Recipe for Romance

by Snyder, J. M.

  A glance at the dashboard clock made him hit the accelerator once he was out of the school zone. He really was going to be late.

  Chapter 2

  Preston couldn’t remember much about being Abby’s age, except when he had been at eight years old, thirty-two seemed like a mythical number he’d never reach. Yet it had crept up on him slowly, year by year, and some days it still took him by surprise when he looked in the mirror and saw the grown man staring back. What had happened to the roguish kid he used to be, or the handsome teenage heartthrob, or the big man on campus? When had his muscles begun to soften into love handles and his six-pack abs melt into a dad’s belly?

  And God, please, somebody tell him when those first strands of gray had crept into his dark brown hair? Not only at his temples, either; he’d spotted the first one on his chin while shaving the other morning, and there were a few in his pubes and on his chest, too, advancing like weeds in an otherwise pristine patch of grass.

  Damn, he wasn’t only growing up. He was growing old.

  It wasn’t just the reflection staring back at him from the mirror that gave it away, either. It was in his changing tastes, the clothes he wore, the music he listened to, the fact that he watched the news at night when he got home from work, the same way his own father used to when he was younger. Even the guys who caught his eye now were older, like himself. The other day when he was in the grocery store with Abby, a couple of frat boys from State were goofing off in the cereal aisle, and the first thought that came to Preston’s mind wasn’t, Hmm, nice ass, but rather, Watch your language around my daughter.

  Face it, Pres, he told himself, you’re one step away from Hawaiian shirts and porch chairs, and yelling at kids to stay off your lawn.

  He’d thought of telling Tess about it in an off-hand, joking way, so she wouldn’t think he was in the grip of some sort of midlife crisis. It couldn’t be that, could it? A midlife crisis at thirty-two would mean, logistically, that he had reached the middle of his life, and thus had only another thirty-two years left to go. What had seemed unattainable at eight suddenly seemed all too close, and he didn’t want sixty-four rushing up on him any time soon.

  So he kept his mouth shut, and kept his thoughts locked up in the quiet of his own mind, where no one else would be able to hear them. He even went so far as to make a pact with himself—he wouldn’t consider himself old until he pulled his socks up to his knees and wore them with shorts and sandals. Out in public. And yelled at kids on his lawn.

  Note to self: let Abby play in the grass whenever she wants, he added silently, for as long as she wants. Tell her to bring over her friends.

  If it was true what they said about kids keeping a person young, then Preston had nothing to worry about. The way Abby kept him on his toes, he’d never die.

  * * * *

  Back in high school, Preston Andrew Pruitt and Teresa Louise Williamson had been the It Couple. Everybody wanted to know them, be them, or be with them. King and Queen of the prom, star athlete and head cheerleader, Mr. and Mrs. Perfect. If they ever bothered to go to any of their reunions, their former classmates would not have been the least bit surprised to learn that not only did Preston and Tess still know each other, but they had a child together, as well.

  What would’ve scandalized the Class of 2000 was that not only were they not married, but they never had been. Abby had been conceived in vitro because Tess wanted a baby and asked Preston to be the father. They weren’t married, weren’t dating; they weren’t even lovers, and never had been, even back in high school.

  They were both gay.

  Preston had always been one of those unabashedly handsome guys with dark hair and soulful eyes who found themselves the center of attention as if by accident. Academics and athletics both came easy to him. He was a straight A student and played sports all four years of high school—all sports, from basketball to football to track, anything that got him outdoors and on the playing field, and would look good on a college application.

  Or, at least, that’s what he had told his parents.

  In reality, the only reason Preston joined all those sports teams was to gain access to the locker rooms. He’d always known he liked guys—really liked them, in the way other guys liked girls—but he didn’t have the words to put those feelings into and didn’t know anyone who felt the same way he did. Hanging around the locker rooms with other boys his own age dressed only in towels or jockstraps or, God forbid, buck-ass naked were guaranteed cheap thrills that fueled his wet dreams and masturbatory fantasies all throughout high school. As long as he didn’t stare openly or look at one guy for too long, no one suspected anything. No one ever suspected the school’s attractive all-star athlete of being queer as a three dollar bill.

  Plus, Tess was the perfect cover.

  Blonde and bubbly, Tess Williamson was the kind of girl everyone envied. She had it all—looks, money, personality—and she had it in spades. If she hadn’t been so damn nice to everyone, she would’ve been the school’s resident bitch, but she didn’t seem to realize she had that option. She said hi to everyone in the halls, no matter who they were, what class they were in; hell, she even spoke to teachers, and treated the Special Ed kids as if they were human, which was an unheard of concept in her clique-ridden high school. Her family moved to Colonial Pines the start of her freshman year, and it didn’t take long before everyone knew her, or knew of her, and liked what they saw.

  But underneath it all, Tess had a secret, one few suspected. The girl who knew everyone, who smiled throughout the day and waved and laughed, the perky young teen with the smooth hair and flawless skin who made the cheerleading squad on her first try even though they never took freshmen, ever…the real girl underneath the thick mascara and lip gloss had no friends.

  Oh, she knew people. She knew everyone, in fact, and they knew of her. They knew her father was military, and her family had lived all over the world, and they’d just transferred to Fort Lee from a long stint overseas in Germany. But they didn’t know her because she wouldn’t let them. No one would have liked her if they knew the real Tess. Like how her father had taken her to the shooting range with him once when she was eight only to discover she was a crack shot with a dead eye. Or how she wanted nothing more than to shear off her long hair into a crop cut, smear some camouflage paint over her face, and disappear into the woods for a wilderness weekend.

  Or how attracted she was to Heather Griggs, the lead cheerleader who had given Tess a fierce, sisterly hug when she was accepted to the squad and whose breasts had felt like twin pillows pressed against Tess’s own.

  No one knew those things because no one asked, thank God, and she didn’t offer up the information, either. At first, it seemed easy to slip into the role they wanted her to play—pretty, popular girl, maybe a little ditzy at times, but not too dumb, because she had to keep up her grades if she wanted to get into the Army like her father when she graduated. Cheerleading kept her busy, and distracted, all those tight, teenage bodies pressed together on the school bus as they traveled together between games and practices, the girls comfortable with each other, never once suspecting their innocent brushes might mean anything more to her.

  But it was wearying, and things came to a head one evening in late fall after the homecoming game. Their team had won by a landslide, 63 to 14, and as fans filed out of the high school football stadium, Tess overheard a lot of drunken laughter and more than one person call out, “Did the other team even show up?” She stood by the base of the bleachers with the rest of the squad, shivering in her barely there skirt and V-neck crop top, watching Heather out of the corner of her eye. Heather was high on their win and still cheering about it; with every shake of her pom-poms, her bosom jiggled and threatened to spill out of her top.

  Please, God, Tess prayed, watching her squad leader covertly. I’ve never wanted anything my whole entire life more than I do this right here. Where was a wardrobe malfunction when she needed it?

  Suddenly a coupl
e of dirty, sweaty football players came barreling in off the field. The cheerleaders grew louder, showing their appreciation, and a couple of the guys broke away from the pack to scoop up their girlfriends in victory. Tess looked away in disgust, but not before she saw two grimy hands cover Heather’s pristine white shirt, stretched taut across her ample breasts. “Shane!” Heather shrieked in delight, turning into her boyfriend’s embrace.

  That was it, the breaking point, the final straw. Tess couldn’t stand it anymore. Who was she kidding? This wasn’t her scene; these weren’t the type of people she wanted to hang out with. Tossing down her pom-poms, she stormed off, hot tears burning her eyes. Someone might have called her name, but if they did, she didn’t stop, just kept walking for the dark, empty space beneath the bleachers where she could be by herself with nothing but the ache in her heart for company.

  Why was life so unfair? Did she have to go through four whole years of this crap before she could become who she knew she truly was inside? She didn’t want to wait that long. She didn’t think she had it in her to suffer in silence all alone.

  * * * *

  Preston knew Tess as “the new girl” in high school, and he’d said hi to her in the halls, but he was a grade above her so they didn’t have classes together. The only time they hung out was at football events, games or rallies or practices, since the cheerleaders were always on the fringes of the team. Most of the girls dated most of the guys, and he knew many of them had their eyes on him because he wasn’t with anyone yet. He’d dated a few of the girls, but never the same one more than once. He was only a sophomore, so there wasn’t too much pressure on him to date, but as his prowess on the playing field grew, his teammates were starting to ask him when he’d settle on that special someone.

  He didn’t have the nerve to tell them his crush wasn’t on any of the cheerleaders, but on Shane McAllister, the team’s tight end. And damn, what a tight end that senior had, too!

  But no, Preston had to keep that part of him hidden, tamped down deep inside where no one would see it. If any of his teammates knew he watched them undress in the locker room, or snuck peeks of them while they showered, or enjoyed the towel slapping and jock snapping that went on after a winning game, he’d be kicked off the team in a heartbeat, no matter how well he played. He’d go out with the cheerleaders if he had to, and he’d pretend to enjoy himself until graduation. Then he’d leave the small-minded Virginia town behind and head out for someplace where he might actually meet the man of his dreams, not some hotheaded redneck jock like Shane but someone he could love, someone who would sweep him off his feet.

  His teammates would have found it hard to believe that their up-and-coming football star wanted nothing to do with a career in the NFL or pro ball. Instead, Preston had his sights set on culinary school in New York City, and hoped to earn his chops as sous chef at a restaurant working for one of the big names in fine dining—Wolfgang Puck, perhaps, or Gordon Ramsey. One day he might even open a high end eatery of his own, a surf and turf Asian fusion bistro he hoped to call Pruitt Place. Or maybe simply Preston’s, all done up in green neon lights against a red brick facade. In an arts district somewhere, so his clientele would be on their way to the latest shows in the early evening, and he could catch the cast and crew in the later hours, as well.

  Thoughts of his own restaurant filled his head whenever he was out on the football field. Fortunately the game came easily to him; the ball would sail effortlessly into his hands, his feet would run on their own accord, he’d push through the defense with a bone-thudding impact that left players falling in his wake. All the while, his mind was on the color scheme of his restaurant’s interior, and the lighting, and the table arrangement, and should the bar be cherry or oak?

  Even after the game was won and they relinquished the field, Preston followed behind his teammates in a daze, lost in a world where he was welcoming New York mayor Rudy Giuliani to Pruitt Place. Or maybe Preston’s. “Is this your first visit?” he’d say.

  As he approached the cheerleaders, he saw Shane manhandle Heather what’s-her-face and suppressed a groan. Preston could’ve suggested somewhere else Shane could’ve put those large, rough hands of his, if only he were interested. Preston’s balls clenched at the thought, and filed it away for later. Something to enjoy in the shower when he got home, perhaps.

  Suddenly one of the newer cheerleaders threw down her pom-poms and stormed off. It was Tess, one of the few girls not paired up with a player on the football team. “Tess!” another of her squad called out.

  Tess ignored her, making a beeline for the bleachers. With her shoulders hunched and her arms hugged across her chest, she was obviously upset about something, but the other girls exchanged confused looks. What the hell?

  Preston surprised himself by offering, “I’ll go see what’s wrong.”

  * * * *

  He found her way back in the corner under the bleachers where the marching band had sat during the game. She had her arms folded against a metal strut, her forehead resting on her arms, and was sobbing softly. As he approached, he kicked through the empty soda cans and beer bottles to make a little noise so he wouldn’t startle her. Still, when he reached out to touch her shoulder, he felt her stiffen at his touch.

  “Hey,” he said softly, “it’s alright.”

  Tess sniffled loudly and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “No, it isn’t. I hate this, all of it. You don’t understand.”

  “You might be surprised.” Leaning against the strut, Preston smiled down at her. When she didn’t look up at him, he tucked her hair behind her ear and asked, “Want to talk about it?”

  “No.” The word came out like an angry accusation, as if her tears were somehow his fault.

  “Can I guess, then?”

  That caught her off-guard, finally. She glanced up and ran a finger under her eyes to wipe away any makeup that might have streaked underneath. Sniffling again, she shrugged. “Fine, you can try. But you only get three tries. You won’t get it.”

  “But if I do,” Preston said, “then you have to let me take you out for ice cream.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Like a date?”

  “No, just ice cream.” Preston smirked. “And if I don’t get it, you have to take me out. How’s that sound?”

  With a startled laugh, she agreed. “Okay, deal. So what’s your first guess?”

  Preston squinted up at the underside of the bleachers and tried to remember what had happened right before she ran off. “Um, you’re secretly in love with Shane McAllister, and you’re upset because he’s with that other girl.”

  “Heather Griggs,” Tess said softly. “And no. Well—no. God, no. I’m not in love with Shane. Strike one.”

  But he’d caught her hesitation and smirked. “But you are in love with Heather.”

  Without warning, Tess punched him in the chest, hard enough to send him staggering back. Her face turned a mottled shade of red from her chin to the roots of her hair. “What?” she shrieked. He’d obviously struck a nerve. “Where the hell do you get off—no! She’s my—go away, will you? Go—”

  “Stop!” He caught her wrists as she flailed out at him. “Tess, listen to me, stop it! Calm down, please!”

  “Let me go!” She struggled against him, twisting in his grip. When she couldn’t break free, she lashed out with her legs, kicking his shins. She aimed for his knees but he still wore his pads, thank goodness. Still, it was like trying to hold a viper, twisting and twining, wearing him down. Through clenched teeth, she growled, “Let go or I’ll scream! Let go!”

  Finally he managed to get her turned around so she faced away from him. That stopped the kicking, and he could pull her in close against him without getting struck by her fists. Folding his body around hers, Preston leaned over her and whispered, “Tess, listen! Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “There’s no secret,” she hissed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not a dyke!”

  “No?” P
reston felt his heart hammering in time with her own, which beat furiously against his chest. “I saw how upset you got over her and Shane, and if you don’t like him, then you must like her.”

  “I don’t,” Tess insisted, close to tears again. “Ple-e-e-ease.”

  “It’s okay.” Pressing his lips to her ear, he assured her, “I understand, I do, I told you I did. You see, I like Shane.”

  Suddenly she stopped struggling. Her crying ceased. “What?”

  “I’m gay, too,” he said. “You aren’t the only one.”

  A weight lifted from him at the admission. It felt so good to tell someone, anyone, at last.

  “Now, about that ice cream…”

  Chapter 3

  It was only eight minutes after eight when Preston hurried through the back door of the River City Restaurant, but from the glare his boss threw his way, one would’ve thought he was sauntering in somewhere around noon instead. Ignoring Roger Adams, Preston grabbed a clean apron from the hook in the storeroom and slipped it over his head, then tied it around his waist and leaned over the stainless steel utility sink to wash up. He gave his hands a vigorous scrubbing even though he’d done nothing to get them dirty and wouldn’t actually be touching the food itself, then dried them on his apron as he stepped out into the kitchen.

  Roger was still giving him the stink-eye from over by the short order grill. “You’re late,” he growled.

  “Five minutes,” Preston shot back, raising his voice over the sound of the metal spatula scraping the cast iron grill. “Traffic’s a bear this time of the day and you know it.”

  “Try closer to ten.” Raising one arm, Roger tapped his watch so Preston got the point. “I need you here for the morning shift. I’m already cutting you some slack letting you come in at eight as it is.”

  “I have to drop off Abby at school,” Preston told him.