11. Brendan
Brendan
Puck was in his hammock when I got up, which was unusual enough to be noteworthy.
Most mornings, he was either on my face or conducting a search of the bathroom or already halfway into some household object he had no business being inside.
I stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watched him sleep, and decided not to question it.
Gerald looked good. His soil was fine, and his rotation wasn’t due until the first.
Children settled, I made coffee, ate scrambled eggs standing at the island, and looked at the sun glinting off the trees through the kitchen window. The light came in low and unhurried. Tampa in September was a beautiful thing. It was the kind of Sunday that wanted you enjoying it outside.
I put my plate in the sink, changed into running clothes, and found my earbuds on the counter where I always left them and never remembered leaving them. Thankfully, Puck hadn’t discovered them, so all was right in the world.
I was pressing the left one into my ear when my phone chimed.
Adrian: Currently dying on the flat bench. Chest day. Thought you should know.
I stood in my kitchen with one earbud in and read that twice.
Me: Why would I need to know that?
Adrian: Call it a community service. I’m sharing important local news.
Me: That you’re dying?
Adrian: That I’m committed, and that my boobs are growing.
Me: Oh, boobs, how we love you. How many sets in?
Adrian: Three. Four to go. My chest is complaining vigorously.
Me: To whom?
Adrian: To me, obvi. I’m the presiding authority. I’m also the defendant. It’s a whole conflict of interest thing.
I shoved in my second earbud and then took it back out.
Me: I was about to go for a run.
Adrian: Good. Running is good. Very healthy. Good for the cardiovascular system.
Me: You sound like a pamphlet.
Adrian: I’m delirious from exertion. Cut me some slack.
Me: How much are you benching?
A pause.
Adrian: Enough.
Me: That’s not a number.
Adrian: It’s a sufficient number. It’s a professional worker-outer number, a number that would impress you.
Me: Worker-outer isn’t a word. And I’m a scientist, remember? I need an actual number.
Adrian: You’re a DVM, not Dr. Evil. One eighty-five.
Me: That’s good.
Adrian: My chest disagrees, but my ego is pleased.
I picked up my water and thought, not for the first time, about the specific machine that was Adrian’s life.
He’d been at the gym since—I did the math—probably six, because he’d have been at the panadería by four and out by the time most people’s alarms went off.
This meant he was benching one eighty-five on maybe five hours of sleep.
He’d spent his night dancing on a bar in a Speedo while strangers tucked money against his leg.
I was surprised at the sudden realization that I had opinions about all this.
Several of them, in fact. They arranged themselves in my head with the tidy confidence of a treatment plan: he should sleep more, he should pick fewer shifts, he should let the dancing be a phase he’d aged out of by now instead of a—
I stopped.
That last one had come from somewhere I didn’t love.
It had arrived in the same voice I used for “the owner should really brush this dog’s teeth,” the gentle-professional voice that knew better.
I turned it over once, felt the small, ugly weight of it, and set it down where I set things I wasn’t going to deal with before a run.
Adrian didn’t need a treatment plan. Adrian needed, as far as I could tell, nothing from me, which was its own quietly alarming discovery.
Puck reappeared, assessed my continued failure to leave for my run, and left again in protest—of what, I would never know.
I leaned against the counter.
Outside, a car backfired.
My phone buzzed as Puck darted through to the den to inspect the damage of the bomb he clearly heard explode.
Adrian: Hey.
Me: Hey again.
Adrian: Can you do the worm?
Me: We’ve been over this.
Adrian: I need a straight answer. Okay, a happily gay answer. Yes or no.
Me: No.
Adrian: THANK YOU. Finally. An honest man.
Me: I never claimed I could do the worm. You’re the dancer.
Adrian: You implied you could.
Me: I implied I had questions about whether you could. That’s different.
Adrian: I can do the worm, Brendan. I will prove it. Your life will change.
Me: Fine. Prove it.
Adrian: When?
I stared at that word sitting on my screen. Then I looked out the window. Then at Gerald.
Gerald offered nothing, which at this point I was treating as a blank check.
Me: I’m going for a run. Should be done by eleven. You could come over after your workout. I’ll grill something. You can offer proof of worm.
I put the phone on the counter.
Picked it up again.
Put it back down.
Picked it up.
Adrian: Yes. There will be worming. And grilling. Just not grilling worms, please.
I laughed into the screen.
Me: I’ll text you the address.
Adrian: I’ll get my worm ready.
Me: You know the worm is a dance move, right? We’re still not talking about your anaconda.
Adrian: You might not be, but I’m a mystery. Guess you’ll find out.
I stood in my kitchen staring at my phone and felt another something move through my chest that I didn’t try to name because it didn’t need a name. It just needed to be there. Then I put my phone in my armband, made sure both earbuds were well and truly shoved into my ears, and went outside.
My playlist kicked in, and I made it four blocks before I started singing along.
This wasn’t the internal version where I moved my mouth and no sound came out.
This was the stage version, at full voice, with the specific lack of self-consciousness that happened when I was running and my brain was doing something else entirely and the music was too good and it was Sunday morning and someone had just agreed to let me grill for him while he showed me his worm.
A car slowed beside me.
I didn’t notice until the driver, a woman in a silver sedan, rolled down her window and laughed. She gave me a thumbs-up and shouted something about “loving Journey, too” before accelerating away.
I kept running.
And damn it all, I kept singing.