This isn't weird.

The Canary

A sweltering summer day had at last given way to a balmy dusk; the cool breeze floating through the garage felt like a well-earned reward from the universe as Ben leaned back in a dusty folding chair and took a sip from a longneck bottle. There was no air conditioning in the garage, and the fans kicked up a continuous haze of fine sawdust that stuck to his hair and his sweat. Every part of him was gritty and itchy, but he wasn't bothered by it. Instead, he was contemplating how truly sublime his shower would be later that evening.

The beer in his hand was more than just a treat for the day's exertions. It was a token of victory. The first time Dustin had offered him one, he had been almost offended—Dustin knew damn well how toxic his relationship with alcohol had become in the last year. But he quickly recognized what it was—an opportunity to prove to himself that he was back in control. The first sip didn't inspire in him an urge to gulp it down, nor did the second. He had nursed it for a full thirty minutes and let the final lukewarm ounce go to waste in the bottom of the bottle. The thought of a second never even crossed his mind.

Now it was an occasional indulgence, once every week or two. Never enough to get remotely close to drunk; at most, he might find himself with a barely perceptible buzz. Never impaired, but perhaps slightly more open in conversation than usual.

Dustin, having disappeared into the house for his usual post-work bong rip, now returned with a beer of his own. "So, are you going to call her now?" he asked, arching his back to stretch away the aches of a long day of work. A small cloud of sawdust puffed from the plasticky fibers as he plopped down into his own chair.

Alarmed, Ben straightened and grabbed for his phone. "Who? I thought I already contacted every one the docket today," he said, already scrolling through his email inbox.

Dustin snorted. "Millie, you fucking idiot."

Hearing her name left Ben momentarily frozen, mouth ajar, eyes unfocused. He blinked several times and returned to reality with a significantly redder face. His improvisation skills were nowhere to be found as he struggled to reply in a hurried series of faltering almost-words. "Wuh... Iyuh... didden—um, see, now, sheyum—sheez—I jus–um—s'gunna, um, letter—I mean, um—" He cleared his throat and looked blankly back down at his phone to avert his eyes. He took a breath and found his words. "I... wasn't planning on it."

Dustin huffed. "Come on, it's time, dude!"

"Why now?" Ben asked.

"Because you finally got your shit together," Dustin replied. "You've got a job, your brain's working right again, you haven't been drunk in months—you've done all the stuff you said you had to do before you could call her. You finally have—how did you put it—'something to offer her.' It's time."

"She asked me not to contact her," Ben mumbled.

"Tess asked you not to contact her," Dustin corrected him.

"If she wanted to talk to me, she would have reached out by now."

"Unless she thinks you don't want to talk to her."

"No... no. There's no way she could think that. She knows how I feel. She has to know."

"What was the last thing you said to her?"

It was impossible to tell whether Ben's pause was to search his memory or to swallow back his shame. "I told her... that she should be with Arthur." He grimaced as Dustin gave him a long look.

"Call her," Dustin said again.

"But... she is with Arthur now," Ben pointed out. "It's been over five months now. That's a serious relationship."