Bright sunlight filtered through the curtains that inadequately covered the window above my bed. I awoke confused and very groggy. I remembered last night slowly. I hadn't intended to fall asleep so quickly. I reached out and found only a lone expanse of mattress beside me.
"Buddy?" I mumbled, stretching. I rolled out of bed and groaned. My cock stood straight out in front of me, tenting my boxers absurdly.
"Shhh," I sighed, trying to will it away. I didn't want to scare my shy boy away with a boner the size of the Washington Monument.
Once Richard Jr. had settled down a little, I left my bedroom and glanced down the hall. The bathroom wasn't occupied. I walked into the living room; it was also empty.
"Buddy?" I called, and received no response. I returned to my front door. His shoes were gone. He was gone.
Had he been here at all? I shivered. It crossed my mind that I'd had some kind of mental breakdown and might have fabricated the kindest, snuggest love interest my imagination could conceive of in order to quell the unbearable chaos recent circumstances had stirred up in me, but when I finally stepped into the kitchenette, I knew my little Buddy had been real all along. Last evening's much-needed catharsis had been real, too, and so had the sweet sense of comfort he'd induced, the security, the hope, and the great big plate of heart-shaped sugar cookies that was now sitting on my kitchen counter neatly covered in plastic wrap.
I looked around the room in amazement. When Buddy had cleaned up, he hadn't just taken care of whatever mess he'd made with the cookies. He'd scrubbed and tidied the entire kitchen so thoroughly, I didn't think it had been this clean when I'd moved in. It was sparkling; it was spotless. And sitting on the stove was a clean plate, along with a fork and knife, next to a bottle of syrup, a cube of butter placed neatly on a saucer, and a large covered skillet. I lifted the lid and felt my insides melt utterly. Waiting for me were nearly a dozen fluffy pancakes, all made roughly in the shape of hearts. I had to snap a photo before I could even touch them.
The pancakes were cold by this point-I had no idea how long ago he'd left-but even hastily microwaved they were still delicious, and I ate every single one, slathered in butter and syrup. It was comfort food in the finest sense of the word. Those pancakes had been undeniably made with love. I felt almost like crying by the time I'd finished eating. I knew it was a lot to do with being worn to a thread by recent stressful events, but what really seemed to bring tears to my eyes was the sweetness, the overwhelming sum of all of the little romantic gestures from Buddy that made me feel insulated from the harshness of the outside world. At another time I would have had a good laugh at any guy who would cry over the sweetness of something. I had been broken for a reason-so that I could be rebuilt. New Richard was going to be a better Richard. New Richard would cry if he wanted to cry, and not be ashamed of it.
I spotted yesterday's coffee cup and picked it up, gazing at my name neatly printed in bold black Sharpie, with a little heart dotting the "i". I touched it with my fingertips. I didn't even want to throw this cup away. I didn't want to throw away any of the cups. I thought of the collection I'd amassed in the backseat of my car simply due to my own slovenliness. They were all mementos now. They were a chronicle of love letters that Buddy had been waiting ages for me to read.
I brought the cup into my bedroom and set it next to my bed. When I saw the pillow Buddy had slept on, I immediately dove down to breathe in the scent of it. I hadn't even realized I'd memorized the smell of him, but there he was. My hand found something else as I grabbed hold of the pillow-the t-shirt I'd given him to sleep in. He'd left it tucked under the pillow. I flopped down into my bed and pressed the shirt tightly against my face, inhaling deeply. When I finally exhaled, reluctant to even let this breath go, it came out as a shudder. The tears also broke loose then, and I knew at once just how far gone I was. I sobbed into the shirt and squeezed his pillow against my chest. It overwhelmed me in that moment, not just how perfectly wonderful Buddy had been to me, but how much I missed him now. Why had he left without saying anything? Why hadn't he woken me to say goodbye? Why hadn't he even left a note? Had this night been an anomaly? Would I be granted the pleasure of keeping Buddy in my life, or was he truly a guardian angel, one I would only possess in my greatest hours of need?
I didn't have his phone number. I didn't know where he lived. I didn't even know his last name. I didn't know Bernie's last name, or where his garage was located. I couldn't recall what towing company had taken my car away. I was unable to come up with a way of tracking him down. There was the coffee shop, of course-maybe he left in a rush because he had to work? But no, that didn't seem right. Buddy was always on the evening shift when I came in. If he worked the late shift, he wouldn't be starting for hours yet.
With a sudden surge of adrenaline, I thought of at least one way I could find out his last name. I scrambled for my bookshelf and pulled down my last high school yearbook. I flipped to the Grade 11 students and searched for him. I didn't find his sweet face, but at the very end, I found his name.
NOT PICTURED: Buddy Bantree.
I touched his name. I kissed the page. Buddy Bantree-it seemed like a perfect name. The alliteration made him sound like a character from a comic book. I pulled out a few more yearbooks-in every single one, he was listed as "NOT PICTURED". He hadn't been kidding about making himself invisible.
I grabbed for my phone, first checking for missed calls or texts, and then I Googled his name. I couldn't find a trace of him on the Internet. I sighed and sniffled, cuddled the t-shirt he'd slept in, and let my tears fall. Bernie had my contact information, and that meant Buddy did too. I would have to resign myself to waiting.
In the dual interests of clearing my head and toning my body, I decided to go for a long jog. It felt good to move, though I had to push myself pretty hard. I was fighting a sense of sluggishness and exhaustion borne of tremendous stress. When I finally made it back to my building just before noon, I felt that I had accomplished at least a little something.
My heart rate didn't even have a chance to slow to normal-my phone rang just as I was getting off the elevator. I fumbled to pull it out of my pocket and saw an unfamiliar number.
"Please be Buddy, please be Buddy, please be Buddy," I whispered as I hurried to my door. I unlocked with one hand and answered the call with the other. "Huh-hello?" I panted.
"Yeah, this Richard Callahan?" a brusque, gravelly voice asked.
My heart dropped, but I guessed at once that the voice belonged to Bernie the mechanic. I fought to calm my breathing. "Yes-Richard speaking."
"Bernie here. Gotchyer car up on the jacks. Been having starter issues for a while?"
I swallowed hard, getting the sense I was about to be lectured. "Yeah, actually... it's been reluctant to start here and there over the last couple weeks, but last night was the first time the engine wouldn't crank at all." I kicked off my shoes and stepped into the kitchen.
"Yeh," Bernie rasped. He breathed heavily as he plodded around his shop, and I could hear a bit of rattling and clanking in the background. "Shoulda' had that looked at before the bastard bit it completely, kiddo. Checked yer battery, checked yer starter. Buddy called it-solenoid's fucked. I got replacements here, so should be no prob. I can change it out later this afternoon. Parts n' labour'll run ya about one-eighty, plus tax, but I had a li'l inspection and yer girl could use some TLC all 'round-yer oil's overdue for a changing, for one. I can top up a few fluids no charge, but hell, you're seriously gunked up after the way y' been abusing this girl. These shitty drive-through oil change outfits'll tell you to get yer engine flushed, but dontcha do that-a vehicle with a mileage like this 'un especially shouldn't be put through that treatment. I'd like to drain the whole works, dismantle yer engine, and give 'er a thorough cleaning by hand, maybe change out some belts, plugs, hoses, but that'll cost ya, and I can't do it today."
I paced through my kitchen, munching on a cookie as he spoke. When he finished I cringed and felt my cheeks warming. He wasn't wrong-I'd been inexcusably remiss in getting my oil changed regularly, and I'd never had a tuneup. It was all coming back to bite me now. "Uh, well I really appreciate the advice. I know I need to... take better care of my ride. I'd like to say, go ahead and do whatever you think needs doing, but I mean... I just lost my job, and money's gonna be tight till I can find a new one. If we could just, uh... do the bare minimum to get it running, I think that's all I can manage right now."
He continued to breathe heavily into the phone. "Right then. I'll get that solenoid replaced and that'll be that. You'll hear from me later this afternoon, maybe evening. I'll let y' know the final cost, and you can swing right on by whenever. The 130 bus comes right by my place."
"That's fantastic-thank you. Thank you, sir!"
