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- Finn -
I felt the covers sliding off me and opened my eyes to peek over the edge of my bed. Sure enough, Otis was pulling my comforter away, his small jaw locked around the edge of it like he could taste the goose off the feathers inside.
“Oh no you don’t,” I said, tugging gently in the opposite direction until his short, tan legs stiffened with frustration. When he refused to give up, I grabbed the mouse off my bedside table and chucked it across the room so he’d chase after it. Well, I say mouse, but it was more like a faceless, stuffed teardrop now that Otis had destroyed all evidence of its facial features apart from one gnarled ear.
Over the years, I attempted to replace the disgusting toy many times, but my efforts went unappreciated, so I gave up. If Otis could love that mouse despite its obvious ugliness and questionable odor, more power to him. Who was I to discourage loyalty in another, especially my own dog?
I sat up slowly, stretched my arms overhead, and reached down to wrestle the retrieved mouse from Otis’s whiskery snout before chucking it out my bedroom door. His nails slid against the hardwood floor as he ran after it, and I followed the blurry bullet, grabbing my robe off my bedroom door so I wouldn’t get cold waiting for my first caffeine hit of the year.
Sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows, flooding the room with light. Granted, it was cold winter sunshine, but it was bright nonetheless, and I found myself looking forward to the new year in a way I hadn’t in a long time. Maybe that was because I’d played a good set last night. Maybe it was because I hadn’t woken with a hangover. Or maybe it was because there was a turquoise scarf draped over my kitchen chair that meant I had a genuine excuse to make good on the spontaneous resolution I’d made last night.
Whatever the catalyst for my good mood, I intended to enjoy it while it lasted. I threw the mouse across the room again before turning my focus to the Nespresso machine Brian got me for Christmas. I suppose it was a nice present, since it was certainly the kind of thing I’d never buy myself, but I suspected he got it because he wasn’t satisfied with the instant stuff I usually offered him when he stopped by. That, or he genuinely didn’t believe anyone could be truly happy unless they were spending a ridiculous amount of money on coffee pods.
Either way, I was fond of the flavor in the purple capsule, whatever that was. Perhaps I should find out. Maybe that could be my second resolution for this year: not embarrassing myself in the trendy Nespresso store. Or is it more embarrassing to know the names of the blends in each pod? Tough call.
Maybe I should stick with figuring out how I was going to get Maeve’s number. Something told me she was the kind of woman who would self-flagellate over misplacing such a nice scarf, and I hated to think she’d start the year beating herself up.
Lord knows why. The scarf was no more my problem than she was, but I suppose I appreciated our conversation enough that I didn’t want her memory of it to be overshadowed by her untimely mistake. I also appreciated her sense of humor, her big eyes, and her juicy-looking lips, but that was beside the point. Capable types hated to lose things, and there was no way I was going to squander an opportunity to start the year with heroism.
Besides, it’s not like I had shit else planned for the day, besides a nice walk by the lake with Otis, so I might as well play detective.
Speaking of mysteries, the red light on my answering machine was flashing, which was strange because I didn’t think anyone had that number apart from the robots I never gave it to who occasionally called to offer me extravagant holidays in exchange for my social security number.
Needless to say, I had half a mind to erase the message without listening to it. Curiosity got the best of me, though, so I punched the messages button and braced myself for the winning lotto numbers my long-lost Nigerian relatives were determined to share with me. And it was a relative alright, but it was one I was even more surprised to hear from: my brother.
“Hey, Finn. It’s me…Max. Just calling to wish you a happy new year. So…yeah. Hope your things are good. Call me back or I’ll try you again I guess… Bye.”
Holy shit. I didn’t even know where to start in terms of unpacking that mess. First of all, as if I wouldn’t recognize his voice?! As if I could be so lucky. And hope your things are good? Did he mean he hoped I was good or that things were good? Tit. He knew damn well I’d never call him back. Ugh. This is why no one had answering machines anymore. Because no one ever left messages that anyone sincerely wanted to receive.
My cell rang across the room where it was charging by the couch, and my stomach churned. It couldn’t be him, could it? I assumed he deleted my number years ago. Then again, I knew for a fact I never gave him the house line so… I set my coffee down and crossed the room, my bare feet relishing the warmth of the heated floors as I prepared myself for the worst. Not that I would answer if it was him. I didn’t have anything to say to him, least of all happy fucking new year.
Much to my relief, it was Brian. “You’ll never guess who called me,” I said, unplugging the charger so I could return to my coffee.
“Happy New Year to you, too,” he gruffed.
“I thought we already did that last night?”
“It means more when you’re sober.”
“I respectfully disagree,” I said. “Max.”
“What?”
“He left a message on my landline.”
“Sounds serious,” he said. “Did he mean to call 911? I thought that was the only reason anyone used landlines anymore.”
“Beats me. He didn’t say.”
“How’d he sound?”
“Like a stupid fathead.”
Brian laughed, remembering the time my brother called me that in fifth grade. “Classic.”
“Maybe the finest words he ever strung together.”
