Hobie Brown's Puppy Boy

You want to fall asleep in an instant. It would be so nice to let the darkness fill your mind and wake up feeling rested. It's what you needed to face tomorrow and live through it. Instead, you stare out the window at the light shinning from the room across from yours.

He can't still live there. If he does, he's different. If he's not, you are. He was going to leave, which means he's long gone by now. You aren't staying long. Not if you have any say in the matter. This is a last resort while you get back on your feet.

The light flicks off like it's affirming your conclusions. Beans kneads at his bed and fills the room with the gentle hum of a low purr. It's enough of your real home to make your eyelids heavy, and you don't have the willpower to turn down sleep.

---

Two wolves live inside of you. One of them has to pee, like, so bad. The other one knows that hurrying down the stairs means making enough noise to forfeit any possibility of going back to bed. The sound of a sink running down in the kitchen sends you into motion before you can weigh your options. You puff out your cheeks and hold your breath, as if the sound of an exhale is what will blow your cover or asphyxiating will keep you from pissing your pants.

"Sweetheart! Good! I thought you would be here last night, but I was working late and--"

"Be right there!" You interrupt, leaning against the banister as you round the corner toward the bathroom.

The benefit of staying in your childhood home as opposed to a series of truck stops and motels is the near certainty of being able to find a clean, functioning bathroom. The click of the lock as you close the door is an odd comfort. A barrier between you and the inevitable. Between that and the feeling of emptying your bladder, the morning almost feels salvageable. You milk each moment after locking the door until you're stepping back through it into the hall. When the barrier falls away, the deja vu hits full force. You might as well be a kid again. Wouldn't it be nice to want to be in your Mom's house? To have it feel like home and not a place you're stuck in now that all the other options have fizzled away? If you could go back, would you do it differently?

No.

You wish you had woken Beans up. A reunion would be easier with a friend by your side. This was kinder to him, though. He's never liked strangers.

"Breakfast is ready, if you're all done hiding."

Being called out doesn't make you want to show yourself, but you step around the corner anyway. A plate sits in your spot at the table, filled with fresh fruit, warm bread, and eggs so hot that the steam is visible from halfway across the room. Too tempting to resist in contrast to months of cup noodles and gas station pizza.

"Morning, Mom." The words fall off your tongue easier than you thought they would. You pop a strawberry in your mouth to take their place.

"How was the drive?"

"Long," you answer as you chew, "but we kept having to stop so Beans could use the litter box. Somehow added almost two days to the trip."

Your Mom takes a slow sip from her mug, "How is Beans? It's been forever since you've sent me pictures."

"He's good." You swallow another bite, "He's fat. But there's worse things for a cat to be, I figure."

"Mm." she nods. You know there's more. It's weird to feel like your own Mom is a stranger. Extra weird in these moments, where you know her every tick and tell, because of course you do. It's odd to sit across from a woman you'd recognize anywhere, who looks different than you could have ever imagined her and still exactly as you remember her, and to still know that something waits behind the awkward small talk. "Do you have any plans today? I thought we could watch a movie, maybe? Or go shopping? For decorations for your room."

There it is. You both let the silence drag on for longer than either of you would like. Both of you fill it with the sounds of breakfast. Quiet sips and chewing, the scraping of forks across plates, the gentle exhales that come with good food.

"I have to unload my car," you justify, "and then I figured I should start looking at what to do next."

"Right," she frowns. "A job? Or..."

"Whatever keeps me up and moving, I guess."

"Right. Well, maybe another time, then."

"Sure." If you have to.

"I should use the time to catch up on sleep, anyway."

"Then... I'll see you tomorrow?" You push your chair back.

"Be safe," she smiles at you, "Wake me up if you need anything."

You swallow and nod, "Will do."

She stays at the table while you make your way back up the stairs. Once again, Beans is your touchstone. He stretches and yawns before taking a slow lap around the room to investigate with the help of daylight. "Didn't I have clothes in this bag?"

Mrow.

"Well you were supposed to remind me!"

Beans doesn't respond. He just flicks his tail and watches you hold the empty bag above a pile of his treats and toys. You peer out the window, trying to judge the risk to your dignity that going out to your car in the pajamas you'd spent the last three days of your drive in posed. To your great relief, the sidewalk is empty. Another momentary positive of being outside of a city center. You'd confront what it meant for your social life later, right now you could settle for enjoying it.

"I'll be right back, Beans."

You turn from the window and slip your shoes on. Beans follows you straight to the door, certain that he's coming along. You crouch down and kiss the top of his head, "It's a big house, Beanie, let's take it a room at a time, okay?"

His indignation is palpable, but when you open the door, he stays put. It's not that big of a house, really. Beans has always been good at taking care of himself, too. Letting him have free reign, though, feels like conceding to being at home here. You'll feel awful if you let him get used to so much space, only to cram you both into a tiny apartment again. It's for the best. At least that's what you tell yourself as you head down the stairs.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket as you continue on your way. Checking it provides a perfect excuse to avoid making eye contact with your Mom as she passes you in the hall.

New message from Ghost: Still alive out there?

You: Barely. Made it okay, so if I die at this point it's either my Mom or Beans.

Ghost: I don't know your Mom, but Beans has always seemed suspicious to me.

You snort a laugh and set your phone on the roof of your car. It takes most of your reach to lay hands on a bag that you have any hope of finding clothes in. Stretching across the seat to sort through the mess, you toss aside blankets, books, and jewelry. Another problem for future you. Sure, you'll hate it later, but being bent over halfway inside your car feels unnerving without a decent set of day-time clothes on. You'll find them, change, and then come deal with the rest of your traveling disaster.

"Y/N?"

Thunk! You startle and smack your head in an attempt to straighten yourself. Your first instinct is to be ready to defend yourself, but the rattling of your brain has you stumbling backward out of your car instead.

"Shit! Are you okay?"

Fuck if you know. Some combination of sleep deprivation and head trauma leaves you disoriented. You blink hard at the hand that reaches out to grab you. It stops hardly an inch before fingers would have brushed your skin. He lets it hang still in the air for a moment before shoving it back in his pocket.

"I'm fine," you answer, cradling the growing bump on your head.

You hesitate to look up. Not from the lingering pain, it's not all that bad. The problem is that you think you know who's in front of you from his voice and his hands alone, despite how different they are now. If you could sink into the sidewalk and avoid the inevitable, you would. But, really, if that was a talent you had you'd have done it ages ago.

"You're here?" you use the force of breath it takes to speak as motivation to look him in the eye. And you're right. Of course you are, because how could you forget? How could you expect one thing to be easy for you, either. Now you have to keep talking. Play it cool and not melt into the warm familiarity of his deep brown gaze.

The twisting of his lips as he laughs hurts you more than looking at him or your possible concussion did. "Hey, that's my line."

"You were going to leave." You frown.

"'nd you weren't. Guess neither of us did what we planned."

"Guess not," you concede. Your next breath feels full of pins and needles.

"Can't believe you let 'em drag you back here. With your fancy school and bright future ahead of you."

"Turns out it doesn't mean that much, in the end."

"Mm," he nods, smile fading, "well, you'll make it work. You always have."

I used to, you think.

A sharp whistle splits the air. Hobie's wicks bounce as his head snaps around to face the noise. You watch the bridge of his nose crinkle and his grin come back in full force. "Give two minutes!" he shouts.

"You asked for two minutes two minutes ago!" the voice calls back.

You can't see around him well enough to get a peek at who he's talking to. You probably wouldn't know them, anyway, with how long it's been. Like you said, if he's still here, it must be because he's different. You don't know him anymore.

"Fucking hell," he sighs, "I've gotta run. I'll catch you later though, yeah? I can loop you in on all the small town gossip?"

"Sounds good." You agree.

Nothing about the street is different. Maybe the time of day you're driving down it, if anything, but otherwise it's all the same. It's the same feeling as coming home from vacation as a kid. Except that when you've only been gone a week or two, you know that nothing should've changed, even if it feels like it should all be different. You aren't much different either, really. Which might be more confusing than every house looking as it did when you left. Of course you've grown, changed, learned. It's just a new coat of paint, though. The floorplan is still the same once you get through the door and start looking at who you really are.

Mrrrrow!

"I know, Beans, we're almost there. For real this time."

You poke a finger through a hole in the carrier. The tip of your finger brushes the very end of Beans' whisker. It's a pathetic attempt at comforting him and it almost feels more cruel than ignoring his pleas, but you don't have much choice in the matter.

A wave of relief washes over you as you creep closer to your destination and find the driveway empty. Tomorrow. The hard part will be tomorrow. You hum to yourself and watch for a free spot near enough to unload from. Beans groans and twists in his carrier, eager to stretch his legs and get his revenge. You can't say you blame him, it's been an unreasonably long drive. Another night curled up in this car might have done more damage to your spine than you could ever hope to reverse. Sleeping in a bed would be worth the awkwardness of being home. Probably.

When you open the car door the silence of suburbia leaves you feeling like you're under water. Beans does you the favor of interrupting it as you find your land legs, in case you've forgotten him already. Your knees wobble under you as you round to your passenger door and retrieve your cat. "Can you wait just one second?" you ask him.

Mrow. No. It's been many seconds.

Which is true. Maybe you should've gotten some cat audiobooks, too, to help him pass the time better.