Page 64 of Hot Doggin'
“Yeah, me too. West and Brandt have one. But they have the survival camp, so they have a good reason.”
“Fuck that, I have a good reason,” Mac insists. “It’s fucking cool. That’s my reason.”
I have to agree with him. “That’s a good enough reason.”
McCormick is on a roll. “And, of course, we’re putting a flag out front.”
“Of course.”
“We gonna get rocking chairs for the front porch?”
I love him. Why I can’t say it, I don’t fucking know, but I love him. “Hell yeah. Side-by-side.” I kiss him again, just a quick peck before we hear Cindy close the front door behind her and we pull apart.
“I’ve got your papers,” Cindy says happily. We follow her to the kitchen and lay the paperwork out on the counter while she runs through it, explaining the offer. “I just need you to sign here,” she says to me, “and here for you, Mr. McCormick.”
Reading over the fine print one last time, I sign with a flourish,Bertrand Stiles.
McCormick glances over my arm and squints at the paper. “Your name is Bertrand?”
“Yeah.” I fucking hate my name. Who in this century is named Bertrand? “It’s an old family name from my mother's side and she hung it on me.” My mother always called me Bert, but I’ve been Stiles for so long that the name doesn’t feel familiar to me any longer.
Then it hits me. I don’t know his first name either. He’s always just been… McCormick or Mac. That’s what happens in the Army, you become your last name because it’s printed on your uniform. I glance at his paperwork, trying to make out his shitty handwriting.
“Ernest? I didn’t know that.” I glance over his face, trying to convince myself he’s an Ernest, but he sure as hell don’t look like one. He looks like… Like Mac. Like a McCormick.
“I dare you to tell anyone.”
He won’t hear a peep out of me. Not now that he has leverage on me. Like I want everyone to know my name is Bertrand!
McCormick grins mischievously. “Can I call you Bernie?”
“No. You can call me Stiles.”
Cindy giggles, absolutely eating this shit up. “Oh my God, how cute. Bert and Ernie!”
Horror washes over my face, and I see it reflected on Mac’s.
Cindy continues to gush. “They lived together and were best friends, just like you two!”
I shake my head vigorously, and Mac’s eyes grow wide like saucers. I don’t want to be Bert and Ernie. I will cut any Bitch that calls us Bert and Ernie.
Cindy, God bless her, doesn’t know when to quit. “Are you two also secretly gay like they’re rumored to be?”
“No,” we both say in unison. Even though we kinda are.
“Well, it’s still cute. You should set up matching recliners in the living room like Bert and Ernie had in theirs.”
She gathers our paperwork and stuffs it into a file, tucking it under her arm as she heads to the front door.
Mac whispers to me, “I want matching recliners in front of the TV. But not because I want to be Bert and Ernie.”
He does not want matching recliners. His favorite thing is to lay curled up in my lap with his stupid blanket while I rub his head. And when he remembers that, he’ll nix the matching recliners idea.
Cindy pulls out of the driveway, promising to call us as soon as she hears back from the buyer's agent. We sit for a minute in the truck, staring at the front of our house. The Pigeonhole. I start cracking up because didn’t Bert love pigeons? I think he was obsessed with feeding them.
“It’s not funny,” Mac snaps with narrowed eyes.
“It’s a little bit funny.”
