What the Dog Knew

The fedora sat on Marcus's mantelpiece for seven years before I finally touched it. A ridiculous thing, really—brown felt with a pheasant feather, the kind of affectation he'd adopted after that semester in Prague. He'd worn it to our first meeting at the publishing house, tilting it like some character from a Hemingway novel. I'd told him he looked like an asshole. He'd laughed, and somehow, we became friends.

Now, with Marcus dead from a cancer that moved through him like wildfire, I stood in his apartment with a box in my arms. His sister had asked me to take what I wanted before the estate sale. The dog—Barnaby, a melancholy golden retriever with one cloudy eye—watched me from the couch.

"You too, buddy," I said.

I'd always suspected Barnaby knew things. The way he looked at us sometimes, like he was waiting for the punchline to a joke we'd never told. That night Marcus and I slept together, drunk on cheap wine and the kind of loneliness that makes you dangerous to your friendships. The next morning, we'd pretended it never happened. Barnaby had been there, watching from his bed in the corner, his head resting on his paws like a philosopher who'd seen this tragedy before.

I reached for the hat. It smelled of him—tobacco and that cedar cologne he'd worn since college. Under the brim, something was tucked into the sweatband. A photograph, creased at the edges. Me, sleeping on his shoulder at that summer party in 2018. I didn't remember it being taken.

On the back, in Marcus's handwriting: The worst decisions make the best stories. Or so I keep telling myself.

Barnaby whined, a low sound that cracked something open in my chest.

"Yeah," I said, sliding the photograph into my pocket. "He was an idiot."

The dog thumped his tail once against the leather sofa.

I put on the hat. It was too large, slipping down over my eyebrows. Barnaby hopped off the couch and came to me, pressing his warm side against my leg. Together, we stood in the quiet apartment, the dog and I, finally understanding what we'd both been waiting for.

"Okay," I said. "Okay then."

Barnaby's leash was on the hook by the door. I took it down, and for the first time in seven years, I didn't feel like I was waiting for something to start.