SUNDAY
DREAMS AND OTHER HAZARDS
JOEL
His brother’s message came late.
The little party which had started in Tulum on Monday had somehow only just ended at Joel’s apartment a few minutes before the text arrived. An international bender. It sounded fun on paper. Joel had goaded the last of his bleary guests out the door and made sure his wallet and cologne were still concealed behind the suits in his closet. He used an app to pay off his drug dealer, used another app to order a housekeeper for the morning, poured himself a tall glass of seltzer and settled into bed next to the empty space where he had hoped, earlier in the weekend, he might now find some company resting. He swallowed two Tylenol. He wondered why nobody ever warned you it was possible to feel this alone before you were thirty.
His phone lit the ceiling a cold blue. Joel was so exhausted he mistook it, initially, for some new breed of ghost.
This place is bullshit, wrote Dylan, his brother.
Joel studied the message for a very long time before responding:Everything ok?
Dylan was eleven years younger than Joel. He was a senior in high school this fall, if Joel’s addled brain was doing the math right, and still lived in Bentley, Texas, a rotten rind of a town which Joel had escaped the moment he could and hoped to never see again. When Joel missed his family, he flew them to Manhattan. Which was most Christmases. Some. Twice.
As he waited for his brother to respond, Joel scrolled up to see the last time they’d spoken: three months before, when Joel, likely drunk, had sent Dylan a picture of a football player tackling a massive rooster mascot. Dylan had responded, wordlessly, with a GIF of two handsome underwear models colliding with one another on a catwalk.
The brothers’ relationship was a muted one.
Joel’s screen slid back down with the arrival of a new message.
lol sorry wrong person.
Joel typed a message, deleted it and tried again.It’s cool.He added after a pause:What’s up?
Joel watched his screen. The status of his message changed fromDeliveredtoRead. Joel waited, waited, but no reply came.
Joel was almost asleep again when his phone lit up for the second time.
actually it’s not ok.
Joel tried to call. It went to voice mail after two rings.
can’t talk rn, his brother wrote.sorry.
Lil D, Joel wrote—an old pet name that felt rusty from disuse—What’s wrong?
dumb dreams. bad dreams. i’m stupid.
This was followed by a GIF of a linebacker shaking his head on the sidelines of a game.
i fucking hate football
Oh.
what’s stupid about hating football?
how else i’m gonna get out of this place?
Joel climbed out of bed. In the kitchen he poured himself another seltzer, debated for a moment and splashed it with vodka.
The way their mother described it, Dylan was the best thing to happen to Bentley’s football program in a decade. He’d made varsity when he was just a freshman and had been the starting quarterback the year after that. The team had flourished under Dylan: they made it all the way to state quarterfinals his first year as quarterback, had made it to semifinals last year and now, according to the breathless calls Joel had received from his mother over the summer, the Bentley Bison had a shot at the state championships for the first time in a generation.
In all of his Instagram photos, Joel’s little brother had never once appeared to be anything but affable and handsome and casually, ruthlessly charming in the way of Southern boys who knew their towns were made for them. Now, sitting on the chilly bar stool in his kitchen, Joel debated how best to approach the idea that Dylan had anything resembling a problem in his life.
He took a long drink.
