2
Dan
Craig had chosenthe perfect spot for fishing. Perched at the edge of the lake, the three of us snug in our camping chairs, I inhaled the fresh scent of gums caught in the gentle breeze.
This right here was what I’d been missing.
Between the birdsong and the gently lapping water, peace blanketed me, so much better than any comfort a duvet and a warm bed could offer.
While I could have made an effort to visit more regularly—it was only a couple of hours away rather than a million kilometres—visiting and then having to leave the place behind had become difficult.
Partly because things with my ex had been on rocky ground for a while, so knowing I’d be returning to a tense situation hadn’t made me eager to leave.
A bigger part of that reason was to do with the two men beside me.
Craig had been my best mate forever, and maybe just by the luck of the draw, our friendship remained steady, surviving my many years away.
His more regular visits helped. That and his bloody-mindedness.
It was on Craig’s last visit just three months ago that he’d called me out on staying away, reading me too well. It had taken his wake-up call for me to admit how miserable I was living in Brisbane. My job was okay, but it was just a job. I wasn’t invested. And my social life had been non-existent.
Over the past year or so, it had been sheer stubbornness that kept me from moving back home. After the breakdown of my last and only semi-serious relationship, I’d learned my lesson that dating could screw up a decent friendship, as well as distance a whole social circle in the process.
There was something about being thirty-five and single, especially when the few friends who’d stuck with me after splitting with Duncan were loved up. I’d been set up on so many dates after my ex, I’d had to put more hours in at the gym to work off eating out so much.
But my heart hadn’t been in it—the gym or the dating.
And honestly, meeting a guy hadn’t filled me with anything but ill-ease.
I’d been exhausted by Duncan being a wanker and was so damn relieved that he’d never fully had my heart.
The reason for me never entirely giving my heart away was the man sitting at my right.
I side-eyed Ross as he cast off, a soft smile curving his mouth. Seemingly satisfied, he eased back in the canvas chair, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes.
Fuck, I could look at him all day.
Growing up, most of my memories were with the brothers, and there were only a handful of moments Ross took the title of an annoying younger sibling. Most of the time, he’d been cool and hung out with Craig and me.
His brother and I had always looked out for him, even more so when he’d come out—long before I’d figured myself out.
I didn’t think any of us were surprised when Ross sat his family down at dinnertime one day—and me the day after—letting those he cared about know he was gay.
From how Craig told it, there’d been a collective sigh of relief—from how serious Ross had been in the moment, he’d pretty much terrified his family.
When Ross had told me, I’d nodded, nudged him, grabbed him in a headlock, and overbearingly demanded that once he started dating, any guy he was interested in had to be approved by Craig and me.
It wasn’t until I was twenty-two and out one night with Craig that something clicked in my brain.
A legit epiphany had hit me hard, catching my breath. Unsurprisingly, it had been when Craig told me Ross had started dating some douche on his course.
“Pissed off” hadn’t even come close to my reaction. The night had gone downhill from there, resulting in too much vodka and Craig dragging my arse back to the small apartment I was sharing with a guy from work.
When I’d spat my dummy out, telling him I didn’t want to go home—and from memory that led to a tirade about Ross and his dick of a new boyfriend—Craig had called me out.
Him comparing me to a jealous boyfriend had fired me up, ready to argue back. But those deep brown eyes of his, the exact same shade as Ross’s—and knowing the shade of Ross’s eye colour should have clued me in—had connected with mine, complete with raised brows.
That non-verbal “I call bullshit” had been all it took for me to slam my mouth shut and fall flat on my arse on the kerb.
