Carter was a little too drunk to have heard the knock on his bedroom door, and way too high to have cared. So there he lay; face down on the engine-block-sized beanbag chair. He’d had the wherewithal to roll himself over in the middle of the night to avoid the whole Hendrix thing.

Anthony knocked once more before just barging in, hoping his brother had also remembered pants. Boxers was enough, he supposed.

“Wake up, wastoid.” Tony hurled a bottle of cold water his way. It connected with his lower back then rolled off, leaving crisp droplets to trickle down to his ass.

He shivered but didn’t look.

“What…?” It was a canine whine.

“You’re leaving with Beth tomorrow? What’s that about.”

“Fleetwood Mac.”

Muffled against the beanbag, Tony wasn’t sure he heard it right.

“Excuse?”

Carter finally rolled himself back turtle’s end style and looked at his brother.

“We sang karaoke the other night; Fleetwood Mac, and it was glorious and we’re in love and she got a job in Chicago and I’m going with her.”

Tony was shocked. All he could do was ask, incredulously, “that’s that? I can’t believe you’re going with her…”

“That…is that.” Then, after a thought, “Hey Google; play Fleetwood Mac.”

“Okay. Playing Return of the Mack.”

“Close enough. He rolled back over.”

Anthony shook his head at the mess in front of him, in all meanings of the word.