Chapter 1

The fiftieth-anniversary edition of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. A huge bowl of buttery popcorn. A warm blanket—spring is unusually chilly this year—a comfy couch, and the newest issue of my favorite science magazine for backup, what better way is there to spend a Friday evening? There isn’t, at least not for me, homebody extraordinaire, old Western movie lover, science teacher Thom Novak.

I’ve even foregone the beer tonight and instead settled for a giant glass of ice-cold soda.

“You’re such a party animal, Tommy-boy,” says Lee, my roommate and best friend since birth thirty-one years ago as he’s getting ready to leave for his date with his current and somewhat lengthy—at least for him—girlfriend, Debora. He’s dressed up: a nice black—instead of his usual plaid—button-up shirt stretches across his broad chest, and his favorite jeans look painted on his thick legs, showing off their power, every dip and curve of his muscles. The corduroy blazer that he bought at a bargain from his favorite second-hand store swings from his finger, ready to be put on when he walks out the door.

I drag my gaze away from his legs and glare at him. “I’m spending almost three hours alone with young Clint Eastwood. It doesn’t get better than that.” Blatant lie, my brain says. I’d much rather have Lee keep me company.

He throws back his head and laughs—giving me a peek of the protruding Adam’s apple under his beard line and his chest hair peeking out through the open collar—the happy sound filling every nook and cranny of our apartment.

I force myself to look away. Ogling one’s straight best friend isn’t allowed, no matter how much one wants to.

It’s his fault for being so ridiculously hot—wide shoulders, biceps larger than my head, abs padded slightly with a soft cuddly-looking layer, and thighs thicker than my waist push all my buttons—at least that’s what I tell myself, and the excuse sounds much better in my head than admitting I’m a walking cliché: the gay guy hopelessly head-over-heels for his straight best friend.

Some romance author—a good quality one, thank you—could have a field day with me and my story. Or I guess not, since I don’t foresee it having a happy ending. On the contrary, I’m expecting that Debora will start demanding stuff from Lee soon. A ring and a white dress, and most likely a few kids—for some reason, she strikes me as the type of person who would want three. The least she’ll demand is that they move in together since they’ve been going out for almost a year and she’s of the age when the biological clock starts ticking loudly.

But first, she needs to figure out that it’s crucial for her to be absolutely clearabout what she wants because there isn’t a more emotionally oblivious guy in the whole world than Lee Conway. Subtlety never works on him; he’s the kind of guy who needs a huge sign saying Debora likes you and wants you to proposeto get with the program, and I’m not even sure that would be enough.

Lee’s laughter dies down and he shakes his head, fondness shining from his eyes. “If you ever change your mind about wanting a relationship and allow a guy to snatch you up, he’s gonna be really fucking jealous of Clint Eastwood.”

I look away, grab my popcorn bowl, and mutter, “You know how I feel about young Clint.”

“I do. Why do you think I bought you that Blu-ray in the first place?”

“Because you’re the best friend in the world?” I say, mimicking—all right, ridiculing—the exact tone of his voice when he gave it to me for my birthday last year.

He laughs again—always such a happy guy, laughing, smiling, and grinning at me all the time—and then he clasps my shoulder. “All right, my friend. I’ll leave you to your date. And remember the lecture your dad gave you on safe sex.” He guffaws, so damned happy with his joke, and saunters off.

I shake my head and chuckle. “Thanks for reminding me of the most awkward moment of my life,” I yell after him.

“That’s what friends are for,” he yells back, then the door slams shut and I’m alone.

Bloody, gorgeous idiot. He’s going to be the death of me.

“All right, Clint,” I tell the TV as I press PLAY on the remote. “I guess it’s just you and me.”

The movie sucks me in like it always does. I’ve probably seen it at least fifty times, but I never grow tired of it. Time flies, and soon I’m in the middle of the iconic, three-way standoff scene that never grows less nerve-racking, no matter how many times I see it. The bowl of popcorn is forgotten, and I’m hanging from the edge of the couch, entranced in the intensity of what’s happening on the screen. My heart pounds, agitated by the soundtrack, by the hands creeping closer to the revolvers, by cameras zooming in on Clint’s eyes, so when the door opens, then slams shut, I jump and almost end up plastered to the ceiling.