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CHAPTER 15

I LIKE FISHING

TOMMY

“What’s up with you?”

Tommy squinted at the speck of white that rolled inches away from the hole. He let out a frustrated sigh, and wiped his forearm across his sweaty forehead. “Nothing’s up with me.”

“Bullshit.” Keaton stood beside him, looking put together as always in his white polo and khaki shorts. “You’re normally not this pissy until the back nine.”

They were only on their second hole of the day, the mid-morning sun already brutally warm on the backs of their necks. Golf is supposed to help me feel better , Tommy thought as he walked over to where his ball had settled about six feet from the hole. Why isn’t it working?

He lined up his putt, relaxed his shoulders, and swung with just enough force to nudge the ball forward. For a split second it looked like it was going to go in, but then it broke left inches before it hit the cup. “Fuck,” he shouted, barely refraining from slamming his putter into the green like an axe.

“Alright. That’s it.” Keaton was already walking back to the cart. “Load up.”

“Wait.” Tommy pointed to where his ball had somehow ended up even farther away from the hole. “We’ve barely gotten started.”

Keaton was shaking his head. “Get in.”

“But—”

“Get in the cart, Tommy.”

Keaton whipped the cart around to head back in the direction of the club house. Tommy looked at him, confused. “Where are we going?”

“Fishing.”

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, the two men, still dressed in their golf clothes, stood side by side with their bare feet sinking into soft mud on the bank of a wide creek with fishing poles in their hands.

Tommy had no idea where they were. Keaton had driven them through a residential neighborhood, down a back alley, and then they’d parked Keaton’s Lexus SUV in a flattened patch of grass next to an old fence. Once they’d armed themselves with poles, a tackle box, and a rack of warm Bud Lights conveniently stashed in his trunk, Tommy followed Keaton down a single track path through the woods, over a fence, and then to this spot.

“How the hell did you find this place?” Tommy reeled his line back in before casting toward a partially submerged log.

“I like fishing,” Keaton said, as if that explained everything.

“Right.”

“Talk to me.” Keaton tossed a beer to him, and Tommy caught it easily. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

Tommy cracked the beer and took a long drink. He needed to fucking relax. Between the extra work hours and the omnipresent ache in his chest that hadn’t eased since he and Chuck had hooked up, he was walking through life with his body tensed like a stretched rubber band.

“I’m stressed about work.” He carefully held the line under one thumb, bracing the base of the pole against his hip. “My boss has been throwing a bunch of extra work on my plate leading up to the promotion.”

“When do you interview?”

“After the Fourth.”

“How’s the swimming going?”

“Good, actually. Chuck’s a good teacher.”

“I told you so.” Keaton adjusted the faded baseball cap he’d grabbed along with the fishing gear. “So, work stress? That’s it?”

Tommy scrunched up his nose. “No. There’s…” He trailed off. This was one of those moments that, somewhere in the back of his mind, he could identify as a big deal . Telling one of his closest friends about his bisexuality, about the fact that he was falling for his best friend who kept rejecting him, and just how much it hurt Tommy’s heart…that felt like something big.

“I think I’m falling in love with Chuck.”

Well, shit.

Keaton’s mouth opened, then closed again. His forehead wrinkled, like he was deep in thought, and then smoothed out again. He nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I can see it.”

“You can?”

“Yeah, man. You’ve always looked at Chuck like he was someone special.”

Tommy scoffed. “He is someone special.”

“Exactly.” Keaton pulled his line in, the whir of the reel harmonizing with the buzz of the crickets. “So you’re falling for Chuck.”

Tommy told him everything. Well, everything but some of the more graphic details of the things he and Chuck had done together. And as he talked, he realized just how much he was hurting. His pride was bruised after Chuck’s rejection. He’d meant it when he called Chuck an asshole, but he could also see where his friend was coming from. Chuck had known that he was gay for twenty years, and Tommy’s interest had, objectively, come out of nowhere.

But Tommy was as certain now as he’d been the morning after he’d first kissed him. Whatever he was feeling for his best friend was the most real thing he’d ever felt, leaving his stomach twisted in nervous knots of anticipation every time he got into his car to go swim. His heart threatened to beat out of his skin every time he saw Chuck, with his copper curls and freckles dusting his skin.

“Damn,” Keaton muttered as Tommy finished his story with the way things had left off in the locker room. “You guys are really in it, aren’t you?”

Tommy snorted, but it did nothing to mute the melancholy. “We’re in something, that’s for sure.”

Keaton watched him carefully. “Are you okay?”

“I’m,” Tommy started, and then had to swallow against the ache in his throat. “I’m sad, man. I’m really fucking sad and hurt. But he’s Chuck, and if he showed up right now and said he wanted me, I would say yes. Every fucking time, I’d say yes.” He grabbed his beer and drained the last of it, crumpling it with his hand before tossing it up the bank behind him. “I just thought for a minute that he felt the same way I did, and I let myself hope. A part of me thinks there has to be a reason—Chuck wouldn’t hurt me just to be cruel. Doesn’t make it feel any better, though.”

“Even if he had a great reason, it wouldn’t excuse him hurting you.”

Tommy tried for a smile, but based on the understanding tilt of Keaton’s mouth he hadn’t succeeded. “I understand why it might not make sense, you know. Being bisexual, having interest in men like this, is all new for me. But,” he paused to slap at a mosquito on his neck. “Chuck isn’t new. He’s been there the whole time. It just took me a while to wake up to the fact that loving him was loving him, you know?”

“Honestly, I don’t, but I believe you. And regardless of why he did it, Chuck hurt your feelings, and that’s the kind of thing that he should apologize for.”

“Right.”

“Tommy.” He looked up and found Keaton staring at him intently from under the frayed brim of his hat. “Make sure he apologizes. I know that he’s Chuck and he’s wonderful, but even the best people do the wrong thing sometimes.”

Tommy turned back to the still water, the stretching branches of tupelo trees reflected on the surface. His bobber sat there, unmoving. He cleared his throat and turned back to Keaton. “How’ve you been?”

“My grandmother’s sick.”

“Mamaw?” Tommy had met Keaton’s grandmother a few times over the years. The tiny woman had always been sharp and funny—he supposed she had to be, as the matriarch of a family with as much economic and political power as the Redds had in South Carolina. “What’s going on?”

“Cancer.”

“Shit.” Tommy put down his pole and, with mud squelching between his toes, walked over and pulled Keaton into a sticky, sweaty hug. “I’m so sorry, man. I know you two are close.”

Keaton slumped into the embrace. “Thanks,” he said, his voice cracking. “Of course, all she wants to talk about is when I’m going to settle down and get married, so that I can access the trust Grandfather set aside for each of us.” He laughed, his breath warm against Tommy’s shoulder. “Leave it to her to be more concerned with my love life than her own impending death.”

“So are you going to try to settle down?” Tommy asked as Keaton pulled away, wiping a hand over his wet eyes. “Do you think Samantha is the one for you?”

“God, no.” Keaton looked appalled at the idea. “Our mothers set us up, and if there’s one thing I can say for certain about my future spouse, it’s that I’m going to make damn sure she’ll be the last woman Mother would pick for me.”

Tommy looked at his friend closely. “Is it really that bad with your mom?”

“People like me aren’t supposed to complain about our lives.” Keaton’s focus had returned to the water, reeling the line in quickly before casting again. “My family has wealth, influence—the kind of shit people spend a lifetime working toward only to come up short. I’ve benefited from it over and over again. I had access to the best coaches, the best tutors—I have no doubt my acceptance to Southeastern was influenced by the building Grandfather helped fund. Same with law school, same with my place at the law firm. But there’s always a cost to having every material thing you could want, and in my case, that cost is the freedom to do what I actually want with my life.”

“Don’t you like being a lawyer?” Tommy had always looked up to Keaton, admiring and even envying his career and status. In all the years they’d known each other, all of the Sundays spent on the golf course and the spring breaks at the lake house, he’d never heard his friend talk about his life like it was something he resented.

“No. At least, not the kind of law we practice, representing people or corporations who have enough money to get out of whatever bullshit they find themselves in.” He shot Tommy an apologetic smile. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to unload on you.”

Tommy waved off the apology. “I’m glad you told me about Mamaw. I’ll be thinking about her.”

Keaton opened his mouth like he was going to respond, but just then his bobber dipped below the surface.

“Let’s go!” Tommy grabbed a net while Keaton kept the line taut, reeling it in little by little as the fish thrashed in the water.

It turned out to only be a perch, but still, a catch was a catch. Keaton let it go once he’d freed it from the hook, and Tommy waved goodbye as it darted away from the bank.

“Go work shit out with Chuck, okay?” Keaton said when he dropped Tommy off at his car later. “I think the two of you could bring a lot of happiness to each other, if you figure it out.”

“I’ll talk to Chuck if you break up with Samantha.”

Keaton rolled his eyes. “Deal.”

* * *

“Your stroke is better, but we’ve got to build up your endurance. A half-mile is a long way, and you’re not going to have the benefit of the wall to rest on along the way.”

Tommy tried to catch his breath after the eight 50-yard sprints they’d done, squinting at the surface of the water from behind his goggles. The constant twinge in his chest seemed to swell in Chuck’s presence, making it even harder to get enough air to his lungs. “How many laps is a half-mile?”

Chuck looked at him, hands braced on his sharp hip bones, and a look of sympathy crossed his face. “Roughly eighteen.”

“Okay. I can swim that far eighteen times.” He pointed to the other side of the pool.

“Eighteen laps, not lengths. If we’re talking lengths, it’s about thirty six.”

Tommy’s jaw dropped. “Wait, wait wait wait wait. I have to swim that far thirty six times?”

“Didn’t you know that?”

“No, I didn’t fucking know that!” Tommy felt himself starting to sweat, even though he was submerged in water up to his shoulders. “What the fuck, Chuck? I can’t do that.”

“You realize you’ve done twenty laps at a time, right? You weren’t going fast, but you’ve done it.”

“Fuck,” Tommy groaned. “That’s just…shit, man. That’s a long way to go in a lake.”

“About that,” Chuck started, his eyes cast down between them. “You should really do some trial swims in open water.”

“Okay.”

Chuck bit his bottom lip, brow furrowed like he was uncertain about whatever he was going to say. “I actually talked to Keaton the other day. Asked him if there was any chance we could go out to the house on Lake Murray to practice.”

Tommy’s imagination ran wild: he and Chuck alone in the huge kitchen, Chuck diving into the water at sunrise, no one there to interrupt them. But Chuck wouldn’t want any of that with him. He’d made his position crystal fucking clear. Tommy cleared his throat. “What did he say?”

“It’s free the weekend before the fourth. We could drive up on Friday and train for the next two days.” Chuck wasn’t looking at him as he spoke.

“I’m in,” Tommy said. “You can be on the paddle board with a floaty in case I drown.”

That got a laugh from Chuck. “You’re not going to drown,” he reassured, blue eyes finally rising to look at him. “We’ll make sure you’re ready.”

Tommy popped his goggles back into place. “Then tell me how the fuck I’m supposed to do this, coach.”

It turned out the way to prepare to swim a really long way was to swim a really long way. Five minutes later Tommy was trying to keep his breaths slow and consistent as he turned around at the wall. Five laps into a 25 freaking lap swim, and he was already feeling the burn in his lungs.

Remembering what Chuck had taught him, he tried to focus on the last half of his stroke—the pull, Chuck called it, pushing the water back toward his waist and gaining extra power.

There was one nice thing about swimming for a long-ass time. Thinking. Uninterrupted thinking.

Tommy was proud of how well he’d kept his shit together around Chuck. Sure, there hadn’t been any dinners or after-work hangs since the locker room, but Tommy was trying to be cool about the whole thing. At least, that’s what he hoped he was projecting to the world. There might have been a few late nights spent curled up on his couch watching Nicholas Sparks movies and weeping into whatever leftovers he was snacking on, but he was trying.

Chuck was acting like nothing had happened. He’d looked especially tired that morning, his eyes a bit hazy and heavy before he snapped his goggles into place. His face had also been missing his usual wide smile, but it didn’t take away from how fucking beautiful the man was. Leave it to Chuck to somehow look like a tragic hero of Celtic mythology when he was under-rested.

Tommy’s mind quieted with the monotony of the swim. His body had surprisingly reached the perfect level of warmed up that he could remember from his days playing basketball: his muscles were primed and tackled every stroke with a rhythm he felt he could probably maintain for a while. His breaths, while labored, were deep, using the full capacity of his lungs.

He could get used to this swimming thing.

* * *

Any hope Tommy had of talking to Chuck was shattered when the man practically ran from the pool as soon as they’d finished their workout, claiming an early meeting. Frustration tightened between Tommy’s shoulder blades as he climbed into his car.

They were going to talk, damn it. There was too much at stake for them to just throw their hands up and walk away. If Chuck had decided he didn’t want anything more with him after their hookup, if friendship was all he was looking for, then he needed to look Tommy in the eye and fucking say that.

And Tommy needed to say his piece, too. Feelings as strong as the ones that gripped him were better spoken out loud than kept inside. He needed to be honest, for his sake and for Chuck’s.

Tommy struggled through the work day. He took all of his branch managers out to lunch, which significantly lifted his mood. There was nothing like seeing the people he’d trained stepping into leadership positions and succeeding. A lot of his managers had been his employees back when he was a branch manager himself.

He felt like a proud dad as he listened to Lacy explain her current sales strategy to the rest of the team. She was a young Black woman who, when he’d first met her, had been so shy that she’d barely been able to get through the interview. Now, she projected confidence and easily commanded the attention of her peers.

The lunch had been the high point in his day, which was balanced out by a too-long meeting with Rick. Tommy couldn’t help but wonder what a man like Rick would say if he told him he was bisexual. That he was physically and emotionally attracted to a gay man.

He couldn’t imagine Rick would respond well.

Finally the grind of the day was done, and all Tommy wanted to do was drive to Chuck’s house and collapse on his comfortable couch. He wanted to change into the sweatpants he kept stashed away in the guest room, steal some strawberries from the fridge, and maybe snatch Angel up for a snuggle.

Damn it. He wanted to be with Chuck.

Cursing, he slapped a hand on the steering wheel. Like it or not, he and Chuck were going to have a chat.