The Bear in the Basement

The cable guy kept staring at my Chaos Theory shirt like I was speaking alien. "You're too young for that show," he said, yanking another thick black cable from his utility belt. My dad, obviously trying to be the cool parent, offered him a lukewarm La Croix from the fridge. Because that's what dads do now.

"She's got excellent taste," I muttered, not looking up from my phone. My best friend had been ghosting me since Friday's party, and my screen remained stubbornly notification-free. Typical.

Our golden retriever, Bandit, chose that exact moment to launch himself at the cable guy's thighs with what Mom called "aggressive enthusiasm." The guy jumped like he'd seen a ghost, dropping his cable spool. It rolled under the couch, joining the graveyard of lost items: old AirPods, suspiciously stained socks, my dignity after freshman year.

"Sorry about Bandit," I sighed, finally looking up. "He's a hugger."

The cable guy gave me this look like I'd just revealed my dog was actually a bear in disguise. Which, honestly, would've been more believable than what happened next.

"I can't work with this... animal," he said, gathering his tools. "I'll come back tomorrow."

After he left, I sat on the floor with Bandit, who looked genuinely confused about being rejected. His golden fur was already dusting the carpet with that special shedding magic that drove Mom crazy. I buried my face in his neck, smelling like dog and something else—something like the wood chips from the old fort we'd built behind the house before everything got weird with my friends.

"You and me both, buddy," I whispered. Bandit licked my nose, leaving that distinctive dog-slime that somehow made everything worse and better at the same time.

Mom found us like that an hour later—me crying into a very patient dog who'd probably forgotten the cable guy even existed. She didn't ask questions. Sometimes being seventeen means the adults suddenly understand that sometimes you just need to sit on the floor with your dog and not talk about why your friends are being strangers.

"The cable's still not working," she said softly, sitting beside us. Bandit immediately transferred his affections to her lap. Classic.

"That's okay," I said. "We can just... I don't know, talk? Or something?"

She smiled, and for the first time in weeks, something in my chest didn't feel so tight. "I'd like that."

Bandit sighed dramatically, resting his head on my knee. The cable guy could come back tomorrow. Or never. We had each other, and somehow, that was enough.