See Dot Smile

Resolutions

He opens the oven door and I'm hit with a warm waft of Saturdays and Christmas. He brings out a pan with a perfect stack of pancakes at the center. He swiftly moves the stack to the plate, fills his remaining hand and elbow crooks with silverware, butter, syrup, and napkins and brings the whole shebang to the table.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, his brow furrowed with worry, like he may have made a mistake.

"YES," I say. "I'm starving."

"Good. Just hang on." He starts maneuvering butter between each perfect layer of pancake. He made them thin, the way I love them. Like buttery coasters stacked on top of each other. Once they're all buttered, he pours a perfect dollop of syrup between each and every one and then, finally, he dumps a generous dose over the top. My mouth aches with anticipation as I watch it drip slowly down the sides of the stack and onto the plate. 

He slides a fork over and takes the seat across from me, his eyes urging me to take the first bite. I have no reason to create any more suspense for him. And my stomach is literally digesting itself.

I drag the edge of the fork from top to bottom, bending the stack until the metal cuts cleanly through all the layers. I rebound to the top and send the fork through again, carving out a towering wedge of syrup-soaked morsels. I stab the top four and bring them to my mouth.

The satisfaction is immediate and explosive. I close my lips over the mouthful of perfection and my eyes fill up with tears. And now they're falling.

"Oh shit," he says, covering his eyes. "Are they awful?"

I pull his hand down and shake my head insistently, shoving another four layers into my mouth before I even swallow the first. "They're amazing," I mumble over the mass of kindness in my cheek. I want to follow up with 'you're amazing' but it won't be enough. There aren't enough words to tell Bud how wonderful he was tonight. Keeping his head on straight when the rest of us froze up around Lilliana's collapse. Unclogging the nightmare toilet Ali's dumbass cousin left in her wake. Cleaning up after a bunch of assholes who probably didn't even acknowledge his presence the entire night. And then making sure those assholes got home safely.

I swallow hard over a too large bite of pancake. "How did everyone get home?"

I really hope he's not going to tell me he single-handedly drove everyone home in their cars and then walked back here in between to collect the next person. I might have to marry him out of sheer guilt if that's what happened.

"Josh and I worked out a system," he says. My heart skips at Joshua's name. Mostly because he was being nice to Bud. One more reason to love him. "One of us would drive a drunk home in their own car and drop them off while the other one followed. Then we'd ride back here together for another round. We did that until everyone was home except us. Oh, and Tom, who's sleeping in your bed, Goldilocks style."

It must be exhaustion. Or heartbreak. I don't know. But I'm crying again. "Why do you want to be friends with us, Bud? We're a bunch of disasters. You deserve better."

"I'm a disaster, too." He smiles. "I'm just trying to find my people."

"You're not a disaster," I say, running my finger over the plate and slurping syrup off it barbarically. "You were the most non-disastrous person here tonight."

"Maybe it wasn't my turn," he says. "I'll blow up at next year's party. Maybe by then you guys will like me enough to want to clean my guts up off the floor when I do."

I want to hug him. There's nothing wrong with him. He's great. Why have we been such dicks about him hanging around with us? He's better than us. He's better than everyone.