"Court was catching up with Zane today."
"Ohhhh."
I've already filled Ramzi in about Court saying Zane has feelings for me. "I hope it went well, but…"
"There's a chance one or both of them could be behind bars?"
I chuckle. "Exactly."
Court has been trying to be nice to Zane, but I couldn't help but notice he was a little too eager to deliver the news I'm not interested in him. Still, it's better him than me. I'd hate to be the one to break it to Zane that he's great and I love us being friends, but I don't see it going anywhere romantically.
Ramzi drops me off at my place, and I head inside. It's ten thirty, and the lights are on.
Time to find out how things went with Court and Zane today.
18
Courtland
I've spent the entire evening on Buzz's couch eating my feelings, worried about letting him know my chat with Zane didn't go according to plan.
I'm not proud of the way I behaved.
And not just today.
Right from the very beginning.
Zane is right, I haven't liked him since the moment we met. Which is juvenile and unfair of me.
My whole jealousy thing when it comes to Buzz is juvenile and unfair.
I have no claim on the guy whatsoever. If anything, I should be pushing him to be with someone, since deep down, I know that someone can't ever be me.
I'd like it to be me.
I'dloveit to be me.
But we lead two very different lives in two very different places. That's never going to change.
I've only ever wanted what's best for him, and I've let my irrational feelings get in the way of that. What if Zane is his guy? Why am I being such a selfish prick and standing in the way of Buzz's happiness?
BecauseIwant to be Buzz's happiness.
It's been gnawing at me all night—the realization that what I want and what I can have are two dramatically different things.
I tip my head back and shake the last salty Lays crumbs straight into my mouth, momentarily drowning my sorrow with potatoes, oil, and salt.
As I finish chewing, the key clicks in the lock, and the front door opens. Buzz steps in, and even though he's coming off abrutal two-day-shift, he still looks like he could be the lead star in a fireman porno.
His turnout jacket is slung over one shoulder, his shirt clings to his sweaty, soot-smudged skin, and his suspenders hang loose at his sides. He must be exhausted because instead of heading straight to the shower, he kicks off his boots and collapses next to me on the sofa, eyeing what's left of my pity party for one spread on the coffee table.
"This feels familiar," he says, and even when he's tired, that low, deep voice of his ignites a fire in my belly.
"Please don't ever compare me to Howie."
He angles his head to me and grins. "You're right. I'm sorry. At least you're wearing pants."
"He…didn't? Ugh. Straight guys."
