, honest, and down-to-earth. He’s also married to a man and, seeing as I’m confused about wanting to do the same, I feel like he’s the best person to talk to about that.

Then Jack derails my plans entirely with his own admission that he slept with his Manny.

Jack.

Big, brawny, tattooed fireman Jack —a guy with a reputation as being a ladies man and a bit of a playboy to boot— slept with his male nanny.

My heart hammers as he sums up his story, not seeming at all fazed that he just came out as bi to his indoor soccer team…not that any of us care — in fact, Brett even congratulates him and claps him on the back. I file that reaction away in the back of my mind to mull over in private.

Even though our situations are nowhere near the same, I hang on Jack’s every word and hold my breath for Connor’s advice as I follow them toward the exit.

I listen intently, unable to stop myself from double checking when Connor suggests that Jack talks to Leo (his kids’ nanny). I feel my cheeks heat when Jack arches his eyebrows at me, but then Connor starts in on his assumptions about Leo and why he asked Jack for space after things between them got intense, and I’m all ears again.

“He’s also a guy whose life experiences to date have shown him that it’s easier to be the one to cut ties and control his own heartache.” We exit the building and my sweaty, heated skin cools in the evening breeze. Our shoes crunch on the gravel as I continue to follow them across the carpark, and Connor keeps talking, “I know you didn’t experience the sort of rejection that he has, but you didn’t date beyond casual hookups for a reason, Jack.”

Jack stops for a moment, clearly dumbstruck. “How’d you…”

Connor rolls his eyes. “Really? Because I don’t think commitment-phobes are afraid of the companionship or the sex on tap. I reckon they’re afraid of not having control of their feelings. They’re afraid of having their hearts hurt.”

“To be fair,” Brett adds, also following along, even though his car is parked in the opposite direction, “some people avoid commitment because they have FOMO and they feel like ‘settling’,” he emphasises the word with finger quotes, “means they’re missing out on God only knows what opportunities, or that they’re choosing the wrong person or whatever.” The derision and bitterness in his tone is out of character for him. “Relationships are mundane to them. Or they’re against the idea of any kind of responsibility and losing their independence.”

Connor nods and leans against the side of his SUV. “Yeah, well, do you think Jack’s like that?”

After Brett and I shake our heads, he nods again, his lips pulling up a little smugly. “Neither do I. So, that leaves my hypothesis…which was right, by the way.” He looks over at Jack. “Wasn’t it?”

As Jack agrees with him, I feel completely vindicated that Connor is the right choice to talk to about my issues. He’s pretty wise for a guy our age. I soak in every word he speaks to Jack, suddenly feeling less confused about my own feelings. Jack’s situation is more complicated than mine, really.

He’s still getting to know Leo, whereas I know James inside and out. We have a solid history, and we’ve never had an issue communicating…until now. And that’s my fault. I need to trust in that history. I need to trust that, if…no, when I tell him that I want our fake relationship (which doesn’t feel fake) to become a real one, that he won’t laugh at me or destroy twenty-five years of friendship over my sudden revelation. Even if he turns me down, or tells me that he doesn’t reciprocate my feelings, I need to trust that he’ll still be my best mate. Yeah, things might be awkward for a while, but he’s a good guy. It’s part of what I love about him.

So, like Jack and Leo, I need to suck it up and communicate properly. That seems like common sense, the more I think about it.

Look at me being a grown up.

When Connor makes a crack about his age gap with Will being bigger than Jack and Leo’s, the weight on my shoulders has been removed, and I can’t help but teasingly ask, “Are we playing ‘yours is bigger than mine’ now?”

Connor waggles his eyebrows back at me, almost leering. “Don’t start a competition you’ll lose, man.”

It’s hard to pretend to be scandalised when all I want to do is laugh. Jack redirects the conversation again, and I —having received the advice I was searching for, even if via conversational osmosis— make plans to go and talk to my best friend.