Until You Feel At Home

Chapter Two

Brandon

He was awoken by the usual sound of barking at the foot of his bed. Simon was the perfect alarm clock. He barked quietly at first, and if that didn't wake Brandon- well, he was a persistent dog, to say the least. Finally, Brandon would sit up, rake his fingers through his hair, and stare down to the cattle dog at the foot of the bed. They would make eye contact for a few moments, until Brandon gestured for the dog to hop onto the mattress. Simon knocked Brandon backward, paws directly on his shoulders, and laid down on his chest.

"Another glorious day, huh, buddy?" Brandon asked, patting the dog's belly like a drum.

Allowing the dog on the bed had burned him once or twice, but never so much that he reconsidered. A washing machine could fix a dirty paw. Waking up to someone who loved him was invaluable.

Every morning, Simon whined in response to Brandon's greeting. A whine that meant the same thing it had for the last few months- never a glorious day without Garfunkel. Simon hadn't been his usual self since his brother was attacked while out wandering around their acreage. They had to search all night after hearing his yelp before they'd found him broken, and already gone.

Brandon dug a grave for Garfunkel, and often caught Simon laying right next to the patch of grass his brother lay beneath. Now Simon reminded Brandon of what they'd lost every morning. Brandon would sigh, kiss the dog on the forehead, and hop out of bed with the mission to brighten his spirits. Cheering up Simon was the only thing that got Brandon out of bed most mornings.

Breakfast always did the trick. He was becoming a master egg-cooker, in his opinion. It wasn't out of the ordinary for it to be the only home cooked meal for him, either. He fried eggs and sausage, with a small pot set to boil for Simon's egg. He made himself a side of french toast and poured the Folgers grounds into the ancient coffee pot he'd inherited with the rest of the ancient house. Simon waited patiently for his portion, occasionally flashing Brandon a grin.

"Are you ready?" Brandon asked Simon. The dog lifted his front paws off the floor and stamped them back down excitedly. "I don't think you're ready." Brandon teased. He slid the spatula under the egg and flicked it, creating the perfect flip. Simon gave a congratulatory bark. "Thank you, thank you." Brandon replied with a bow. He dished the food out onto a plate for him and a bowl for the dog, and sat on the floor with his back to the stove. Simon attacked his boiled egg and sausage while Brandon sipped at the black coffee. He savored the bitterness and felt it filling up his inner-battery.

"We've got a lot to do today." He said. "It's getting hot out. We have to clean up the yard." Simon grunted between bites. "Not that anyone uses it but the two of us." Simon glared at him, looking almost like he was quirking an eyebrow. "You're right. I don't use it either." They spent the rest of the meal in comfortable silence, and when both dishes were wiped clean, Brandon left them in the sink with the rest of the plates and bowls. It wasn't time to do dishes until the cabinets were emptied. He turned Clifford the Big Red Dog on for Simon and made his way to the shower.

The older Brandon got, the more torturous his showers had become. The water scalded his skin and the sponge made quick work of the cells it removed. The quicker he could get clean, the less time he had to spend alone with his own thoughts. The shower was the perfect environment for his most mortifying memories to make a resurgence. Lately, he'd been hyper fixating on the day he got caught drawing a pair of tits in his freshman english class. He attended a catholic school, and the shame and anger in his teacher's face had made his cheeks turn hotter than any shower water. For some reason, even through the steam, Brandon could picture the way Mr. Finnigan furrowed his eyebrows with perfect clarity. At least he could picture the drawing he'd done of the tits pretty well, too. They offered a welcome distraction.

Brandon dressed in the clothes he'd tossed in the dryer the night before. He found that, if he stayed consistent, he only really needed three outfits. One was always in the washer, one was always in the dryer, and the other was on his body. His closet remained full of outfits reserved for special occasions, but they hadn't seen the light of day in years. At the very least, he genuinely enjoyed each outfit he wore. And the New England seasons allowed for layers. When the cold air swept in he added a flannel or a jacket into the rotation. He hadn't been disappointed yet. He slipped into the light gray jeans, the white tee and the heather green button up. He folded the sleeves to the elbow and checked his reflection in the mirror.

His hair looked nearly black when it was wet. It slicked against his forehead, the back of his neck, and down his temples. He rubbed at the scruff on his chin and heard it grate against his palm. He wasn't as consistent at shaving as he was with washing his clothes. There wasn't as much of a need for it. Dirty clothes bothered him, long hair didn't. His unkempt beard and mustache could look worse- the coverage suited him. The more the hair crept into his face, the more his green eyes stood out.

Simon must have heard him coming down the stairs, because he was waiting by the door. Brandon grabbed a trash bag and a roll of doggy bags. "Let's go buddy." he said to Simon, and opened the door. Simon always bolted out like he hated nothing more than being indoors.

Brandon commenced his weekly routine of walking the grounds, cleaning up after Simon. If it was his property, he might not have worked so hard at keeping it up. But his grandparents had asked him to look after it when they went into assisted living. They knew they would never come back, but nevertheless, Brandon cared for it like he was house sitting. One day the property would pass into his name, but he didn't think it would ever truly feel like a home.

Even so, it was better for him to live in the modest, post and beam home rather than in his mom's two bedroom condo. He and his mom had lived in those 900 square feet for five long years after her and his dad split up. Brandon practically ran to college to get some space. After dropping out in his second semester, going home felt like drowning. It was only a few months before his grandparents gave him the keys. He expected it to be a breath of fresh air, but it was more like a breath on a hundred degree, humid day. Better than nothing.

At the very least, the land allowed him to get the dogs. They'd been loyal companions through the years. They kept him inhaling.

Simon tracked down a sizable stick and brought it to Brandon, dropping it at his feet. Brandon gave it a toss, and kept his eyes to the ground for the next pile to pick up. The stick was brought back a moment later, and he lobbed it over his shoulder to throw the dog for a loop. Brandon tied off a bag, and started on the next by the time the stick made its return. He threw it with all his might, watching as it soared past trees. A moment later, Brandon could hear a faint sound coming from behind his back- the opposite direction he threw the stick.

"What are you getting yourself into, Simon?" He grumbled to himself, looking away from the house, towards the narrow, private drive. The dog was nowhere to be found, but the noise grew louder. Brandon whistled, beckoning Simon to come back. He could hear the dog running full speed toward him in his right ear, and a car pulling toward him in his left. He bent down and wrapped his arm around Simon, to comfort him and keep him still. It was rare enough for a car to pull into his driveway that he wasn't sure how Simon might react. The dog never liked visitors, and was even more weary with Garfunkel.

It only took him a moment to recognize the hood ornament on the Mercedes pulling in. His mother was making a surprise visit.

He sighed, and whispered, "Shit." Simon whined in agreement.