In The [B-]Doghouse III

I had assumed.

Way too much for my own good, actually. You see, when I first imagined Brian's parents, I had to backtrace from the end product, so to speak. The boy's a snow-white giant with hair that looks like a cheese puff and a penchant for sports. His parents, on the other hand, are a comically gaunt and dark middle-aged man that's dressed like a therapist, and a stout, stereotypical Latino grandpa whose tank top and tool belt combo I recognize from my dad's days as an electrician.

"Oh," says his thin dad in that wispy voice, "You had not informed me of a guest, Bryant."

B-bryant?

"Gah," Brian whines. "It's none of your business!"

"I'd say it's our business," his wide dad replies. "You should have told us."

"Yes," thin dad adds, turning his attention to me.

I gulp under the weight of those intelligent, dark eyes. I start steeling myself for the long trek back through the woods before wide dad speaks:

"Ayay-yay," he pauses to let out a deep belly laugh, "I would have prepared dinner for us by now, silly boy!"

"It is indeed most unkind of you, Bryant," thin dad notes. "New guests warrant a celebration."

"Ugh!" Brian is as red in the face as he is in the hair. "You guys do this every time!"

"Nonsense," thin dad replies with a wave of the hand, "Now come along, we simply must get started with the culinary preparations!"

I spend the next thirty minutes fidgeting at the tail end of a 20 person mahogany dinner table. My phone has no connection, and the only company I have is the distant, alien laughter of a happy family and the clinking of dishware. A fireplace crackles across the room from me, working to flavor the space alongside an array of strawberry scented candles. The walls of the schoolbus-length chamber are comprised entirely of bookshelves. But unlike the bright and aesthetic spines of decorative collections meant to impress guests, I don't think there's a single tome whose spine isn't well-loved to the point of beige oblivion.

On the bright side, all that time spent stewing in my quaking bones has really worked up my appetite. So much so that I'm literally salivating by the time a very embarrassed Brian in a cooking apron enters the room bearing three platters of hors d'oeuvres.

He speaks with a scowl and a perfect accent, "Vos apéritifs, monsieur," before trundling back to the kitchen.

I can't tell whether to be more terrified or impressed. And the five pounds of charcuterie and caviar doesn't help. Any second now, I expect a crooked old witch to fly in through the window to check if I've fattened up enough. But all I get is a table full of exquisite, french-mex fusion dishes as the Robertson-Garcia family takes their seats around me.

The thin, dad, Mr. Robertson, made sure to quickly clear up that he wasn't a "doctor" doctor. No, he was "merely" a tenured English professor at the University of Chicago. And wide dad, or "just Gus please" Garcia, happened to be the wizchild behind the most prestigious landscaping firm in the Midwest. They'd met back when Gus was erecting a phoenix-themed topiary exhibit for the college, a factoid so cute I almost forgot to chuckle at the word "erect". But there they were, two hot, young men in the 90’s. Gus had dropped a pair of long shears from atop his ladder, and Mr. Robertson stopped to pick them up even though he was late to a lecture. And the rest is history.

"You guys don't need to tell the whole thing every time," Brian says.

But I don't think any of us can take him seriously when he's dressed up like a little chef boy, replete with long hat and cheekborne sauce smudges.

"You mentioned our Brian doing you a favor." Mr. Robertson says. "Do go on."

"It's nothing crazy," I reply, rubbing the back of my neck. "I was just going to ask him for some fashion advice."

"Fashion." Mr. Garcia pronounces the word like it's two week old milk in his mouth.

"Y-yeah. I'm sort of going out with this girl I like tomorrow."

"Oh, that's wonderful," Mr. Robertson says. "Our Bryant loves to dress up. Don't you, now?"

Brian simply stares at his dads like an abused puppy that was pulled out of a drainage ditch.

"If I recall correctly," Mr. Robertson continues, "We refit our boy's entire wardrobe last season, so you're welcome to pick through his out of mode stock."

"Daaad," Brian moans, "Not the supreme!"

Mr. Garcia whistles. "Settle down, chico. We haven't seen you wear anything older than whichever report card you're currently trying to hide from us."

"That was a secret!" The boy argues, looking to Mr. Robertson for sympathy.

But his dad simply returns an innocent shrug, as if he wasn't the only other person aware of the pretty obvious nook behind the palm trees in the lobby.

"The point is," Mr. Robertson says, "Any guest of Brian is a guest of ours. Now, let us say grace."

I must have been staring pretty hard in the ensuing silence, because Mr. Garcia can't help but laugh and admit:

"We're just messing with you, kid. Look at him, he's as stiff as a 2-by-4!"

I laugh, and bury my face in my food. And it's really goddamn good. Almost makes me wish that my family meals weren't TV dinners from a busted microwave, set to the tune of my dad snoring from his garage workshop. But there's something about how totally typical, seamlessly functional Brian and his parents are. The way they can slip into these genuine, whole-cheeked American smiles. How easily they seem to understand each other and know exactly what dish to pass to who and when.

There's just something about a tight-knit, happy family that really brings out the miserable bastard inside of me.

But they make an effort to include me. In their jokes, in their many family travel stories, and even in their occasional argument. To their credit, it makes it hard for me to feel unappreciated. By the time that I'm walking out the door with a doubly-full stomach and two full tote bags full of dubiously-fitting fast fashion, I can't help but admit:

"That was a lot of fun, B-dog."

Brian had perked up somewhere between his second and third helpings, and was back to his usual deafening enthusiasm. "Oh yeah, Og-dog! I forgot to say, but we should totally work out again sometime!"

"Sure," I say, without thinking.

And I honestly don't even regret it. Though I hadn't expected anything other than a brief consultation with regard to my necrotic sense of dress, I think I can see why Anne-Marie brought Brian along on our first proper hangout. He's a bit of a goober, but he's dependable and remarkably sweet. Moreover, I might only get home by midnight, but to show for it I had a spa day, a five-star meal, and a shopping trip to boot.

"Say…" Brian is staring into the pitch-black depths of the tree line. "Does Anne-Marie know about this girl you like?"

I'm a little too stunned to answer, on several fronts.

Brian scratches his head. "Cuz it seems like she's really into you."

"What makes you say that?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I can just feel it, I guess. That one time in the bowling alley, she was like super nice to you."

"Isn't she nice to everyone?"

"Not like that, bro. Plus, she's been texting me all these dumb questions about what boys like."

"Really?"

"Yeah. And today, when I got annoyed and told her just to ask you instead, she got all pissy like she was all chill when she really wasn't, y'know?"

"I see…"

I can't help but feel equal parts embarrassed and validated. It's not every day you find out that something meant exactly the same way to someone else as how it did for you—even if finding it out this particular way kind of feels like cheating.

"Oh right," Brian announces, as if only now remembering what he actually wanted to say. "I need you to know something, bro. Don't mess with a girl's heart, know what I'm saying? 'Specially not hers."

Words like that, and in an uncharacteristically serious tone no less, could easily come off as the kind of threatening that'd loosen my bowels. But I recognize his intent for what it is—Brian's just trying to protect her, and I can't lie and say it doesn't instill in me a special kind of respect for him.

"Yeah," I reply, grinning from ear to ear. "I'll take care of her. That's a man's promise."

Brian nods, and keeps staring into the woods. Eventually, my 11pm curfew alarm rings, and I have no choice but to excuse myself with a feeble "good night".

Yeah, I think, as twigs crunch to the tune of my hurried march in the utter absence of the usual nighttime chill. He's a good egg, this Brian.