by G. B. Gordon
Then Jack shakes his head with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. It’s a delightfully crooked smile, higher on one side than the other. “I do apologize. I am so behind.” His drawl is a tad more pronounced than before, turning the Is almost into Ahs. “I had a last-minute customer who was slow as molasses in January. Uphill. Gave me a late start. Dinner’ll be ready directly, though. Just let me get this pie in the oven for dessert.”
“What kind is it?”
“Peach. Margaret’s favorite. She likely won’t eat anything else.” He shrugs a silent What can you do?, then switches the stove off, grabs the rattling pot by stretching a towel over the tilted lid and strains it in the sink. A practiced but alarmingly precarious-looking move.
There are reasons I don’t like to cook. Hot steam definitely being one of them. But watching Jack in the kitchen is fascinating. The rolling pin comes down on the dough, smoothing the blob into a nearly perfect circle, without sticking. Jack’s foot taps time with the music on the radio while his hands flip the circle of dough onto the pie, smoothing here, cutting there. All of it fluid, without hesitation, as if he doesn’t have to think about any of it. He opens the oven door, pulls a roast out, changes the temperature and shoves the pie in. “There. That’ll do just fine.”
He turns toward the door, toward me, and I know I should make room, but I can’t move away from the man any more than a moth could fly away from the light.
Jack tilts his head in an unspoken question, but says, “I’ll go get cleaned up while the meat settles, and then we can eat. Why don’t you take a seat already, and I’ll be in directly.”
That tilted head with the lopsided grin revealing slightly crooked teeth . . . All of that is irresistible to a man with a well-planned and absolutely ordered life. I want to—
Seat. Right. With an effort, I tear my gaze away from the way Jack moves and make my way back to the dining room. The sun has shifted by now and the prisms in the next room are mercifully dim.
Then Jack comes in, clean and shirted, and suspenders back in place. He’s carrying a large tray, the weight of which makes the tendons in his forearms stand out. He smiles, and I’m immediately stuck again.
Dinner passes like that. I need to shake out of it, but I can’t. All the tricks I’ve acquired over the years, that let me make eye contact with people and still be able to hear what they say, have evaporated. I’m breaking all the rules of polite conversation, can’t focus. This is not who I am anymore. I’m in control.
I know I’m staring at him and can’t stop. When he asks something, I know I should answer, but don’t get the question. Cutlery scrapes across china. I finally manage to wrench my focus away from him and to my food.
“. . . or some more water?”
Shit. Is he asking me what I want to drink? “Water’s good.” My voice certainly sounds like I need it.
By the way it smelled earlier, by the practiced way Jack cooked, I can tell I’m eating a fantastic dinner, and yet, I’m gaping at my plate, have no idea what I’m eating, can’t taste whether it’s good or bad.
When Jack smiles, however, I can describe in minute detail the way the corners of his eyes crinkle. And just like that I’m lost again in a familiar muted void, where sound is a distant hum, and I don’t know what he’s talking about. And it’s only getting worse as the pressure and anxiety thicken into a dense fog.
I know I’m doing this to myself, panicking over what he will see. It’s completely out of proportion to the bits of attraction and emotions I feel for a guy I’ve met exactly three times. It’s a fucking feedback loop. I know the signs, the mind-ache, even though nothing like this has happened since I was maybe twelve. It was such a relief to grow out of it, leave it behind. And now it’s back. I know that soon all I’ll hear is the rushing of my own blood.
Why is it back now? When I’m trying to show my best side, so this man will want me to come back? I really don’t need to be the weird guy tonight. I need to get out of here. Go home and regroup while I’m still able to find my way through the streets without stumbling into traffic.
Margaret finishes her pie, and Jack stands and asks something. About coffee maybe? I can’t be sure. I’m done. I have nothing left. I mumble what I hope will be accepted as an apology and flee. I can never show my face here again.
The beep of the alarm startles me awake, sort of. My bones are heavy with dejection before my brain even remembers the details of what I did the night before. Or didn’t do, as it were.
I did not expect to shut down like that. Not that it hasn’t been worse, as in trapped-in-panicked-blank-nothingness worse, but I was a boy then.
I should have just excused myself and disappeared in the bathroom for ten minutes or so. That would probably have been enough to set me straight. But it ambushed me. By the time I realized what was happening, I was already trapped. I feel betrayed by this body, this brain, at the mercy of things I thought long . . . maybe not conquered exactly, but worked around. But I’ll do better next time. I rarely make the same mistake twice.
Especially when I want something to work that much. With anyone else I’d shrug and move on, but Jack is so very alluring. Somewhat flashy and theatrical here and there, maybe, but exhilarating and vibrant and as compelling as gravity. How do you move beyond a man who dances around mops and yells his happiness at the world?
Fuck getting up. I turn on my stomach and pull the pillow over my head. The temptation to stay in bed is a strong one. Only the vision of Jason pounding my door down if I don’t show up is unpleasant enough to push me out of bed. The routine of run, shower, breakfast helps get me into gear again. And, really, that near-shutdown could have been way less manageable. I was perfectly fine to go home under my own steam after all. But I’m still far from lighthearted when I finally lock my door and go downstairs.
I don’t have to wait long for my ride. Jason’s car pulls up at the curb not even a minute after I’ve stepped through the door. We both believe in precise timing. I open the door and slide into the passenger seat with my usual “Good morning.” It’s answered with the usual nod and grunt as I buckle my seat belt. No small talk. Jason has assured me we aren’t friends, that ours is strictly a business arrangement. He gives me a ride to work and back, and I pay him for gas. No chumminess, no chitchat in the car. Not friends. And yet, when I wasn’t at the curb last November because of a bad reaction to new meds, it was Jason who bullied Ellen into opening my door, and who drove me to the hospital. He’s a good guy, Jason.
I don’t challenge the “not friends” rule, though. The taciturn bear of a security guard suits me just fine. Anyone who doesn’t need me to carry on a conversation is an asset in my book. That way I can get my day started on the way to work. I scroll through my messages: Ashley’s sewing machine has given up the ghost, The Leather Guy confirms the shipping of my order, one of the stunt guys has ripped the sole off his boot and needs a new one. Come on. Seriously? How do you rip a sole off a boot? On second thought, maybe I don’t want to know. I send the guy a quick message back not to throw it out, but to bring it in for repair. It’s one of only two pairs of Gabriel’s boots, and the other one is Carter’s, and a different size. I text our electrician, to see if he can check the defective sewing machine. Then I shut my phone off and lean my head back for the rest of the drive. I’m still a little out of it. I would close my eyes, but I don’t want to get carsick.
Jason drops me off in front of the “hangar,” the huge all-purpose structure that’s going to be humming with activity later. This early and on the first day after summer break everything is relatively quiet. Apparently nobody needs morning light for a shoot today. I dig my earphones out and pop them in before entering the building, but hold off on starting my music. Most people get the message about not throwing casual remarks at me when I’ve got my earbuds in. But if Natalya is waiting for me inside, they’re going to be useless. She doesn’t take hints. I’m not sure she’s heard of the word subtle. I scan for her tigress prowl
on my way through the building and breathe a sigh of relief at finding my fortress free of siege.
The costume department has a lockable warehouse for the inventory, but the workstations are set up in the cavernous area we share most closely with props, and more widely with everyone else in the art department. Movable walls are few and far between and hotly contested; they tend to disappear to the indoor stage areas in the next building.
I can’t work with my back to the void. I simply can’t. It gets so that it’s all I can think of; it consumes all my thought space. I’ve instead set up my worktable, desk, and a clothes rack in a U-shape against one of the hangar’s walls, on which my style boards hang—sheets of cardboard covered with images, pieces of material, buttons, and all kinds of equipment from weapons to jewelry. One board for the show as a whole, one for each season, and one for each recurring role.
My colleagues have nicknamed my setup the fortress. I don’t care what they call it. It gives me a barrier against casual invasion of personal space. And I work in a field where I can get away with it. The set teems with crazy artist types; mine is only one idiosyncrasy among many. What matters to the others is that I make the show’s style happen in fabrics and accessories, and that I do it within the production schedule and budget. So most of them have gotten used to the idea of leaving me in peace in the fortress, and heed the large sign on my desk that reads: If you need it done immediately, email or message me. If you want it to be moved to the end of the queue, interrupt me.
It’s not really about the interruption, of course. It’s about noise and lights, faces and body language, everything happening at once and being impossible to tune out. Earphones and written messages give me a chance to sort, field, and deal with whatever comes up. To do my job, and do it well. Makuakāne rule number three: If you want to be part of the normal world, you have to figure out work-arounds. He meant well, my dad, and his rules have helped to a certain extent, but the normal still stings after all these years.
Today, concentrating on the job is more challenging than other times. No matter how firmly I try to stuff last night’s dinner into some recess in my mind, it manages to worm its way back to the front. Deal with me, it says. Fuck it. I’m just going to stick with my decision and never see Jack again. That avoids any threat of a repeat performance, and I won’t have to face giving embarrassing and demeaning explanations.
Tuesdays are grocery days. Ellen drives into Port Angeles to the Safeway, and once she figured out I was taking the bus there, offered me a standing invitation to tag along. She won’t hear of accepting gas money though, arguing that she doesn’t drive any faster or farther for me and would use the same amount of gas if she went alone. Claims she’s glad for the company, and maybe she is. She’s as garrulous as Jason is quiet, but since nobody gets a word in edgewise with her, she doesn’t require any conversational art of me either. At first it was alarming, how she barged into my life with an opinion and suggestion on everything I did or didn’t do, but it’s not like that. She doesn’t really intrude. She uses talk the way I use the bracelets. It makes her feel good. She never interferes and never follows up on her suggestions or asks if I heeded her advice.
So after Jason drops me off at home on Tuesday night, I have a quick bite to eat, then go over my grocery list to make sure I’m not missing anything. The thought of groceries brings back Jack and his smile. Makuakāne rule number eight: Check if their eyes smile when their mouth does, to know if they mean it. It’s not easy to make your eyes smile. I tried. Practiced in front of the mirror, but never managed it. But I know when a smile is expected, and I can see it in others, that real smile. Jack’s eyes smile all right. In a way that makes me want to run my fingers across the crinkles in the corners. Nothing hidden there. Appreciation plainly conveyed, and miraculously not mitigated by my less-than-stellar charm.
Now that he’s reopened the general store, I could buy my groceries in town. I should, really. Eco balance, community spirit, and all that. Jack deserves the business. He not only hung the poster but came to the concert too. And cooked dinner, though that was more Margaret’s idea.
But, and that’s a big but, if I go back, I’ll have to apologize, or at least explain. Ugh. How badly do I want to see Jack again, exactly?
The double honk means Ellen’s started the car and is bringing it around. Better get going. It’s nothing I have to decide right now. But I do wish I could stop thinking about it. About him.
“Heya, sweetheart, how’ya doing? Haven’t seen you all week. You been hiding on me. Look at you. You’re getting skinnier every day. You don’t eat enough . . .” And on and on. I’ve never managed the art of selectively tuning people out and only nodding when an answer is required. My brain’s not wired that way. But since she never stops for an answer at any rate, I can disappear in my own head and let her be.
I should get all my stuff at the Safeway, and be done with it. Stop toying with the idea of leaving anything to get at Jack’s store. What if I go there and Jack doesn’t have what I need? What if it’s the wrong brand? The store seemed to have staples, mostly, and I need something I can eat cold, out of the box, or microwave. I’ve never bothered with a proper kitchen. There’s a sink, a small fridge, and the microwave in my apartment. Ellen calls it a tea kitchen. It’s perfect. I’m not much into food, anyway. If my phone didn’t remind me, I’d forget to eat most of the time. In that, Ellen is definitely right. In any case, if I do decide to go to Your Daley Bread, I can just grab something extra. Something that’s not on the list. Take the pressure off myself. I can decide not to go and be no worse off. Or I can change my mind for the hundredth time and go. And make a complete fool of yourself at the same time. Again. Two for one. Very cheap. The nasty voice in my head never lets an opportunity for a slap-down go by unused.
I make it to Thursday evening without a decision on the seeing-Jack front, when I notice there’s no sugar in the house. I like a cup of tea in the evening, but not without sugar, damn it. I know it was on the list; I don’t make mistakes like that. Subconscious at work? Man, I hate it when I can’t figure myself out.
Right. Time to go get meeting Jack again out of my system.
Of course, when I get to the store, it’s closed. Should have checked the hours last time I was here. I’m too used to the Safeway. But, then a small store like this, with likely only Jack himself working the counter, wouldn’t be able to keep those extended hours. Not if he wants any sort of life. According to the sign by the side of the door he closes at six during the week, noon on Saturdays, and is closed altogether on Sundays. It’s seven thirty.
What the fuck am I even doing here? I should go home, make my fucking tea without fucking sugar, and do my usual craigslist check for any garage or estate sales on the coming weekends. Anything rural enough that I can drive to it. Only thing the beat-up old pickup gets used for these days. At least it gives me a chance to do the junk hunting I like, and that helps me to do my job well. A lot of the crap I find at sales ends up on set. Keeps me within budget and pays for gas and the upkeep of the truck. But no way is the junk hunting going to make me drive in high-traffic areas; I don’t need that kind of stress. Even Port Angeles is stress. Never mind Seattle. That city is stress even when I’m not driving.
I’m already off the steps and back on the sidewalk when I hear a key in the lock behind me. Jack. Opening the door wide. His dark eyes crinkle at the corners and smile right along with his lips. That smile, that’s what I’ve come here for.
“Need emergency rations?” Jack asks.
“Uhm.” Eloquent, Mark. My brain provides me with all the shit I should say, like, Sorry to disturb you so late, or, I should have paid attention to your opening hours when I was here before, but none of that makes it through my fucking useless thought-to-speech translator.
“Sugar,” is what finally comes out.
“I might be able to help you with that. C’mon in.” He steps back to make room for me to pass, then locks up again. “White or brown?”
“Er, white. For tea.”
“Have you ever tried brown sugar in tea? It’s pretty amazing. Gives it a caramel-y flavor.”
Jack’s eyes shine with laughter just lurking under the surface, promising life and things I barely imagine. Together with the wild, dark-brown curls I’m itching to touch, to grab, to twist my fingers into, and that triangular chin, they give him an impish air. But not in a beastly way. Playful. And warm, and inviting, and sometimes downright intimate. Sometimes too intense to look at.
I have to look away. My brain gets stuck when I look at the man. There’s entirely too much going on in his face. What was the question?
“White for now. Thanks. I’ll think about it.” Yeah, have a good long thought about whether trying brown sugar in your tea will bring the world to an end. But don’t tax your brain too hard, buddy. Funny how all the things I’ve heard over and over again in my life have coalesced into this scathing voice in the back of my head that I can’t shut up. At least it helps to prepare me to always expect the worst.
But today the voice is wrong. All Jack says is, “Fair enough,” as he turns to grab a pack of sugar from the shelf behind him. “Just don’t tell my sister I’m selling you this after hours,” he says with a wink. That wink almost has me do a double take. It’s conspiratorial. It makes us a “we.” I reach up to my lips and pretend to zip them, and Jack laughs. “Excellent. I see we understand each other.”
He’s different without his sister around, more intense. All his attention is focused on me. I can’t remember ever having felt more alive.
“I’m glad we came to your concert, Margaret and I.” Jack nods at the poster that’s still hanging on the corkboard. “It was her birthday.” He pauses, and when I don’t say anything, he asks. “Would you like a bag for your sugar?”