“Okay, okay,” Elly sighs. She’s always been the more amenable of the two, knowing when to quit. “But we’ll be back,” she proclaims like some super villain, turning on her heel, her brown locks swinging through the air as she stomps up the stairs. Realizing the battle is lost—at least for now—Lilly huffs indignantly before following her sister up the stairs. Their demonstrative stomping falls a little flat on the carpeted steps, but they still keep it up all the way to the first floor.
“Sorry about that,” my mother chirps at Cody before turning toward the oven. Speaking over her shoulder, she opens it.“I don’t know who invented teen girls, but these days they’re at the top of my shit list.” Ah yes, my mom’s infamous shit list. At the top are anti-abortion movements and the Tea Party Movement, followed closely by venture capitalists and multi-billion-dollar companies that don’t pay taxes. The NRA takes a prominent place, too, along with religious fanatics in general and homophobes, racists, and misogynists in particular. Certain individuals, who shall not be named but who belong to the Freedom Caucus, feature in top-ranking places, too, along with a guy whose name rhymes withdusk. So, yes, for teenage girls to top the list is truly a Carrington milestone.
Our large kitchen, which can only be described as classic Pennsylvania woodwork, meets all the bright colors of Marrakesh, is instantly filled with the scent of intoxicating butter, sugar, and more cardamom. My stomach does a somersault already anticipating the yumminess that’s coming.
“I hope you came hungry, boys,” my mom smiles brightly as she places the tray with golden buns on the stone surface of the kitchen island. My heart warms at the inclusive termboys,and I think it hits Cody, too, because he blinks a couple of times, a timid smile lingering at the corner of his mouth.
He’s so fucking pretty I can hardly take it. With every day that passes, it’s getting increasingly harder for me to contain this feeling brewing inside me. I’m falling for him and it’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. I know I need to be patient, but it’s just so goddamn hard when all I want to do is bury my face against his neck and just breathe him in. At random times during the day, the memory of that night on the rooftop flashes before my eyes and all the air leaves my lungs. The imprint of his soft lips against mine is burned into my memory as the single most important moment of my life. If I concentrate, I can almost taste him and the small sounds he made washing over me like a tidal wave.
My mom nudges my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts. She tilts her head and looks at me questioningly, a bowl of sugar and a small container of milk in her hands.
“Sorry, what?” I mumble.
“Will you get the coffee cups, sweetheart? The blue ceramic, not the white ones.” She throws me a fond smile as she brushes past me toward the other end of the kitchen, where a large oak table stands surrounded by white-painted vintage house oak chairs. As long as I can remember, we’ve had those chairs. They’re not very comfortable, but my mother loves them. She got them from an antique store in Allentown and it was love at first sight. Every couple of years, they change color; last year they were a bold sunflower yellow, matching the poster of Van Gogh’sSunflowershanging on the wall next to the cabinet.
I head to the cabinet for my mom’s favorite coffee cups before returning to the table. My parents and Cody are already sitting around the table, and I sit down across from him, next to my mom.
“Oh, shoot, I forgot the coffee,” she gets up in a flash, her cheeks still flushed from the heat of the oven. And perhaps also from excitement. She was so happy on the phone the other day when I confirmed that ‘Yes, Cody is still coming too, Mom. He hasn’t changed his mind.’
“I hope you like tagliatelle,” she sing-songs, sitting down again, reaching for Cody’s cup. Filling it with steaming hot coffee, the scent intermingles with the buns and my stomach elicits a loud, tormented rumble. Cody chuckles as he accepts the cup from my mom.
“Taglia...” he blushes shyly, his voice wary. Uncertain.
“It’s just a fancy name for spaghetti,” my father says, blowing on his coffee, and Cody nods, relief painted across his face.
“It isnot,” my mother chastises, pushing at my father’s shoulder. “Tagliatelle is something else entirely,” she goes on,carefully explaining the difference between the two types of pasta. My father grins, then mouthsspaghettiat Cody, whose smile grows. That ever-present stubborn lock of hair brushes along his brow and I just want to reach out and swipe it away. My fingers tingle with the urge to touch him, feel him. My father throws me a glance, understanding flashing in his eyes, before he hands Cody the plate with cardamom buns.
“Thank you, sir,” Cody murmurs softly, accepting the plate. Choosing one, he places it carefully on my mother’s handcrafted Moroccan plates like they’re made of delicate gold. I manage to scarf down half of mine before Cody even takes the first bite out of the delicious golden bun. Chewing slowly, his gaze coasts around the table, as he seems to take everything in. My parents are now full-on bickering over the definition of spaghetti, my father clearly just out to tease my mother, which is his favorite pastime. I love how they act like they normally do, not putting on a show just because I brought Cody home with me. I can tell that it makes him relax.
My mind wanders back to our last group meeting in Colorado. They have been both eye-opening experiences and confusing as hell. Eye-opening because I never knew there were so many ways of being asexual. And confusing because, yes, I never knew there were so many ways of being asexual. How can I know what I am?Whenwill I know? Will I ever be confident about that side of myself like I assume Cody is? I swear, my mind was so filled with information and questions after the last meeting that I had to have a third snack before bedtime and a Reese’s just because I felt a little sorry for myself. I hate being confused. I’ve always been this easy-going guy who just took life the way it came at him. Lucky to have parents who support me in all my endeavors, I’ve never had to worry about anything. And now… Now it’s like my mind is running rampant.Shit.
“So, what are your plans, boys?” My mom looks at first Cody, then me. Cody exhales audibly, likely because he knows what he’s in for. As I start listing all the things I’ve got planned for the next couple of days, my father offers suggestions, too. There are so many things I want to share with Cody, but I don’t want to overwhelm him, either. From what I know about his childhood, just being sucked into the Carrington household must be a lot.
“We’ll see how much we can fit in.” I smile at Cody, reaching for another bun. “We’ll leave some stuff for next time, too,” I wink at him. He blinks at me, his gray eyes glazed over, probably from a combination of tiredness and the sugary goodness. His pink lips are glistening, small crystals of sugar clinging to his upper lip. Every time he shifts or chews, the crystals sparkle, drawing attention to his lips. They look so full and just overall kissable. Delectable even. Like everything else about Cody, those plush cushions are just beckoning to me, stirring feelings inside me that are so foreign, yet so clear. I want him to be mine. In every way that matters. The more time I spend around Cody, the more I’m convinced that he’s my person. He gets me and I’m slowly catching up, starting to get him, too.
The tip of Cody’s tongue peeks out and swipes along his lips, catching the sugar on its way. Something sounding a lot like a whimper leaves my mouth and I quickly disguise it with a cough against my sleeve. My mother reaches out and pats my back.
“You okay, honey? I hope that coach of yours is not working you too hard.” She looks worried in the way only a person who’s loved you your entire life can look. Like her happiness is dependent on my well-being.
“Yeah,” I rasp, my eyes not leaving Cody’s mouth. His lips are glistening even more now, a coat of saliva making them shine, the dark pink popping. At that very moment, he looks at me and as my gaze reluctantly leaves his lips and coasts to his eyes, I’m met by an indecipherable look. Looking into the deep gray,I’m hit by a sudden clarity. I want Cody. I want him. But the way I want him is different from how I always thought that I would want someone. Because when I look back at the past few weeks, I realize that although I’ve felt drawn to Cody almost from the very first time I met him, I’ve not even once wanted him sexually. Although I’m consumed by feelings of longing every time I think of him or am close to him, not once have I gotten hard or sexually aroused. I want him in a much more all-consuming way; like he was made just for me and that his soul calls out to mine. Fuck, I’m not a poet, but I suddenly understand the origin of all those love sonnets. How you can suddenly not breathe without another person or how their mere presence can cause palpitations. And how their absence feels like something is missing. Like a vital organ or a limb.Shit, I have to tell him. I have to tell him so he understands I want him, crave him, need him—butnotsexually.
I quickly gulp down the rest of my coffee and wipe my mouth with my napkin.
“Thanks, Mom. That hit the spot.” I lean in and peck her cheek, her familiar ‘mom scent’ enveloping me. Then, turning toward Cody, I smile brightly. “Let me show you where we’re sleeping. We’re in my old room, right Mom?” My mom nods.
“Yes, I put the fold-out in there. I figured you’d want to,” she makes quotation marks with her fingers while she smirks at me. “‘Shoot the shit’ before bedtime.”
I groan, shaking my head, “Sure, Mom. Because that’s what guys do, right? What if we just wanna paint our toenails? You ever think of that?” I smirk back at her. Fat chance. After soccer players, I bet that hockey players have the ugliest fucking feet on the planet.
Cody just looks between us, a puzzled frown between his eyebrows. Then he shakes himself.
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Carrington,” he says, his cheeks blooming in a deep red by now. “I’ve never had the cardamom things before, but they were very good.” He looks down at his plate and then toward the kitchen counter at the other end of the kitchen. And my mom is just such a damn mind reader, already one step ahead of him, gathering the plates, and I just love her for it. Turning toward my dad, she smiles endearingly, placing the stack of plates in front of him.
“And you.” She taps his nose with her right index finger. “You are on clean-up duty since you questioned my extensive knowledge of pasta.”
I scramble to get up and gesture for Cody to follow me. I’ve shared him for long enough today, with random strangers at the airport and on the flight this morning, and now my parents. I can’t wait to get him to myself.
Chapter Twenty-Five
