“You’ve got a little…” I gesture to my own cheek.
“Yeah?” he continues to stare at me. “Can you get it for me, Cal?” he breathes.
“Sure,” I say, searching the shelves for some paper napkins. Grabbing one, I lean in and wipe his cheek carefully. His skin vibrates beneath my fingers as he stays motionless while I clean the chocolate away.
“All done,” I croak, exhaling.
“Thanks,” he whispers, his fingers sweeping along his cheek where mine just were.
“No worries,” I murmur. “Let’s get you dressed. I mean, put on the apron and follow me.” Shit.
“Aye-Aye, Mr. Baker Boss!” He quips as he starts battling with the apron, managing to get his right arm tied together with his neck.
“For Pete’s sake,” I groan as I pull at the ties, beads of sweat breaking across my forehead. Tyler holds still while I untie a knot that’d make anyBoy Scoutgreen with envy, his warm breath hitting my neck in warm little bursts. As I finally manageto get his apron adjusted around his slim waist, I’m ready for a nap. Or a vacation. Or both. Mitch owes me one.
“So, what are we baking today?” Tyler claps his hands together with evident glee. He appears to be over the hurdle, full-on beaming with adrenaline, his eyes bursting with energy. At twenty-one, he’s seventeen years my junior, and don’t I feel it right now?
“We’ll start with the baguettes,” I say. “We use them for grab-and-go subs. They’re high in demand. Especially those with Theresa’s egg salad.”
“What’s a baguette?” he frowns. I look around the shelves and find a stack from yesterday. We usually use the leftovers for cheese and turkey sandwiches that we drop off at the school down the block. You would be surprised at how many kids go to school with an empty stomach and no lunch in sight. I pick one up and hand it to him.
“This is a baguette,” I say. Grabbing it, he holds it up in front of him while he looks between the baguette and the donut clasped in his other hand. Mischief flashes across his face.
“So, which one are you, Cal-Bear?” he says, all sugary sweet, a devilish fire in his eyes. When he attempts to stuff the baguette into the donut, I gulp once before gulping some more. Then I shake myself.
“Cute, Tyler. Real cute,” I say. “C’mon.”
“Ugh, you’re no fun!” he complains.
“This ain’t supposed to be fun, kid. This is community service,” I growl unintentionally. Where the hell is Theresa? I need a coffee. Jesus, I need a coffee IV, that’s what I need. The things you do for love, right? There’s nothing I won’t do for Mitch, but he owes me for this one. He owes me big time.
“We should make abagnut,” Tyler pipes up as he munches on what looks like a bite of baguette and half a donut. “It’s gonna be fucking epic, Cal-Bear.”
“Bagnut?”
“Yeah,” he licks his lips, a few rainbow sprinkles stuck to his chin. Jesus, this kid is a walking, talking nightmare. “A baguette shaped like a donut. With glaze, of course. A little more substance for the beefy dudes. It’ll be a sure sale for the construction type of guys. Abagnut.It’s catchy. ‘Here, grab abagnut!’Just give me a cut of the profits, Cal-Bear. Let’s say… 25% and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Right.
Chapter Seven
Tyler
It’s been a little over a week since I started doing my community service at Cal’s bakery. It’s okay, I guess. I mean, it could be a whole lot worse. Cal’s cool enough; his only flaw appears to be that he’s totally besotted with Mitch. It’s still weird as fuck that Mitch is gay and has a husband, but I guess sometimes life just goes in weird directions like that. Theresa, Cal’s younger sister, is fucking hilarious. She’s totally on board with the wholebagnutidea, and we’re at the stage where we’re testing possible fillings. The coconut cream was awesome. It squirted all over the kitchen and it kind of looked like… yeah, you know. EvenCallum the Contritehad to admit that it was fucking funny. We’re calling it ahappy-ending bagnutfor now.Next step is testing the dulce-de-leche filling I found in the back of a cabinet.Yummyyy.
I haven’t seen much of Mitch, and when he does stop by, he keeps his distance. Cal has invited me over for dinner a couple of times and as much as I want to see that huge-ass dog again because she was cuteness overload, I can’t bring myself to accept. I don’t want their easy domestic banter and words dripping with affection. I don’t want their shared, knowing looks and their stupid, cozy kitchen. They can keep that shit to themselves, along with their gross traitor soup.
Besides, I’m wiped out after a shift atBake My Day.Literally wiped out. The moment I get home to my one-bedroom apartment in South Pasadena, I literally face-plant on my bed. Hours later, I wake up groggy, in the middle of the afternoon, the world humming outside, a strange void in my chest. I’ve stopped going out. I don’t feel like it. I can’t pinpoint why, but the idea of grinding against some stranger on a crowded, sweaty dance floor makes me nauseous.
Instead, I’ve picked up sketching again. I used to do it throughout my time at the preppy high school that Dale the Dipshit sent me to ‘toget the punk straightened out, Catarina darling.’Shit, I hated that school. If it weren’t for all the preppy mommies’ boys who were queuing up for hand jobs and blowies, I would’ve died from boredom. You would be surprised how many closeted, horny rich kids you can fit into a prestigious high school. Spoiler alert: it’s a lot. So, when I wasn’t giving out hand jobs left and right, I was sketching. Needless to say, I had chronic carpal tunnel syndrome all the way through high school. But it got me through.
And now I’m back at it. Sketching, not blowies-on-demand. Every afternoon, as soon as I wake up, I drag my ass down to Garfield Park, my sketchbook and Red Bull in my orangeVansbackpack. I love people-watching. Always have. People do theweirdest-ass shit when they don’t know that anyone is watching. There’s this little old lady who sneaks pear schnapps into her coffee and then shares it with her purple poodle. I shit you not—and she looks like the happiest soul on earth. The dog, too. And the skater boys checking each other out. The cutest fucking thing. All these girls sitting on the grass drooling over these dudes, and all they want to do is fuck each other. Hilarious.
I even started bringing the sketchbook with me to work. Theresa asked if she could see it and she went batshit crazy over the skater boys, too. Even Cal had to admit that they were fine as fuck with their flowy, shoulder-length hair and low-riding pants. Today, he asked me to bring it with me to the shelter. Said the kids would love to see my stuff, too. So that’s pretty much what I’ve been doing for the past forty minutes or so—drawing with a group of kids between the ages of eight and thirteen, I guess. Cal occasionally throws me fond smiles while he’s talking to Father Reynolds and a younger guy, Dwayne, who’s a volunteer.Fond. It’s been a while since anyone has looked at me the way Cal-Bear does. With a quiet kind of approval. Like, the other day, when I finally nailed the apple pie recipe without burning down the kitchen.Pride. I could’ve sworn that there was pride in his eyes. I haven’t seen that in someone’s eyes since… yeah, don’t go there, Tyler.
“How do you do the hands?” Venus asks, a cute-ass frown between her dark eyebrows. She was one of the first kids who came over when I started drawing. Lingering at the other end of the table, she looked like she was afraid I was going to tell her to fuck off. Then, when I threw her a pack of crayons, she smiled like it was fucking Christmas, her entire face overtaken by the most dazzling smile. She’s been my shadow ever since.
“Hands are tricky,” I agree, bumping my shoulder against hers, causing her to giggle. “Sometimes I cheat, too,” I say with a giggle of my own.
