Saturday. 4 p.m. Knock at the door. Must be Jim.
Even if Jim hadn’t said the day before, “Tomorrow I might stop by to borrow the pressure washer,” a knock on Steve’s door usually meant Jim. On any given day, Jim and Steve found each other somewhere—the job site. Steve’s house. Jim's apartment. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Gym. Hunting. Fishing. Movie. Football game. Even chores. Steve could count on Jim to help him repair a fence, change out a faucet, paint a room, dig a trench. And Jim could count on Steve the same way. They were friends. Always together. Their coworkers called them “The Twins.”
When real men are friends, they don’t need to say much. They just are there.
Steve opened the door. But it wasn’t just Jim.
Next to him stood a pretty, young blonde in a thin, gauzy sundress—the kind that could drive a man stupid. Casual, floral, modest in theory, but the kind of fabric that turned sheer under bright sun. It was too sunny of a day for Steve. The sun was too bright today.
Jim shifted uneasily, voice tight. “This is my... friend, Mary.” His eyes flicked between the woman and Steve like he was searching for a flicker of understanding—some wordless permission that wasn’t there.
Mary grinned, all teeth and charm. “Oh my God! Steve! So nice to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you!”
She stretched the “so” like she’d read Steve’s biography and memorized the chapter titles.
Steve had never heard of Mary. Not once. Not in all the burritos, the beers, the boat rides. What else had Jim left out? They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to. That was the point. That was the comfort. That was the code.
Any other day, Jim would have barely said “Hey,” walked in, grabbed a beer from the fridge, maybe a bag of chips, sat on the chair. Together they’d watch whatever was on ESPN—even soccer. Jim had been in this house a thousand times. Knew where everything was, from the paper towels to Steve’s mother’s ashes. Washed and dried his laundry in the garage. Ate leftovers without asking. He belonged here as much as Steve did.
But today, Jim cleared his throat and said, “Mind if I grab that pressure washer? I’m doing her driveway.”
So that was how it was going to be now.
It wasn’t the first time. Before Jim, there was Jacob. Always worked the same shift. Always together. Always helping each other out—until Rhonda showed up.
Before that, in high school, it was Liam. Teachers still talked about Steve and Liam like they were legends. Their antics. The crickets in the hallway. The food dye in the pool. The two-day school closure. Class clowns—the kind you couldn’t sit next to each other.
Then Sara came along junior year. By senior year, Liam didn’t look at Steve. By graduation, Sara was pregnant. Steve was discarded.
It always started in the voice. The quiet satisfaction of men who didn’t need to speak became awkward. Sentences stuttered. Words got replaced by throat-clearing, filler noises—erhms and uhhs and ohs. A man who once moved with confidence now shifted like a little boy caught in his dad’s garage, holding something he wasn’t supposed to touch.
Steve stepped back. “Come in.”
But Jim and Mary stood in the living room. Jim looked like a stranger in the room he helped renovate. His eyes slid over the couch, the rug, the buck on the wall. He stared like it was all new. Like Steve was, too.
Steve said, “Garage. Pressure washer’s in the garage.”
“Yeah. I’ll go get it.”
Mary stayed. Alone with Steve. He hated her.
She filled the air immediately. “This is such a nice house. Jim told me all about how your mom died and left it to you, and how y’all replaced the fence and dug the trenches. I love the wall color. Is this the room you and Jim painted? He said he helped pick it out. So, you two work together, right? Construction? Have you done that long? Do you like it? Seems to suit Jim.”
Her voice kept going, bright and syrupy, sweet and suffocating. Steve’s eyes drifted past her to the mounted 12-point buck on the wall. Jim had shot it. Steve remembered the day—how proud Jim was, how humbled Steve felt when Jim offered it for the living room.
He’d wanted that day on his wall forever.
Men were like deer. Proud. Quiet. Strong. Fast. Free. Leaping through green fields together. Happy.
Women were like barbed wire—appearing overnight. Pretty at first. Delicate, thin, shiny metal. You saw the meadow just on the other side—the wildflowers swaying, the sun falling soft on the grass. But the wire was waiting. It tore the flesh. Blood and fur left behind.
Once barbed wire showed up, the run was done. The fun was over. It was never the same again.
Jim returned gripping the pressure washer. “Well, uh... we gotta get going,” he mumbled.
Steve locked eyes with him, searching for a glimpse of yesterday’s friend. “Game’s tomorrow. Sunday football.”
Jim looked at Mary. But she answered for him. “Oh, we can’t! He’s meeting my parents for Sunday dinner. But I’m sure he’ll see you around sometime.”
See you around sometime.
As if Monday they wouldn’t be eating gas station breakfast burritos on the tailgate before work. As if they wouldn’t be ripping shingles off a roof side-by-side. Drinking after work. Hunting. Fishing. Laughing. Living life. Together.
As if Steve wouldn’t keep the fridge stocked for both of them.
As if they hadn't made plans. Yes, they didn't talk a lot. But they did talk sometimes. Jim and Steve just didn’t talk feelings. They talked doing. Doing things. Making plans. Their future. One Mary was ripping up by the roots. What about the above-ground garden they were going to build next year? The trip to Alaska? Saving up to attend the Super Bowl? Fixing up his dad's '59 Chevy?
Jim cleared his throat. “Hey, man. Good to see ya. I’ll... see you around.”
Before Steve even realized it, his arms wrapped around Jim. The words slipped out, raw and unfamiliar: “I love you, man.”
I love you,
man.
It was the first and only time he ever said it—Jim just shrugged, “Bye, bro.”
Mary reached for Jim’s hand—the one not holding the pressure washer—and led him, and Steve's future, and the washer, to the door.
Her tits and ass were visible through the dress as the sunlight lit her up. She was glowing as Jim loaded the washer into the bed of his truck.
Steve stood at the threshold, watching. He already knew: he wouldn’t see the pressure washer again. Or Jim. Not like that. Not anymore.
By Monday, Jim would be just a coworker.
Barbed wire. Fucking bitches. All of them.
A tightness pulled in Steve’s chest. Heat behind his eyes. He clenched his jaw.
Don’t cry over bitches.
He slammed his fist into the TV. The screen splintered like ice under a boot.
He didn’t care.
What was the point anymore?
He looked up at the buck. The head on the wall stared back, hollow and proud. Black glass eye staring down at him.
That dream was dead too.
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