No Do Overs

CW: Strong language, sexual references

The last of my folding chairs scraped against the floor as I set it down in Adam's elegant living room. Twelve in total, hauled from my truck for his sister's shower. Adam, clipboard in hand, made a satisfied check mark.

"I think," he said, "we should be good."

Adam and I had been best friends since we were kids, though everyone assumed two gay boys growing up together must have experimented. We hadn't… our bond was purely fraternal. We were the survivors of small-town judgment and playground bullies. Ever since we were little guys in school, Adam had been the only person who knew all my secrets. The only person who knew why I never spoke to my father. It was Adam who stepped in, the protective brother. The man who drove me to the ER when I broke my ankle. Adam had been the one to hug me after a few bad breakups, the one who never forgot my birthday. We were a single unit, partitioned only by separate homes.

I was skipping this shindig, but his husband, Peter, would be the perfect arm candy at his side for this event. The ladies would eat him up. As if summoned by my thoughts, Pete walked in.

I tried not to stare. Love him or hate him there was no denying Pete was devastatingly beautiful. He was the kind of man whose genetic lottery win was refined by expensive haircuts and tailored clothing that draped perfectly across his muscled shoulders. Adam had a way of collecting beautiful things. Including his husband.

Pete's eyes fell on Adam, his sexy voice low. "Just confirmed with the caterers, all the food is on track. And I've arranged for René's to deliver centerpieces and floral displays first thing in the morning." He touched Adam's arm. "Just a little surprise for you, my love."

Adam's face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. I watched as we ate lunch on the patio, the three of us surrounded by their immaculate landscape. The pool sparkled. The apricot chicken salad was divine. Adam laughed at everything Pete said, while noticed Pete's attention drifted periodically toward his own reflection in the home’s glass windows.

I stabbed at a piece of chicken, that damn Carly Simon song suddenly stuck in my head. He was practically walking onto a yacht right here on the patio, checking his reflection in the French doors as if he were watching himself gavotte.

Peter excused himself the moment our plates were empty; he had places to go, people to see. As the growl of his Porsche 911 faded down the street, Adam sighed and leaned back in his chair. He looked so self-satisfied.

"Can you believe it?" he said, eyes following the direction of his husband's car. "Out of everyone in this town, he chose me."

"He's almost perfect," I offered, swirling the last of my wine.

Adam's smile was radiant, but his words were defensive. "Almost? He is perfect."

The wine made me bold, and his blind adoration made me ill. I wanted to puncture that perfection just a little. The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "Well, nearly perfect," I said with a forced laugh. "Except for that distinctive curve in his cock when he's... you know… hard." I made a sideways bend with my finger.

Adam's expression hardened, his glass suspended halfway to his lips. "How exactly would you know he has Peyronie's disease? Nobody knows that. I didn’t even tell you."

The air between us crystallized. My mind scrambled for a lie, but looking at Adam's face, the face of the man who had been my brother for over twenty years, I realized I couldn't do it. I couldn't insult him with a denial.

" Adam, I’m sorry. I won't lie to you," I said quietly. "Not about this."

Adam set his glass down. His hand was trembling. "When?"

"About three months after you got married."

Adam flinched as if I’d slapped him. "Where? In my bed?"

"He came to my house. Late. He said he needed to talk to me."

"And what..." Adam’s voice failed him for a second, then returned, sharp and brittle. "What happened? Did you fuck him?"

I looked him in the eye, owing him the truth. "It was oral sex. Both times."

"Both times," Adam repeated with a jagged laugh, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "Twice. You let him into your house, into your bed, twice."

"Adam, I..."

"You son of a bitch," Adam whispered, then louder: "You absolute son of a bitch! You just couldn't leave him alone, could you? I’ve trusted you with my life!"

My voice cracked as I stammered, "No, Adam, please, it's not…"

The truth laid between us now, impossible to claw back. Adam's face transformed, his lips thinning, nostrils flaring as he seized his wine glass and launched it directly at my chest. The Prosecco bloomed across my shirt like a wound while glass exploded at my feet.

"I fucking hate you.” Adam’s words stung. “Get… OUT! GET OUT, I never want to see you again!”

His voice cracked on the final word. I'd never heard that sound from him before. His hands were shaking, tears running down his cheeks. But we both knew I’d fucked up. Royally.

I retreated quickly through the house, head down, shoulders hunched, each footstep heavy with twenty years of friendship disintegrating behind me. I had barely reached my Ford when I heard the bang of the front door. Two metal chairs clattered onto the driveway, followed by another pair, then more… it was a war zone and I was the enemy. Within moments, all twelve chairs lay scattered around me like fallen soldiers. The door slammed with such force that a nearby wind chime rang out.

I stood there for a moment, frozen in the driveway. The suburban silence fill the void Adam’s screaming had left. Dear God, what have I done to my best friend, my brother?

I gathered each chair from the driveway, the metal cold against my fingers. Twelve trips from concrete to my truck’s bed, each one heavier than the last. Twenty years of friendship, scattered like fall leaves.

Bile rose in my throat as I sat in my truck. Tears were clouding my vision. I couldn’t stay here; I had to leave.

As I drove away, the phone sat heavy in my pocket. I could still see the thumbnail of that saved video: Peter on my porch, banging on my door, pleading with the doorbell camera while I hid in the kitchen, finally finding the strength to tell him to go home. It was proof that I had eventually stopped it.

I could turn the truck around. I could show Adam the footage, explain how Peter had shown up rain-soaked that first night, how he’d worn me down. But what then? The evidence wouldn't erase the betrayal… it would only confirm that I'd known exactly whose husband I was fucking.

I can’t fix this. Oh my God, what have I done? What would I do without Adam?

Some things you can't take back. Some friendships can't be reassembled once they've shattered.

There are no do-overs.