“Well I did think she was great, but that was before I heard about the cookies I’ve been missing out on.”
Unclipping his belt, Sam chuckles, then pauses, hand on door. “Wait. 3C’s for sale. This is a great building. Why are you leaving?”
“It is a great building. I love it. But remember how you just paid for my groceries, which, by the way, I am very grateful and fully paying you back for? Yeah. That’s why.”
“Oh. Shit. That sucks.”
“It does indeed suck.”
Lips skewed to the side, Sam nods. “You know Cory’s family has money trouble too. It’s really sad. You’ve met his sister Cherry, right? She’s hot.”
My head is spinning from the sudden change in both Sam’s countenance and expression. I guess a pretty young woman can do that to some pretty young men. “I have met Cherry. We spoke about her at the dunk tank, remember? She seems like a handful.”
“Yeah.” He sighs wistfully, settling back into the seat.
“Sam.”
“Yeah,” he repeats.
“I need you to get out of the car, now.” Like he’s been shocked back to life he jumps in his seat and opens the door.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. And don’t worry about paying me back. If you must, make a donation to charity. I don’t need it. See ya later, Doc.” With that he slips from the car and jogs towards the building. My building. My home.
Knowing at least my bed and my weighted blanket is on the horizon, I sigh, shove my crappy car into drive, and go.
“Dylan,want to help me make dinner?” Responding with a hum, he practically leaps from the sofa, andI congratulate myself on a perfect afternoon. We’ve been to the park, watched a movie and the credits are rolling right when I need to start food prep.
“What do you feel like tonight? I was thinking some fancy omelets.” The words have hardly left my mouth and Dylan is floating around the kitchen, humming while gathering ingredients. There’s definitely an omelet in the making, but then he adds bananas, chocolate chips and baking powder to the collection and I know what he’s after. “Omelets and pancakes?”
It is times like this that I am more fascinated by autism than frustrated. Dylan struggles with many daily functions, especially those requiring fine motor skills, but slap an apron on him and put him before a mixing bowl, and he’s a Great British Bake Off contestant.
Dyl gets busy mixing up his favorite, and while he does that I bitch to him, like he holds the solution to all my problems.
“You remember Cory, the Jenga guy?” Dyl’s whole face lights up on hearing Cory’s name, then I picture the face touching and getallthe feels again.“Yeah, him. Well, turns out he told his friends about us, even though he said he wouldn’t. I got mad of course, ‘cause I’m a grouchy piece of shit, and now I feel bad ‘cause I really like him. It just feels like … unfair. You know?”
Rocking back and forth, Dyl holds up his eggs. “Shit sorry, mate. I forgot cracking these bad boys is my job.” Once they’ve been added to the dry ingredients, Dyl adds double the chocolate needed and the banana he’s mashed already and then the milk. None of it’s measured, but seconds later he has a perfectly smooth batter and is holding it out to me, eyes darting between his bowl and mine. “Why is yours not done,” written all over his face. Like with the eggs, I’ll handle the cooking. Not because Dylan’s not capable, but because he has a fear of the naked flame on the gas stove top.
Grabbing two frying pans from the pot drawer, I put them on the heat, and toss in some butter. “Big?” I ask, holding out my clenched right hand, “or little.” Repeating the same on the left. As expected, Dyl taps my right fist. “Good choice, dude.”
Since I haven’t even cracked my eggs yet, I decide to stick with the pancakes. It’s not the healthiest dinner, but Faith’s not here to judge, and it’s still better than a greasy take away.
I give myself a little pat on the back for a perfect first pour and wait for the bubbles. “This kid on the team, Sam. He thinks I’ve been too hard on your pal, but I’m not so sure. Theoretically I get where he’s coming from. I may not give a shit about fitting in, but Cory does. Spilling the tea was like some kind of ritualistic, bonding experience. Sam also says Cory told him he really likes me, so that’s nice. But also not because he shouldn’t like me ‘cause nothing can happen. It’s just a fucking mess and so bloody typical. Why does the first guy I’ve been into for an eternity have to be out of reach?”
I’m daydreaming now, picturing Cory’s face and staring out the window by the stove, when Dylan shoves me. “Oh, shit. Sorry mate.” I flip the pancake that was seconds from burning and give a half smile to my brother.
“I know this is for the best. Being friends was never going to work, but I miss him, Dyl. Is that weird?” In response, Dyl holds out a plate that’s as empty as I feel. “Here ya go bud. Thanks, for listening.”
I’ve only just poured more batter into the pan, when several loud thumps echo up the stairs and through the open doorway. “What the hell is that?” Cleo is turning circles at my feet, so it’s not her knocking over my stick collection again. Turning off the heat, I mosey over to the entrance to my dungeon, heat rate accelerating with each step, and stick my head into the darkness. “Turn the light on dick.” I lean back, flick the switch then peer in again. For a second there’s nothing, but then three more bangs ring out.
Holy shit, someone is trying to break in through my door.
Pounding so heavily against the door, I may knock it down, kind of defeats the purpose of bypassing the front and sneaking to James’ basement entry, but do I stop? No.
There’s no cars in the drive so I’m not even sure if he’s home, but I just saw Faith in the library, so at least I know she’s not here. And for some reason, my brain memorized Dyl’s routine when I was over for dinner, so I know they should almost be sitting down to eat.
Despite the incessant pounding of my fists, there’s no sign of James. Deciding to give it one more go then try the front like a normal person, I give three more hard knocks, the sigh of relief when the light flicks on. One of the blinds is open, so I can see James’ bed, a book lying atop a pair of neatly folded pajamas sitting by his pillow, as does a teddy bear I definitely didn’t see on the grand tour. Why that bear makes my chest squeeze so hard, I don’t know.
I do know James is going to be pissed, though. Me knocking his door down is diametrically opposed to his ’stay the fuck away from me’ request. I’m just about to try again when his adorable grumpy-ass face pops into the window.
