“I knew she would be.”
“You have it bad, man.”
“I know. She doesn’t like that I’m flirty with everyone. That’s part of her issue with me.”
“So stop flirting with everyone.”
“If I could just turn it off, I would. I don’t even think about it most of the time.”
“Yeah, sure. Must be hard to be a good-looking guy with women throwing themselves at you all the time.”
Brad rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?”
Brad stared at his drink.
There’d been a time in his life when he’d overcompensated. His family was very conservative. Brad had been a pretty average kid—he’d played sports and got decent grades and had a lively social life—but he and his father had gotten into a knockdown, drag-out fight over Brad’s career when he was about twenty. College was…fine, but Brad hadn’t found anything he was passionate about until he got a job at a restaurant to help pay tuition. He’d just been waiting tables, but he became friendly with the kitchen staff and started learning more about cooking.
Men didn’t cook, his father had said, which was patently absurd.Mostchefs were men; sexism in the industry still made it incredibly hard for women to break through to the highest levels. And then Brad had gotten excited about pastry, which his father thought was even less masculine. Brad ultimately didn’t care—he’d pursued what he was passionate about, and he loved his job.
But he knew he’d internalized some of his father’s bullshit about being a pastry chef and how that made him less masculine, and he supposed he’d gone a little out of his way to prove his heterosexuality. Here at the ripe old age of thirty, he could see how ridiculous and homophobic that had been, but when he’d started culinary school, he hadn’t been so self-assured.
So, yeah, subconsciously, he’d probably gotten into the habit of flirting with many women to prove to someone—his father, himself—that he was an adult heterosexual man even though he made cupcakes for a living.
Hell, just the other day, Brad had called home to ask his mother for something, and Dad had gotten on the phone and said, “Still working in that pussy café, huh?” He’d seemed tickled by his double entendre. Brad didn’t have it in him to tell his father to fuck off, so he’d gotten off the phone instead and realized after the fact that he’d forgotten to tell his parents he’d won a cooking competition. At least here in New York he was a safe distance from his father’s bullshit, but Dad still got into his head sometimes.
Brad sipped his drink. “Residual childhood trauma.”
“How’s that?” asked Aaron.
“Our parents have fucked us up so much. Me, Lindsay, probably you.”
Aaron grimaced. “We never had alcohol in the house when I was growing up because my uncle is an alcoholic.”
“Not so unusual.”
“Perhaps not. But I was afraid to drink for a long time because I might be an alcoholic. I’m not and I got over that, obviously.” Aaron held up his own tumbler.
“And my dad thinks pastry is girlie. And Lindsay’s parents hate each other’s guts because her dad couldn’t keep it in his pants. And all of that garbage weighs on us as adults.”
Aaron nodded. “You think all that is at play here now? With you and Lindsay, I mean. You said she doesn’t trust anyone.”
“I mean, yeah. I don’t mean to psychoanalyze her, but that’s my present theory on why we can’t make things work. So all I have to do is show her she can trust me.”
Aaron smirked. “Oh, is that all?”
“Uphill battle, I know. Well, enough about me. My life is stupid and boring and this is some middle school drama, just me waiting for Lindsay to say whether she likes me enough to go steady. How are things with you and Bianca?”
Aaron held up a finger and pointed at Brad. “Oh, no. Don’t change the subject on me. You’re trying to win Lindsay back. It sounds like a challenge. Are you really sure she’s worth all this effort?”
“Yes.”
Brad hadn’t even hesitated. Aaron gave him a long look. “Bianca’s great. I’m gonna marry that girl one of these days. Maybe you can bring Lindsay to our wedding.”
“Yeah? You gonna propose?”
“Thinking about it.”
