Chapter 13

Joel wokewith a cold nose pressing his head from the outside and a disappointingly mild hangover pressing it from the inside.

"Off," he grumbled.

A thirty-pound weight left the mattress and hit the floor with a thud of paws and clack of toenails.

He opened his eyes. Florey waited beside the bed, tail wagging, mouth hanging half open in a threat to loose a sinus-shattering bark.

"I'm getting up." He threw back the blankets to prove it. "Go tell Archie."

Florey let out a mercifully soft yip, then zoomed down the hall, no doubt announcing imminent walkies to Archie, her brother-from-another-mother.

Muttering a string of affectionate obscenities, Joel put on his glasses, then dragged his groggy ass from its flannel-sheeted sanctuary to check the thermometer outside the bedroom window.

25°F. He slid on an extra layer of clothes, conveniently located where he'd dumped them at the foot of the bed.

Like every other New Year's for the last three decades, he and his grad-school pals had partied until 5am. Unlike every other New Year's, they'd done it over Zoom. It was better than being alone, but there was no substitute for real-life hugs and kisses, for swaying with arms over one another's shoulders, singing "Auld Lang Syne" and promising that this year, goddammit, they'd finally learn that song's second verse.

In the kitchen, he stepped into his boots, donned his puffy coat and Towson Tigers slouchy beanie, then stuffed a surgical mask into his pocket in case he saw anyone on the sidewalk. Finally, he took the pair of dog leashes from their hooks on the wall. In an instant, the terrier mixes transformed into twin tornados of fur and fervor.

Outside, the predawn streets and sidewalks of Joel's "gracefully aging" suburban neighborhood were empty. While the dogs paused to sniff the latest canine bulletins off the trunk of a willow tree, he pulled out his phone. Covering the screen with one hand, he made his daily morning wish that the President hadn't been up early tweeting—at least not batshittily enough to warrant a Washington Post news alert.

He checked the screen.

Daniel Evans wants to be friends on Facebook

"Aaughagh!"

Joel put a hand to his throat and looked around to make sure no human had heard his strangled yelp.

Florey was eyeing him, her Border collie instincts alerting her to any change in physical or emotional environment. True to his beagle heritage, Archie kept sniffing the tree.

"It's okay, girl," Joel told Florey. "Just the world turning upside down again." His breath quickened, pulling in air that chilled him all over.

How many times had he started typing Dan Evans photographer into a search bar, only to frantically backspace until his cursor swallowed the words? A hundred times? Two hundred?

This was going to be the year he hit Enter, the year he followed every link and lead until he found this man who had America's 25th most common first name and 48th most common surname.

And now Dan had found him instead.

Florey and Archie finished leaving their own social-media posts at the tree trunk, then strained at their leashes like sled huskies to signal it was time to keep walking.

He accepted Dan's friend request, then shut off his phone to give himself time to think of what to say. Besides, the skunky smell of fox pee hung in the air, and his dogs would roll in it if he wasn't paying attention.

They walked on, past the Barlows' house next door, where the half-deflated inflatable Santa shivered in the wind, one hand waving cheerily as its head folded forward onto its own crotch. If Joel's phone had been on, he might've sent a pic of this simulated self-fellatio to Dan. It was the kind of thing they would've died laughing at back in the day.

Christmas lights twinkled over the frame of the Barlows' porch, maybe purposely left on overnight to greet the new year with some much-needed brightness.

2021. Holy shit.

The years between 1987 and 2004 seemed like a week compared to the ones between 2004 and now. Surely this year's cicadas would be older than their parents had been when they'd crawled out of the soil seventeen years ago. By the time Brood X reappeared in May, they would have missed two Presidents and an entire Pope. Not that they would care.

Back at the house, he set his phone on the table without turning it on. Then he fed the dogs, for once hearing every sound around him without the aural barrier of music or podcasts. Florey and Archie snuffled and crunched, tags clanking against the stainless-steel bowls, tails waving slowly in a contented canine golf clap.

Finally he sat at the table with his breakfast and switched on his phone. The WiFi icon appeared, blooming like a flower. Then came the p'ding! Facebook Messenger notification.

Joel pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Let's do this," he whispered to the empty room.

Daniel Evans

OK I've deleted 10 versions of this message already, because it's just so awkward. But here goes: One of my NY's resolutions is to get in touch with old friends and since it's been almost 17 years, I figured what better time? I haven't checked your profile to see how you're doing, but I hope you're well. Anyhow, Happy New Year!

Joel read the message again, then again and again, then again and again and again. Then he read his own reply just as many times before hitting send.

Joel Mendel

Happy New Year!! It's so great to hear from you. I'm dying to see the 10 versions you deleted.

Hopefully Dan would interpret the extra exclamation point to mean that Joel was even happier to get his message than Dan was to send it. Not that a single punctuation mark could make up for the way he'd left him.

Though his stomach was butterflying like crazy, he made himself start breakfast. His oatmeal might turn cold if he put off eating until he got a reply from Dan, who might be away from his phone, maybe shoveling snow or making breakfast or taking a shower.

Dan might be taking a shower…

Joel closed his eyes, palms tingling at the memory of slick skin and hard muscles beneath the hot spray, how their toes overlapped on the floor of the hotel tub as they kissed, in those otherworldly time-out-of-time hours when nothing mattered but their connection.

Suddenly 2004 didn't seem long ago at all.

His phone p'dinged again.

Daniel Evans

Lol sorry I didn't save the other drafts. Most of them went something like: "It's 2021, and in 2004 you said ‘See you in 17 years' so I thought maybe we might meet up in May again, pandemic permitting. Because I would really, really like to see you."

Joel dropped his spoon into his bowl. He definitely couldn't eat now.

Clutching the phone in both hands, he started typing, then stopped. He had to answer fast or Dan would think the invitation had scared him off. But if he said the first thing that came to mind—YES YES OMG YESSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!—he'd look like a lunatic.

I would really, really like it too. Why didn't you say that in the first place?

Seemed too forward.

If there's one thing 2020 taught me, it's that life is too short to beat around the bush.

What was that Smiths line about a boy in the bush?

Joel's face heated. Here they were, flirting like a couple of horny teenagers—or horny thirty-four year olds.

Worth two in the hand. What a clever man Morrissey was. Shame he's become so Brexit-y in his old age.

???

Speaking of politics, are you still a Republican?

Oof, why had he brought that up right off the bat? Why did it matter so much more now than it had in 2004? Why couldn't he—or anyone—relate to another person as a person these days?

In name only. I helped flip Nebraska's 2nd district blue. Being a registered Republican gave me cred with other GOP voters.

Far from the worst-case scenario. The old Dan would've laughed at the idea of joining a political campaign. But this was an era of desperate measures.

Thank you for doing that.

It was strangely fun. Not gonna make a habit of it though. I can't wait for life to go back to normal so I can think about sports instead of politics.

Me too.

The part about normal life, I mean, not the sports.

Then again what even is normal life anymore lol?

He was babbling now. He set down the phone and picked up his coffee, wrapping his fingers over the stag beetle on his I LIKE BIG BUGS AND I CANNOT LIE mug.

Right?

Joel waited for him to add another thought, or ask a question, or…what? Ask him out? It wasn't fair to expect Dan to make the next move. It had probably taken a lot of guts to reach out in the first place, after the way Joel had deserted him.

Wanna Zoom or Skype some time?

He took a large slurp of coffee and watched the three "someone is typing" dots pulsate on his screen.

I'm on a bit of a crunch work deadline right now, which is why I'm up so stupidly early on New Year's Day. My project is due Wednesday, so how about Thursday?

No need to check the calendar. Joel was all too free during TU's five-week-long winter break.

Perfect! We can celebrate you hitting your deadline.

I'll message you that morning to confirm time and link.

Until then, let's not look at profiles or Google each other. That way we can catch up with no spoilers.

Intriguing. What details of Dan's life did he not want Joel to see without explanation?

Then again, it was best if Joel explained his own tribulations at a comfortable pace, rather than have Dan absorb it all at once in some dead-of-night Facebook scroll-a-thon.

Deal. See you then!

He brought up his calendar app and entered their meeting—date?—into the block for next Thursday, January 7.

His stomach still too jittery for food, he took his coffee into the living room, passing the dogs curled in their beds by the fireplace, and went to the bay window, where the sheer curtains held the soft glow of dawn.

In his front yard, the bare branches of the towering white ash tree bobbed in the wind. Thousands of cicadas waited there beneath the soil. In a few months, they would climb into the light and make the long trek up the tree's silvery, furrowed bark.

And despite everything life had thrown at him, he would be here to see it.

He let out a deep, careful sigh. For too long, he'd watched New Year's hopes and dreams get crushed by unseen forces or simply wither from neglect. A year ago, he and his friends had bid good riddance to the dystopian hellscape of 2019, only to enter 2020's bottomless pit of sorrow, rage, and fear. That swift beatdown by the universe should have taught him once and for all to stop expecting the next twelve months to be an improvement. Things could always get worse.

But maybe, despite all previous signs and prognostications, this year would finally be better than the last.