They tapped bottles and Coury’s heart raced as he used the few seconds taking a drink bought him.
“Having fun?” he asked.
Beckett smiled and shrugged. “I mean, this is my family and I love them, but there are better ways to have fun on my twenty-second birthday.”
“Yeah, but you can do those any week. Getting the family together is hard. Be glad they could make it.” He stalled. He really didn’t want to be having this conversation.
“True.” Beckett raised his bottle and took another swig.
“I have a serious question to ask.” His pulse ticked wildly as he met his best friend’s eye. “How would you feel if Liam and I were to go out?”
Beckett sprayed out his ill-timed sip of beer. “You and Liam.”
Coury nodded.
“Dinosaur-loving-nerd Liam? Can’t-throw-a-ball Liam? My-little-brotherLiam?”
“Yes, yes, and”—he drew in a breath and let it out steadily—“yes.”
“When did this happen?”
“It hasn’t. Yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”
Beckett stared at him, incredulous. Speechless.
Coury’s grip on his beer was sweaty. “We’ve been hanging out. I like him.”
“Are you asking me to find out if he likes you?” Beckett’s brow furrowed.
“I already suspect how he feels.”
Beckett stared hard at his beer.
Coury didn’t need words to know Beckett was struggling with the idea.
They both took a drink. Beckett was processing the information, and a lifetime together taught Coury to let his best friend dictate the pace. Finally, Beckett blew out a breath.
“I don’t know what to say, C-man. It’s out of left field.”
“I know. It sort of happened after we’d hung out a few times. Then he kissed me—”
“He kissed you?” Beckett grimaced. “Like,reallykissed you?”
Coury rubbed his nape. “I wasn’t expecting it.”
“Makes two of us, bro.” Beckett huffed out a stunted laugh.
“I’m not asking for permission. That’s Liam’s decision.”
Beckett didn’t react.
His gut dropped to his knees and his voice came out strained from holding back his disappointment. “But I’m not sure what I’ll do if you’re not cool with it. We have too much history for me to not care what you say.”
A startled laugh—not unkind but bewildered. “You want my blessing. Like I’m the fucking Pope.”
“I’m sure the Pope loves having ‘fucking’ precede his name.”
Humor had been their go-to for years, but it didn’t entirely defuse things.
