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There's a well-known meme of Homer Simpson falling down a cliff in an endless loop of painful bumps, crashes, and d'ohs. It's a metaphor for failure, of things going from bad to worse, capturing a seemingly never-ending downward spiral.

That meme sums up my life just about perfectly.

I crank the tap as far as it'll go and turn away from the tiled wall, letting the spray fall onto my neck, shoulders, and back, as if a little hot water will do anything to relieve the tension stored in my muscles.

Can't believe I'm back here.

And by here, I don't mean showering in my best friend's bathroom—although, there's a whole world to unpack there—but back in my small hometown of Thickehead. Five generations of Bensons have called these mountains home, and I'm a proud mountain man through and through. I knew I'd return here after serving, but I never thought I'd return so soon and be in the state I'm in.

Lost and directionless, with no clue what to do next.

Broke, with exactly seventy-eight cents in my bank account and five rolled-up hundreds my stepdad, Dale, slipped into my hand before I left his and Mom's place in Scottsdale and hitchhiked across two states to get here.

And wounded by a stray bullet that halted my military career before it properly began.

All I've ever wanted is to follow in my father's footsteps and join the military. He served and sacrificed his life in Afghanistan, while my older brother, Charlie, is currently on deployment overseas.

From the moment I set foot at Fort Benning near Columbus, Georgia, fresh out of high school, a feeling of rightness settled over me. I was meant to be there. I completed basic training with flying colors before moving on to advanced training in infantry and combat arms.

My first duty station assignment was in Fort Carson, Colorado. I loved working with mechanized vehicles, engaging in mountain warfare training, and taking part in combined arms live-fire exercises.

Until one day, during one of those live-fire exercises, we were out in rocky terrain when a bullet from one of my battle buddies struck a rock and ricocheted straight into my hip and shattered the bone, destroying my life forever in a split second.

A growl emanates from deep in my chest, and I punch down on the pump dispenser of Logan's body wash a few times. Vanilla and almond fill the steam-laden air, and for a moment, the simmering anger and self-pity that have taken up permanent residence inside of me take a back seat as my lungs fill with the familiar scent of my best friend.

Logan Parker-Gillis.

Despite being the polar opposite of me—he's Mr. Super Reliable, always organized, has a freaking mortgage at the age of twenty-three, and I'd bet that his sock drawer is sorted by color and style—I can't remember a time when we haven't been friends. His family have lived on the mountain almost as long as mine, and we've always been in each other's lives.

Growing up, it felt familial. And then teenage hormones kicked in, and I realized a guy could make me pop a boner as easily as a girl could, and things with Logan got interesting.

Any sense of brotherliness between us vanished—from my end, at least—replaced by thoughts and feelings and fantasies that were in a whole other realm.

We had a double coming out freshman year of high school. The night I told him I was bi, he told me he was gay. It kicked my already overactive imagination into overdrive. Maybe we could be more than just best friends?

Sadly, for the rest of high school, nothing romantic happened between us. Neither one of us really fit in—he was a nerd, I was the bad boy who skipped class and would smoke cigarettes in the toilets—but we didn't care about anyone else. We had each other. Hiking, fishing, exploring caves, soaking in hot springs—you name it, we did it together. I was scared to tell him how I felt and mess things up.

And then we had a moment.

It happened at graduation. Just before the ceremony. We were huddled in the corner of a classroom together, in our own little world as usual, shooting the shit as our classmates nervously buzzed around us and Logan's two brothers—he's a triplet—commanded the limelight as usual.

He and I were discussing something, can't remember what exactly, when we stopped talking and turned to each other at the same time. It felt like a scene straight out of the movies, where the noise and people and everything fades away, and all that was left was just him and me.

I reached out and curled my fingers around his. The explosion of warmth that simple touch ignited in me almost made me come on the spot. I leaned in, closing my eyes way too early—rookie mistake—and angling my head ever so slightly in the universal signal for I'm coming in for a kiss.

Until he said two little words.

"We shouldn't."

My eyes flew open, and I pulled back so sharply I almost tripped over my gown. The sting of his words pierced through my chest, but I did my best to brush it off. "Shit. Of course not. Sorry."

"No. It's just?—"

He was cut off by his brothers pulling him in for a selfie, then a few moments later, Ms. Buchanan, the school counselor, entered and started barking out orders about leaving our cell phones in the designated boxes in the classroom and lining up alphabetically.

The moment was gone, like it never happened. We've never brought it up, so I like to kid myself that maybe it didn't. Maybe I daydreamed the whole thing. I'm either deluding myself or facing the truth that there's no way a guy like Logan could ever be interested in a guy like me. Especially now in the state I'm in.

I finish showering and notice the tap is leaky. I'll have to fix that. Biting back a grimace, I lift my leg out of the shower-tub combo and guide it onto the tiled floor. Despite initial treatment at Evans Army Community Hospital and months of rehab following the accident, reduced mobility and chronic pain are now a fact of life.

I look around for my towel and curse under my breath when I remember I left it on the edge of my bed. Logan had folded it neatly into thirds and left it there in his immaculately clean guest room when I showed up out of the blue, smelling like I hadn't showered in two days—because I hadn't—after hitchhiking across state lines from Mom's new place in Scottsdale to the mountains of California.

I amble over to the bathroom door, ignoring the dull pain in my leg while brushing water off my arms and chest. The guest room is directly opposite, and Logan's in the kitchen making dinner, so even though my movements are hindered, I should be able to grab my towel and duck back without getting his floors too wet or him seeing me.

I open the door and almost walk straight into the top of a mop of curly dark hair. "Whoa."

Logan straightens, taking a half step back. His impossibly innocent round blue eyes, like a kitten's, are wider than normal as they zoom up and down my body.

My naked body.

My hands fly to my junk. "Shit. Sorry."

He meets my gaze, his cheeks infused with a pretty pink. "No. I'm sorry. I was just leaving you a towel since I figured…"

"I'd leave it on the bed?" I finish for him.

The pink on his face darkens, and he scratches his arm. "Well, yeah." He really does know me better than I know myself sometimes. "Here." He bends over and picks up the towel for me.

"Thanks." I take it from him, our fingers brushing ever so slightly, causing sparks to shoot all the way up my arm to my collarbone. Fuck. Even after all these years, his touch still affects me.

He looks away as I slip the towel around my waist then turns his head back slowly. My belly goes light as that movie-moment sensation returns, reigniting a flame that refuses to burn out.

He rubs the back of his neck. "Dinner will be on the table in three minutes," he says before turning and practically sprinting back into the kitchen, snuffing out any remaining spark of hope I had left.

Guess it's pretty clear Logan and I will only ever be friends.