by Roan Parrish
Alex allowed himself to indulge briefly in the fantasy that Corbin might clean him off too.
Once her feet were clean, Stick ran off into the house. They’d entered via a small mudroom, and Alex followed Corbin through into the kitchen. Corbin flicked on the light and started filling a bowl with dog food, while Alex looked around in wonder.
The kitchen had whitewashed walls and all natural wood—broad, butcher-block countertops, beautiful hand-carved cabinetry, and thick wood flooring. It had high ceilings, and bundles of dried herbs hung around the large leaded window. There was an oven and six-burner stove that were old but appeared in good condition, with cast iron pans hung above it. On the far wall was a stone fireplace with an iron pot stand.
A large Shaker table held a hand-carved wooden bowl with a few apples and bananas in it, and a mason jar filled with pussy willow branches.
It smelled like dried sage and lemon, candle wax and a hint of woodsmoke.
“Wow,” said Alex. “This is absolutely gorgeous.” Alex knew a kitchen that had been built with love when he saw one.
Corbin hummed and waved him along, turning on lights as he went. As Alex followed him, he only caught glimpses of the living room and front door. At the bathroom, Corbin handed him a towel and left.
The bathroom was a strange color caught between gray and lavender with an indiscernible light gray pattern. No, not a pattern. It was pencil sketches. Someone—presumably Corbin—had drawn all over the walls. Alex could make out pinecones and acorns, leaves and clouds, cats and dogs and birds. He sat on the closed toilet seat to dry off his pants and saw that down near the baseboard were trailing roses with wicked thorns.
He could smell lavender in here, as if to match the color of the walls. The soap next to the sink looked homemade, and he sniffed it. Yes, lavender.
Once he’d cleaned up, he washed his hands with the lavender soap so he could take at least the scent of Corbin’s house home with him.
“Corbin?” Alex walked back toward the kitchen, but Corbin came from the other direction. “Oh, hey. Thanks for the towel.”
Corbin took it from him, and for a moment, the piece of fabric connected them. Then Alex let go and disappointment washed through him.
They walked to the front door, where the wood floor was in worse condition, with dings and dark grooves between the boards.
“Thanks again,” Alex said at the door. He wanted so badly to hug Corbin, or kiss his cheek. Even a handshake would be something. But Corbin had made it clear he didn’t like to be touched, and Alex shoved his hands deep in his pockets so he couldn’t.
“Alex.” It was, he realized, the first time Corbin had ever said his name. Corbin’s voice caught on the x, making the word his own, and it hovered in the air between them. “I . . . I am.”
It took Alex a moment to rewind to the question Corbin was answering.
“Okay. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No. No, I can’t.” Corbin looked away.
“You can’t? Why not?”
Corbin bit his lip and when he his eyes met Alex’s again, he looked sad and lost. Not lost in his thoughts as he so often was, but adrift somewhere. Unmoored. Lonely.
“It’s not worth it. Bad things would happen.”
The phone call jolted Alex from a dead sleep. Gareth.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Are you— Did I wake you? I thought you’d be in the kitchen.”
Alex peeked at his phone. It was 5:02 am. Just around the time he’d usually be getting there.
“I’m off today. Hired another baker. I’ll go in this afternoon to check on everything.” Not just to see if Corbin’s there.
“God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll let you go. Sorry.”
His voice was miserable and panicked in a way Alex had rarely heard it, and the back of Alex’s neck prickled.
“What’s wrong?”
“Um. Well. It’s not . . . I . . .”
“What the fuck did he do, Gareth?” Alex growled. There was only one person who could make Gareth sound like that. Gareth’s husband, Paul.
Alex hated Paul, had hated him from the first time he met him. And Alex did not hate a lot of people.
Paul was smarmy and aggressive and manipulative, and he treated Gareth as his property. Alex had been sure their relationship would never last. Surely, Gareth would call Paul on his shit and wave goodbye. Alex just had to bite his tongue until then. Only Gareth never did wave goodbye; he said, “I do,” instead. In a weekend elopement that he confessed as if ashamed when he saw Alex afterward.
It had been the last straw. Alex had told Gareth exactly what he thought of Paul, and Gareth had flushed red with anger and maybe shame, and hadn’t spoken to Alex for a month. It was the longest they’d ever gone without speaking, and when they’d made up—Alex apologizing sincerely, though his opinion of Paul would never change—it had been with the unspoken agreement that Alex wouldn’t insult Paul again.
Alex had kept his side of that bargain, making up a bed on the couch for Gareth when he showed up with haunted eyes and bruises he covered. Pulling Gareth out of the house to go see silly action movies or drink milkshakes when he found him with tears streaking his face and his mouth set in a grim line. If that was what Gareth needed from him, then that was what he did. But he didn’t have to like it, and after he walked Gareth back home, hands gentle on his friend’s hair, arms soft around his shoulders, Alex would take out his aggression with hard fists on the punching bag in the gym in his building, imagining the bag was Paul’s face and every punch bore his name.
He heard Gareth’s breath stutter and then he heard a muffled whine.
“Gareth.” Alex made his voice soft, gentle. “Talk to me, please. Tell me what happened. I can tell you’re upset and you’re not getting me off this phone until you tell me why. You know how stubborn I am. You know I’ll stay on the phone all day.”
Gareth started to cry—gasping sobs that turned muffled, like Gareth had put the phone down next to him. “I think—” he choked out. “I— He freaked out. He wanted me to quit my job and . . . I don’t know where it came from, but once he— Fuck, I don’t know, once he got it in his head, he just . . . nothing I said . . . he was so mad and he was making no sense. He said people were always looking at me, and I said no one even sees the chef and he—he—he—”
“Gareth, what happened next?”
For a moment Gareth said nothing, and Alex could hear his deep, shuddering breaths. When he spoke next, his words came out in a jumble and he sounded manic, talking about everything except the topic at hand. He talked about a customer at Rouge who’d sent their plate back, and about a dog he’d seen in the park. Alex let him talk for a while, contemplating how terrible the food was in prison as a deterrent from catching the next flight out of Detroit and murdering Paul.
When his friend ran out of steam and started repeating “Um, um, um,” over and over as if waiting for the words to come, Alex said, “I want you to send me a picture.”
“Hmm? Of what?” Gareth asked breezily.
“Of you. Of what he did to you. We both know that I know.”
Gareth made a horrible sound. Alex waited him out. Then the call disconnected. Alex took one deep breath, two, three. He’d call back after ten breaths if Gareth hadn’t sent the picture.
At breath six, a photo lit up his phone and Alex’s breath was gone. The light was dim, but Alex could see enough to be glad he was in Michigan and not able to get his hands on Paul, because he didn’t trust what he might do if he could.
He called back. Gareth answered and said nothing.
“Where are you now?” Alex asked.
“Home.” Gareth’s voice was tiny.
“You’re still there? Is he there?”
“No, he’s . . . He left. After . . . last night, he left. He said he was going out for a while. I think . . . I think he frightened himself.”
Alex’s heart was a hummingbird. He tried not to sound
as scared as he felt.
“Gareth, listen. I think it’d be a good idea if you left. Here, I’ll come with you, okay? Put on some shoes and get your coat, and your wallet, and your phone charger, and take your keys. Then walk out the front door and stay on the phone with me. Okay?”
“I don’t want anyone to see me like this,” Gareth whispered.
“Grab that baseball cap and your sunglasses—the big ones I always tease you for wearing. Get a scarf. Take the stairs. Okay?”
Rustling sounds and then silence.
“Gareth?”
“Okay, I . . . Okay.”
“Okay, let’s leave. You need to leave. Now,” he added, at the silence on the line.
“Okay,” Gareth said again.
Gareth’s breathing was loud, and Alex realized he was standing in the dark, the hand not holding the phone wrapped so tight in his bedclothes that he had no feeling in his fingers. When he heard the hollow echo of Gareth’s footsteps and realized his friend was indeed taking the emergency stairs instead of the elevator, he unwound his hand from the sheets and forced himself to take a deep breath.
“I’m here, Gareth. What floor are we on?”
“Fourth,” Gareth said, his voice echoing.
“Okay, that’s good. Almost done. Remember that year we lived in the fourth floor walkup I sublet from Carly at school? I thought you were gonna kill me.”
“I did want to kill you. But then I realized climbing all those stairs made my ass look fantastic, so I let you live.”
Swing of a door and then another, and then a muffled voice that might have been the doorman, and Gareth’s breath came fast, too fast.
“Where are we now? Are we outside?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay, that’s great. You’re doing great.”
“It’s still there,” he said softly.
“What is, G?”
“The apartment.” His voice sounded wrong. “My life. My whole life. It’s there, in that building. It’s all just there. Oops, I left the light on in the bedroom . . . I should . . . maybe I should . . . I should probably—”
“Gareth! Listen to me. You need to leave now. You need to walk away from the building. Here, go to Ocello’s, okay? They’ll be open. Go to Ocello’s and get a coffee and an almond croissant. That’s what you get there, right? But you need to leave.”
“Alex. Alex. Alex, I think . . . I need to leave.”
“Yeah, that’s right. You need to leave. Let’s go.”
“I need . . . I think I need to leave.”
“Yeah, babe, I think you do.”
“Oh, fuck, Alex, I gotta leave.” Gareth’s voice was high and thin, his teeth chattering.
The pain in Alex’s chest welled into his throat and choked him. His heart was pounding so hard, he could feel its echoes through his ribcage, like the very architecture of his body couldn’t contain his fear.
“Yeah, that’s right,” he choked out. “Let’s go to Ocello’s. Get two coffees—one for me, okay? Let’s go. Now, okay? Now.”
“Okay.”
After a few seconds, Alex heard the hum of traffic and let out the breath he’d been holding.
“We almost there?” he asked.
“Yeah. Alex. I mean, I think I need to leave.”
“Come here, Gareth. Come here.”
The next morning found Alex in the kitchen at And Son, relieved to have only the straightforward task of baking in front of him. He hadn’t made it in to work the afternoon before at all. He’d stayed on the phone with Gareth all day.
Gareth had agreed to come to Michigan for a little while, to get some distance and sort things out. But he needed to talk to his boss at Rouge, who wouldn’t be happy about needing to find a sub at the last minute. Before he could think, Alex pointed out that if she took one look at him, she wouldn’t hesitate to give him the time off, and immediately regretted it at the silence on the line.
It quickly became clear that Gareth didn’t want anyone to see him. He didn’t want to go into a coffee shop, he didn’t want to go to work, he didn’t even want to go to the airport. When Alex finally realized the depth of his repulsion, they agreed that Gareth would check into a hotel for a day or two before he flew.
By dinnertime, Alex was so exhausted that he just went back to bed. He woke up with every noise, his body primed to hear the phone. But Gareth had checked in to the hotel, and had sent Alex a picture to prove it—and to make fun of the decor, which convinced Alex he was feeling a bit more like himself.
Now, with confirmation that Gareth’s plans for the day involved nothing but reality television and room service, and with his phone in clear sight next to him, Alex put flour, eggs, butter, and sugar on the worktable and breathed deeply.
A few hours later, Mira pushed through the doors. “Hey, boss, do you have—whoa. Uh. I was going to ask if you have any more croissants because we’re about out.” She picked up a full tray of croissants and eyed the five other things he was in the middle of. “I’ll just take these. These too.” She took a tray of scones and the blueberry coffee cake, and Alex went back to work.
Hours later, Mira came in again. “Holy mother of god, would you stop for a second?”
Alex glanced around and saw the table full of bread and pastries. The timer on the oven dinged and he pulled out a lemon-lavender pound cake.
Mira shook her head. “Are we expecting some kind of afternoon rush I don’t know about, or are you freaking out?”
“Freaking out. Don’t mind me. Here, take some ginger plum tarts home with you when you leave.”
“Uh, well, I won’t say no to that. You okay? You want to . . . uh, talk or . . .?”
“I’ll be fine, and no, thank you.” Her relief was clear. “Hey, is Corbin in today?”
Mira smirked and nodded, raising one eyebrow.
“How long’s he been here?”
“Since the scones.” Mira measured time based on when they put out new offerings behind the counter.
“Does it look like a long-haul kind of day?”
“Maybe. You want me to . . . give him a message or something?”
“No. I’m almost done.”
“Thank god,” she muttered. “Tell me what I’m selling and I’ll add it to the board.”
It was around three in the afternoon when Alex washed his hands, back and arms tight from working so much dough, and emerged from the kitchen. He felt better, lighter.
Corbin was wearing a moth-eaten red and blue wool sweater and his bleach-speckled black corduroys were threadbare on the knees and thighs. He looked soft and touchable, and Alex was struck with a vision of what it would be like if he had the right to enfold Corbin in his arms, nuzzle his face into the man’s hair or rest his chin on his shoulder. As he’d done two nights before, Alex shoved his hands in his pockets to make sure he didn’t give in to the urge to touch Corbin.
“Hi,” he said, and a jolt of pleasure ran through him when Corbin’s face lit up at the sight of him.
“Hi.”
“How are the dogs?”
“Fine.”
Corbin gestured at the drawing he was working on and pushed the notebook toward Alex. It was Wolf and the rest of the dogs, playing in the yard. But when Alex looked closer, he realized that it wasn’t Corbin or any of his on-page friends that the dogs were piled on top of—it was him.
Corbin had drawn Alex half covered in dogs, but smiling. Alex took in the shine of his hair, mingled blond and light brown, the warmth in his light brown eyes. Corbin had drawn him handsome—handsomer than he was, Alex thought.
“You’re really talented,” Alex said. “I’ve always liked comics a lot. Your style reminds me a little of Fiona Shae. Do you know her stuff?” Corbin shook his head. “Really different subject matter and colors, but it’s got a similar kind of dreamy, magical feel.”
Corbin smiled.
“I don’t want to interrupt you if you’re still drawing, but I made you something. Do you want to come in the k
itchen?”
“You made something specifically for me.” He sounded disbelieving.
“Yeah. I don’t know if you’ll like it, but, yes.”
He’d thought about Corbin’s taste for warm spices and autumnal flavors, wanting to bake him something. Wanting to be able to give him something, since he couldn’t touch him.
Corbin’s eyes went wide when he saw the cake. “It’s a whole cake.”
“It’s a carrot walnut cake with candied ginger and cardamom frosting.”
“You made me a cake.”
Alex suddenly felt very silly. “I did. I— You don’t have to take it. I just was thinking of you. And I baked it for you.”
“No one’s ever made me a cake before,” Corbin said.
“Not even for your birthday when you were little?”
He shook his head, then stared at Alex. “What’s wrong. You’re all different today.”
“Bad day yesterday. My best friend in New York got hurt, and I’m not exactly sure how to help him.”
“I’m sorry,” Corbin said, stepping closer. Alex could smell him. A breath of fresh green nature that cut through the sweetness and yeast of the kitchen. “Will he be okay.”
“I hope so.”
“You . . . Did you bake me a cake because your friend was hurt.”
Alex’s head snapped up. “No.”
But hadn’t he? He’d felt unable to protect Gareth, and his mind had wandered to the way he wished he could protect Corbin, and since Corbin was as skittish as a stray, he did the only thing he could think to do. He baked.
“Well, not exactly. I baked for you because I like you and I wanted to give you something that might make you . . . happy.” He flushed. It sounded childish.
But Corbin was blinking at him, paying attention. He opened and closed his mouth and then he smiled, a slow, sweet smile.
“Do you want to taste it? It’s okay if you don’t like it.”
Corbin nodded, and Alex handed him a fork. Corbin stuck the fork in the cake like he was getting away with something. Alex swallowed hard as he watched him eat it, struck again by the intimate pleasure of watching Corbin consume something he’d made. Reel it in, Barrow, and stop perving on the guy eating cake.