Lost and Found

by Rick R. Reed

  There was silence in the room. Flynn looked over at Barley, now stretched out full-length on his side, mouth open and his tongue, a pink banner, lolling out. Flynn smiled. He’d thought, just a short time ago, he’d be leaving with Barley today.

  And then he’d seen how heartbroken Mac was, and it broke Flynn’s own heart a little bit. He’d known, firsthand, what it was like to lose Barley, so he could empathize with Mac’s pain. Maybe the old woman, in putting forth the idea of shared custody, was pretty wise.

  But could he do that? How would it work? Would it be good for Barley? Or just confusing? Flynn had always heard that dogs lived pretty exclusively in the present, so while it might be hard for Barley to leave Mac for a short time, he’d probably settle right back in with Flynn once again, in the little studio apartment they’d shared.

  But Flynn knew Mac would not so easily get over losing the dog. Flynn remembered the real depression and ache of loss he’d gone through when he had to accept that he was not going to find Barley again, a couple of weeks after he’d run off that horrible day in Discovery Park.

  And… there was some added benefit to a shared-custody arrangement, Flynn thought, eyeing Mac and his ginger hair, his freckles, and his tight little body. At least appearance-wise, Mac was somebody Flynn would like to get to know better. The fact that he was a sincere dog lover only made him more attractive.

  Before he could say anything, though, Clara, ever the pragmatist, spoke up. “Shared custody, then? For the dog?”

  Dee nodded. “I think it would work.”

  Mac just stared down at the table, and Flynn surmised that he dared not hope.

  “Well, it’s certainly something to think about,” Clara said. “But as for right now, as for today, I think it’s best we take Barley with us.” Clara smiled, and Flynn was relieved to see kindness and sympathy in her dark features. “Barley should go home with his rightful owner. And then we can think about an arrangement whereby Mac can see him.” She looked at Flynn, who was utterly taken by surprise. These were not the words he would have spoken at all. But they did make sense, and Flynn knew his emotions had been swaying him. There was a reason he kept Clara around.

  Dee nodded. Flynn noticed a little light died in her features, though. And Mac? He still couldn’t bring himself to look up from the Formica surface of the kitchen table. If Flynn had to guess, he would say Mac just wanted this to be over with, like ripping a bandage off quickly.

  He reached across the table and rested his hand on Mac’s freckled one. Mac looked up at him, wonder and surprise commingling in his green eyes. Even looking totally defeated, Flynn thought, he still manages to look totally delicious. I could bury my face in that beard! “Listen,” Flynn said, speaking soft and low, “we can work something out.”

  Mac stared at him, his gaze hardening. “But you still want to take him today. Right?”

  Flynn did. The vision of opening the door to his apartment and bringing Barley back home wasn’t something he’d just thought of. It was something that had appeared to him over and over again—ever since he’d disappeared. It seemed something of a miracle that he was now only a short time away from seeing that dream actually come true.

  Yet it made him sick to his stomach to know how much he was going to hurt Mac by saying yes. But he had to. He had to say it. “Yeah. He should come home with me.”

  Mac got up from the table so fast, his glass of tea spilled.

  They all sat in stunned silence as he rushed up the stairs. Each of them jumped at the slam of a door above.

  And Barley, alerted to the commotion, got to his feet and gave out a long and raspy howl.

  “HEY, THANKS for being such a wonderful help today. You really held things together and made it all a little easier.” Flynn hugged Clara outside his apartment building, and the two stood there for a moment as cars whizzed by on Stone Way. The hug lasted a little longer than usual, and Flynn thought it was because he really needed it. He didn’t break apart from Clara’s softness until he felt Barley tugging at the leash. A squirrel had run by, and the dog’s instincts shifted predictably into overdrive.

  Flynn let go of Clara and tugged back on the leash. It wouldn’t do to lose Barley again, not after all they’d just been through.

  “What are friends for?” Clara smiled and slipped her sunglasses, which had been perched at the top of her head, back down over her eyes. She patted Flynn’s arm. “I know it was hard.”

  “It was! I could see how much Mac really loved the little guy.”

  He looked down at Barley, who seemed resigned to his fate—that he would not be able to chase the squirrel down. He ignored the squirrel as it sat in a branch in a tree just above them, chattering in what Flynn perceived as a mocking tone.

  “It kinda hurt to pull him away from Mac and out of what was obviously a happy home.”

  “I know, I know,” Clara said in soothing tones. “But you’re in the right, sweetheart. Remember that. Barley is your dog. It was unfortunate that you lost him and fortunate that such a kind man found him. But his place is with you. His home is here. You’ll see. Once you get inside, everything will come back to him, and he’ll be so content!”

  She smiled, and Flynn tried to take it as reassuring, but he wasn’t so sure. Barley had been gone from “home” a long time.

  Clara looked down the road. “Ah! A blue Prius headed our way. I believe that’s my Uber car.” She briefly hugged Flynn again and stepped out closer to the street, presumably so the driver could see her. He pulled over to the curb, and Clara, after waving good-bye, hopped inside. Flynn watched as the car sped away, headed toward Lake Union at the foot of the road.

  Flynn looked up and down the street, uncertain about taking Barley inside again. He clung to guilt about taking him back. He was not at all sure the dog was happy to be reunited. Flynn had no doubt he was a loving owner—the best—but dogs, truth be told, had small brains. And so far, Barley hadn’t given him much to go on in the way of recognizing him. Oh sure, he’d been excited at first seeing him, which he and Clara both interpreted as recognition, but if Flynn were honest with himself, he had to admit that Barley was like that with everyone on first meeting. The boy had yet to meet a human he wasn’t absolutely crazy about.

  During the short trip on the way home from Green Lake, Barley had lain in the backseat of Flynn’s Mini Cooper, his face in his paws. Flynn had glanced in the rearview mirror and then said to Clara, “He looks dejected. Depressed.”

  “You’re projecting,” she warned. “He’s fine. He’s just chillin’. Aren’t you, boy?”

  Barley lazily lifted his head at the question, then put it right back down where it was before.

  “C’mon. Want your supper?” Flynn tugged the leash toward the front door of his apartment building, a red-and-white environmentally friendly and “sustainable” box newly built along this stretch of road leading down to Lake Union. The mention of “supper” had always caused Barley to go wild in the past. Today it seemed to barely register.

  He brought Barley inside, and the two of them rode up in the elevator. Flynn chattered away to Barley all the way up to his studio apartment on the fourth floor, but Barley took no notice. He simply sat on the elevator’s carpeted floor and stared at the door, almost as though he were alone.

  Inside the apartment it was even worse.

  Flynn, of course, no longer had any dog food lying around. But there was a plastic baggie of rare roast beef he’d bought on his last trip to the PCC market over in Fremont, and he tore some of that up and put it in a cereal bowl and set it down before Barley.

  In times past, such a treat barely would have lasted about three seconds. The usual thing would have been for Barley to wolf down the meat, leaving Flynn to admonish, “You didn’t even taste it!”

  But to Flynn’s surprise, this time Barley sniffed at the meat and then walked away. Flynn was amazed and then disheartened as he watched Barley plod to the door through which they’d just entered and stand facing it, a
s though waiting to go back out or for someone to come along. Perhaps someone with a beard and red hair? Flynn wondered.

  “Barley,” Flynn whispered, heart hurting, and wondered for the second time if he had lost his dog.

  He waited and waited, but Barley didn’t move away from the door for a long time. And when he did, Flynn would swear it was with an air of despair and disappointment. Barley sighed and curled up in a corner, facing the wall.

  Chapter 7

  MAC STARED out the window of his attic room. It was Sunday, and he’d just finished his shift at Crumpet Strumpet. The afternoon, empty and devoid of responsibility, stretched before him, almost unwelcome. It had been one week since he’d last seen Hamburger… or Barley, Mac guessed he should call him now.

  Outside, a rare-for-Seattle summer rain was drizzling down, making Green Lake look misty and green. Mac could imagine himself being in Ireland. Sundays in summer, the lake was usually crowded with visitors and Green Lake Way, beneath him, choked with bumper-to-bumper, stop-and-go traffic.

  But the rain had kept people away. There were, of course, a few brave souls—dedicated runners and walkers determined not to let a little precipitation deter them. Mac watched their progress through his rain-smeared dormer window.

  The rain fit his mood. A curious numbness suffused his limbs, making him paradoxically exhausted yet restless. He didn’t know what he wanted to do. Part of him craved oblivion, to stretch out on the comfy four-poster Dee had furnished the room with and simply sink into a deep, dreamless sleep until it was time to get up, shower, and head into work once more. But another part of him wanted movement, a change, getting out. Once upon a time, not so long ago—one week ago, actually—he would have come home from his shift and felt energized, released from toil. Feeling his oats, as his grandma back in the northern panhandle of West Virginia might have said. That’s how he should have felt. He was only thirty, for cryin’ out loud. Yet he felt much older, like someone who didn’t know what to do with himself.

  He imagined other Sundays, coming home and taking Hamburger, er, Barley out when he got home. The two of them would make the three-mile circuit of the lake, taking in the scenic beauty that included not only stands of pines and other trees, the mirrorlike surface of the water, whatever flowers or blossoms were in bloom, but also the very-pleasing-to-the-eye sights of shirtless men running the same circuit. Barley seemed to enjoy the sight of sweat-slicked chests as much as Mac did. Or at least his desire to chase the half-naked young athletes equaled Mac’s own desire to pursue.

  He grinned at the memory. He and the dog were a pair. Barley made a good wingman.

  He hadn’t heard a word from Flynn Marlowe all this past week. He wished he’d gotten the guy’s number so he could have at least sent a text asking how Barley was doing, but all he knew about Flynn was that he lived somewhere in the Wallingford neighborhood.

  He had hoped Flynn might bring Barley around to see him. He imagined Barley going through some separation anxiety, and Flynn trying to quell the poor dog’s pangs of loss by letting him have a little quality Mac time.

  But the pessimist in him knew this was not to be. He finally stepped away from the window and allowed himself to plop down on his unmade bed. He folded his hands over his chest and stared up at the ceiling, noticing for the first time a hairline crack that ran from the brass light fixture to a corner above his closet. He shrugged.

  Why, really, should Flynn care if Mac and Barley saw each other again? Reasonably, Mac could put himself in the other man’s shoes and understand why he wouldn’t want to draw out the pain. A clean break, really, he imagined Flynn thinking, would be easier on everyone in the long run. Mac knew this was right. Fair. He had no ties to Flynn Marlowe. And Flynn had none to him, other than, Mac hoped, a little gratitude for taking such good care of his lost furry companion for so long.

  Still, each day Mac hoped he’d see the two of them walking up the front walk, or that he would encounter them on the trail around Green Lake. Mac had been walking it faithfully every day, sometimes twice, with the pathetic hope he’d run into them.

  He hadn’t yet. And seeing the many happy dogs and their owners making the circuit was simply a painful reminder of losing Barley. Mac wondered if, even though Green Lake was right out his front door, his walks would need to go elsewhere. Perhaps over to Ravenna Park, where he wouldn’t be so reminded of the dog, at least for a while.

  But he’d taken Barley to the lovely wooded confines of Ravenna Park too….

  There was no escape. Mac guessed he’d have to rely on that old salve for all wounds—time—to help him get back to normal. Sometimes, late at night, when he was really missing Barley and his snores at the foot of his bed, he would consider getting another dog. But he couldn’t hold the idea in serious consideration for long. Right now it seemed like a betrayal, like cheating.

  Mac sighed, rolled over, and forced himself to get up. It was summer. It wasn’t even four o’clock in the afternoon. He was single, thirty, and in good health, physically anyway. It was something of a crime that he should be lying around in bed, wasting his time off in this way.

  Life is out there. Men are out there. Possibility is out there. Hope is out there.

  Go.

  He decided he’d head over to one of the bars on Capitol Hill, the Cuff, maybe. A lot of them were actually quite busy on a Sunday afternoon. Maybe finding a hunky Mr. Right—or Mr. Right Now, which even Mac would admit there were too many of littering his romantic history—would offer Mac a little oblivion. Maybe what he really needed to stop missing his dog was a human horndog, with good hands, a big dick, and a wet, slippery mouth.

  He shook his head, grinning mournfully, and headed for the shower.

  After cleaning up, Mac dressed in black cargo shorts, a gray tank top, and a pair of flip-flops. He admired himself in the mirror above his dresser and thought, despite his mood pulling him down, he still looked good. And hadn’t someone very wise once said “It’s better to look good than to feel good”? Whatever.

  Mac’s plan was to get overserved and under a man.

  He headed downstairs. He’d call for an Uber car from the front porch.

  When he opened the door, his mouth dropped open. The sight he’d imagined, wished for, hoped for, and thought he’d never see confronted him.

  Flynn and Barley were just now coming up the front steps.

  Mac immediately dropped to his knees, and the joy he felt was like a burst of sunlight coursing through his entire being. “Hamb—” He stopped himself. “Barley! Man, it’s good to see you.” Mac held out his arms, even though a voice in the back of his head told him he should have waited for Flynn to make the first move.

  Flynn grinned, somewhat sadly, Mac thought, and dropped the dog’s leash so Barley could run up to Mac. Mac was nearly plowed over by Barley, who stood with his front paws on Mac’s chest, covering his face with kisses. Mac let his mind go blank so he could revel in the love the dog showered on him, without wondering when it might end or why it was even being given to him in the first place.

  The joyous reunion was all too brief. Flynn took a couple of steps forward and up the steps and picked up Barley’s leash, tugging him into place at his feet. “Sit, Barley,” Flynn said, and the dog immediately complied. He was like Mac in that way—desperate to please. It made him easily trainable, Mac thought, and realized the same could be applied to him.

  Mac got up a little awkwardly and wiped the dog spit from his face with the back of his hand. He grinned at Flynn. “You brought him by.” The simple declarative sentence, Mac thought, conveyed his joy and gratitude, maybe not so much in the words but in tone. And the delight had to show in his eyes; it just had to.

  Flynn smiled, showing the chipped tooth. Mac noticed for the first time Flynn also had dimples. God, he’s adorable!

  “That I did,” Flynn said, eyeing Mac.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d ever see him again.” Mac sat down on the top step of the porch so Barley could position
himself next to him. Mac couldn’t resist rubbing the dog behind his ears and simply gazing into his dark brown eyes. Mac knew it wasn’t his imagination deceiving him. He could see the happiness in the dog’s eyes at being reunited.

  Flynn sat down next to Mac. Mac noticed how good he smelled—simple, just a little sweat with an undercurrent of soap that had maybe a touch of coconut in it. Clean and manly. Mac was like a dog in that way—the smell of a guy was a major turn-on, sometimes more than his looks. And Mac was not averse to the smell of a little perspiration. To him it showed the man was full of vigor. The aroma of sweat was masculine and real. Mac involuntarily leaned a little closer to Flynn, nose twitching. Flynn was dressed similarly to Mac in shorts and a tank, and Mac was glad for the exposed skin, which was pale like Mac’s but dusted with a fine coating of coarse black hair.

  Oh, could you be gay? Please…. Mac’s thoughts went where they shouldn’t.

  Flynn gave Mac a brief flash of his pale blue eyes, so like a perfect summer sky, then stared out at the lake, now dimpled by raindrops. “I couldn’t keep him away. Number one, when we were here last week, I could see it just about killed you to let him go.”

  Flynn looked at Mac again, searching, Mac supposed, for an acknowledgment of the truth he spoke. And Mac didn’t say anything, figuring the validation was written plain as day on his face.

  “Hell, it hurt me to see you so torn up. I honestly debated whether I should take him back or not.” It was Flynn’s turn to show Barley some love. He rubbed his belly. The maneuver caused the dog to flip over to give Flynn even more access.

  Rub my belly, Mac thought, and I’ll do the same thing. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face.