Where Do I Start?

by Chase Taylor Hackett

  I’ve seen Chartres; I’ve been to the Sistine Chapel; last year I went to India with my mom and we saw the Taj Mahal under a full moon—and like, seriously, they have nothing on Fletch Andrews hanging upside down, hands behind his head, doing crunches.

  So yes, maybe I was quietly leching after my bff’s new bf, but only in the most aesthetic way, the way you’d admire a painting or a racehorse. I would never touch Fletch. Some things are sacred. There are rules. Bros before—beaus. Or is it bros before hoses? Something like that.

  But seriously, my best friend was sleeping with this??? Roger was coming home to this every day??? And the guy cooks too?!!! It is a testament to the strength of the bond between Roger and me that I didn’t hate him forever and all time.

  Eventually Roger came home. He was duly embarrassed and duly penitent about having kept Fletch a secret, and we all three sat down to the groaning board, aka the kitchen peninsula, because Roger had no dining room, and we had a fantastic meal of Julia’s delicious coq, with parslied new potatoes and a salad, also Julia’s ideas. It was brilliant.

  And Fletch called Roger dweeb, which—when he said it—was just about the sweetest thing I’d ever heard.

  I had to say that I was really impressed with old Rog. Not that he had landed such a blueberry stud muffin—although that, too—but that he’d done this totally reckless thing, that he’d tossed himself into a relationship like this. Having a guy move in after you’ve known him for like forty-five minutes was something I would do, not Roger—and something sensible Roger would try to talk me out of.

  So I was thrilled for Roger. I was tickled fuchsia.

  I, in my brief career, had had—at a guess and without counting—about a million boyfriends. Each of whom was special in his own unique—if not necessarily good—way, although I admit I may not be able to remember them all exactly.

  Roger, by contrast, had had—well—not so many.

  There was a guy sophomore year at Oberlin, this really pretty trumpet player from Austria named Dieter, who was a senior. (Dieter is pronounced like Peter with a D, not like a refugee from America’s Greatest Losers.)

  Roger and Dieter were a thing most of that year until Dieter graduated and toodled back to Kitzbühl or whatevs and was never seen again.

  It wasn’t until the next year, after Dieter had sung so-long-farewell, that Roger gradually learned who else had been sharing Dieter’s little wiener schnitzel at the same time—which was apparently the entire horn section (male and female, including a guy I was dating at the time), two percussionists, a bassoonist who had hitherto slept only with girls, and a good chunk of the upper strings, including Roger’s stand partner, Vivian. Who had hitherto slept only with girls.

  Apparently Dieter’s triple tonguing was that good.

  Anyway, that was all about a hundred years ago, and since then, there had been nothing remotely serious in Roger’s little world.

  And now this.

  But I noticed the strangest thing about Roger and Fletch together. They were shy with each other.

  Sure, Fletch kissed Roger when he came in and all, like a couple. And he definitely made a thing out of being the boyfriend, lots of unnecessary touching, all very sweet. But they seemed somehow unsure of themselves.

  Here’s what I saw:

  Fletch went into the kitchen to get plates, and Roger watched him, stared after him even. Not checking out his butt, like I would do, just watching. And it was so obvious to me that Roger was completely in love with this guy. I had never seen that look before.

  And then when Fletch turned back, Roger looked away, as if he didn’t want to get caught. And then I realized Fletch did the same thing. His eyes would follow Roger like he didn’t want to miss a second of him. It was totally adorbs. And I thought, this is really going to work out because the gorgeous guy is clearly head over heels for our Roger. And then when Roger looked up, Fletch would be looking somewhere else.

  The whole year and a half they were together, that never really changed. They got more relaxed with each other, sure, but never completely.

  Later, after it all went to hell, I wondered if maybe it wasn’t somehow all my fault.

  I felt like if I had said something maybe, pulled each of them aside and said, “You know, he’s crazy about you,” maybe they’d have figured it out, and maybe all the crap that happened might not have happened. Who knows?

  Looking back, I think they each felt the other was out of his reach. They had paradise, but they never trusted it.

  Isn’t life funny sometimes.

  Chapter 26

  It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

  Fletch

  I was yanked awake by an enormous thunderclap. Sounded like it was right outside the window.

  I was still curled up around a pillow, but with my eyes wide open. After a minute, I rolled onto my back, clutching the pillow to my chest, and I stared up at the darkened ceiling. Rain was pelting hard against the window.

  Poor Haggis, I thought. I hadn’t really thought of it in the last couple years, but now that Haggis was around again, or, more accurately, now that I was around Haggis again, I remembered: The little woofer was terrified of thunder.

  The first time it happened, way back when, it wasn’t the thunder that woke me up, it was the really loud barking right next to my ear. I nearly fell out of bed.

  The dog never slept on the bed with us, until it thundered. Then he would climb up on the little steps Roger had for him, like the ones in the living room, and he’d sit on Roger’s pillow and bark his head off. Mine too.

  Roger rolled over and shhh’d him.

  “That’s enough, Haggis,” he said.

  The dog barked twice more, and then settled down to a low growl.

  I rolled over and peered at Roger, his eyes sparkling in the darkness. On the pillow next to his head sat this black shadow, like a wire-haired gargoyle, still growling.

  “Does he always do that?” I whispered.

  “Yeah, sorry. Thunder really scares him,” he whispered back.

  I had said once it would be like a slumber party, and sometimes it really was. Even a barking dog in the middle of the night was sort of fun when you were whispering with Roger, like two little boys.

  “It’s okay, Scooby,” I said. There was another rumble of thunder, and he started barking again.

  “That’s enough,” Roger tried a little more firmly. “Wait ’til you see him on the Fourth of July.”

  Growling.

  “Poor thing. Why do you think he barks?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Scare it off maybe.”

  “Maybe he just wants to make sure we’re awake so we know there’s this really horrible monster outside.”

  “Could be. Could be he wants to protect us,” said Dweeb.

  I looked up at the dog. There was another low rumble, and the dog was shaking.

  “Or maybe he wants us to protect him?” I said.

  “Probably all of that. It’s okay, pup,” he said to the dog. “We’re okay up here. Nothing can get at us.”

  “But don’t try to get down on the floor,” I said, “or the sharks’ll get you.”

  “Alligators,” whispered Roger. “I always imagined it was alligators under the bed or the couch or whatever who’d get your feet.”

  A distant rumble of thunder, and another bit of barking.

  “Hey, Braveheart,” I said. “Come here.” And I reached up and pulled the dog so he was lying on his side between us, under my left arm, his back to me and his head on my right bicep. “There. You’re completely safe, okay?”

  There was no more growling.

  “Wow, that’s working,” Roger said. More thunder. The dog was quiet. “His eyes are still open, but he’s not barking.” We lay there like that for a while. “It’s funny,” he said after a bit of quiet. “It’s like a
little family.”

  “Really?” I said. Seriously, how would I know what a family felt like?

  “Really. Papa Bear and the other Papa Bear—”

  “Sh,” I said. “Don’t wake the baby.”

  Chapter 27

  It Was Still a Dark and Stormy Night

  Roger

  The dog was sitting on the pillow next to my head, barking. It must be thundering. Sure enough, there it was. Rain was hitting the windows really hard, but it was the thunder that scared the dog.

  “I swear I’m gonna open one of the living room windows and drop-kick that dog to Seventeenth Street,” Jeff said from his side of the bed, still facing the other way.

  “No you’re not. Go back to sleep. Hey, Haggis, that’s enough.”

  He stayed propped up on my pillow like a statue. Like a growling statue. Like a quivering, growling statue.

  “Fletch used to do this thing,” I explained, “where he’d put the dog under his arm somehow, and he’d go back to sleep. The dog, I mean. Well, Fletch too.”

  More thunder. More barking.

  “Well, by all means,” Jeff said, sitting up to glare at me, “let’s call the Dog Whisperer and invite him over to keep the stupid mutt happy, shall we? Plenty of room for Fletch. Don’t mind me. I’ll just move over a little.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “I’d hate to come between you and the Beastmaster.”

  The dog continued to growl.

  “Shhhh.” That was me. I’m not sure which one I was shushing.

  There was another rumble of thunder, and Haggis barked again.

  “Couldn’t you at least teach that dog to use his inside voice or something?” Jeff snarled as he rolled back to the far side of the bed.

  “That is his inside voice.”

  Just then there was this really terrifying clap of thunder. You could see the lightning flash at the same time. It couldn’t have been far away.

  The dog sprang up and started barking worse than ever, and even I jumped.

  “For fuck sake!” Jeff took his pillow, grabbed a blanket from the foot of the bed, and started out to the living room. To sleep on the couch? Lots of luck to him.

  “God, I hate that dog,” he said, and he banged the bedroom door behind him.

  I pulled the dog to me, the way Fletch used to, and snuggled up with him.

  I stared at the closed bedroom door. I couldn’t believe Jeff had said that.

  Of course I had to wonder—how much was he annoyed with the dog, and how much with me? And how much was he annoyed with Fletch? How much was he annoyed with me because of Fletch?

  Fletch—the great source, from whom all annoyance flows.

  When the alarm went off, Haggis was still right there under my arm, the wire-haired hot water bottle. I scooched out from under him to hit the alarm on the phone, and to think about my day. Things to do: Deal with Jeff. Get ready for Trevor. Tommy’s coming by later. Fletch was supposed to drop off dog food sometime.

  I tiptoed out into the living room so I wouldn’t wake the dog-o-phobe. I wasn’t quite ready for Jeff if I could help it. But when I got to the living room, the couch was empty.

  Sweet. The first item on today’s to-do list, already scratched off.

  There was a note next to the coffee machine.

  Can’t sleep.

  Ha-ha.

  Going to the office.

  On a Saturday. Ha-ha some more.

  Call me.

  Yeah, sure, right. Before that was going to happen, Jeff needed to show up here holding a great big Nylabone—with a bow on it.

  I grabbed the leash and turned to the dog.

  “C’mon, Braveheart. Let’s go piss on something.”

  Chapter 28

  Detective Story—Part I

  Fletch

  I could hear voices inside. I had a decision to make: I could knock, like a good boy. After all, this wasn’t my apartment anymore. Or just use my key and let myself in. If it was just Roger and Tommy, nobody would really mind—which would be good. And if Jeff was there—well—he would mind, which would be even better.

  I let myself in.

  Sure enough, Jeff was watching TV. Was that golf? Seriously?

  Roger and Tommy sat at the kitchen counter with some chips and salsa. Roger flipped through the latest copy of Strings Illustrated, or whatever violin magazine it was, while Tommy dicked around with his phone.

  “Hey, kids,” I said, hanging my jacket on the back of the empty stool. “Rog, if that’s the swimsuit issue, can I have it when you’re done?”

  Wow, Dweeb, nice stinkface. I guess he was still sulking about our run-in with the Viking.

  “Hey, Fletch,” Tommy said as I helped myself to the chips. At least somebody was glad to see me. The Pupstar was too, and he was smooshing his face against my ankles. It’s one of those weird Haggis things he does. I squatted down to the dog.

  “Ah, Fletcher Andrews,” Jeff said without turning away from the television. “Forgotten but not gone.”

  “Ha!” said Tommy. “I’m so stealing that.”

  “That’s funny, Jeff,” I said. “It really is.”

  “The name is Jeffrey.”

  What a piece o’ work. My eye roll was only outdone by Tommy’s, who could clearly have made a career in professional eye rolling if he’d wanted.

  “Did you guys get the storm we had in Brooklyn last night?” I asked. “Wow, that was loud.”

  “It was pretty noisy in Queens, I’ll tell you that much,” said Tommy.

  “I didn’t hear it,” Jeff said from the couch. “The dog was barking too loud.”

  “Awww, the poor thing!” I said about Haggis, not Jeff. Definitely not Jeff. Of course if Jeff slept somewhere else that would be fine with me. “I thought about you last night, Pupstar. I knew you would be hating it,” and I squatted down to scratch the dog more seriously. “Diju keep Uncle Jeffie up all night with the barky-warky?” I cooed in loving baby talk. “Bad doggie.” I kissed him between the ears and kept scratching under his collar. “Such a baaad iddow Haggis—”

  “Fletch,” Roger said, hoping to make me behave—

  “So!” I interrupted him before he could get to the scolding part. “Tell me! How’d it go with Trevor and the new violin we picked out for him?”

  “That’s right! You guys had your second lesson today!” Tommy said. “I totally forgot to ask!”

  I could see Roger thinking, deciding if he could still be pissed off at the guy who had given him his very first violin student.

  He couldn’t.

  “He was great!” he answered finally. “He and his mother were both over the moon that I was loaning them this beautiful instrument. She couldn’t believe I was letting Trevor take it home with him.”

  “Is it too big?” I asked. Roger had been a little concerned.

  “No. He’s a little stretched out, but his hand position is still okay, and he won’t outgrow this violin right away.”

  “You think he’ll stick with it?” said Tommy.

  “Who knows? But he’s really keen on it now, as is his mother, which is good. We’ll see if it lasts.”

  “So you’ll take Trevor on for real? As a long-term student?” I asked.

  “Don’t be an ass, Fletch. You knew I would.”

  “Yep.” I couldn’t help but grin. “Prit-tee much.”

  “I don’t understand,” said the voice from the couch, “why anyone would take on a student who can’t pay.”

  “Trevor’s lucky,” I said, ignoring the jerk. “He has an inspiring teacher.”

  “Flatterer,” Tommy mumbled. I thumped him on the arm.

  “And if I may,” said Jeff, still not taking his eyes from the television screen, “I’d like to interrupt this little meeting of the Mutual Admiratio
n Society to mention just how overwhelmingly not thrilled I am that my boyfriend’s ex-boyfriend has keys to my boyfriend’s apartment.”

  I had wanted to irritate Jeff, and bingo!

  “Jeff,” Roger said, trying to explain the obvious, “he’s the dog walker. He has to get in when I’m not here.”

  “Okay, okay, dog walker.” Jeff finally pulled his attention away from the all-important putt or whatever it was. “A, I would appreciate it if, on a going-forward basis, you could at least knock before you let yourself in.”

  “On a going-forward basis—is that more lawyer-speak?” Roger nodded. “Well then, Jeffrey, on a going-forward basis, I will try.”

  “And, B, why is the—dog walker—here on a Saturday when you are here?”

  Oh man, my hackles were up, hearing this fuckface trying to bully Roger like that.

  “I needed dog food,” said Roger.

  “And,” I added, happily ending the conversation with Jeff, “I got some new treats for the Haggi-doodle.”

  “The Haggi-doodle?” Tommy said.

  “Haggi-doodle, the Scottish poodle,” Roger and I answered in unison.

  “Or sometimes he’s the Scottish noodle,” I added.

  By this point Jeff had turned back to the TV. Because you know how it is in the fast-paced, action-packed world of television golf, if you look away for even a second, God knows what you’ll miss.

  “Wait, there was another one,” said Dweeb. “What was it?”

  “You’re forgetting the Scottish strudel.”

  “That’s it. Just a few of the thousands of humiliating names Fletch has invented for my poor dog,” Roger said, shaking his head. “You have robbed him of all dignity.”

  “At least, I never put a bow on his head.”

  “You did too!”

  “That was—what?—two and a half years ago? And though I may have taken the fall for it, I didn’t do it.”

  “You rat!” Tommy said, looking up from his phone.

  “Honestly,” I argued, “your dog showed up with a bow on his head, Tommy Radford was right here the whole time, and you blamed me. Does that make any sense?”