by Peter Styles
Jen drops him off in the morning, running to get a few supplies before opening, and Rowan is left at the shop to wait for Stephen. He feels something simmering in his chest the entire time—some sort of dread coupled with anticipation and nervousness. He keeps thinking about his conversation with Lina, caution and reminders piling up in the back of his mind.
“Morning.”
Rowan almost jumps when Stephen gets in, the other man cautiously moving around the shop as if he’s waiting for a mine to go off. Or maybe like he’s expecting Melissa to ambush him.
“Morning. Sleep well?” Rowan tacks the last part on without thinking, trying not to let his face show how much he regrets the trite question.
Stephen pauses, not quite looking at him. “I guess. Where’s Jen?”
“She went to pick something up from the store, I think,” Rowan offers. Oh, God, this is just as awkward as I thought it would be. He very much wants to be anywhere else in the world. Except now he knows that he can’t give up. He has to say something. “I, um, wanted to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“I wanted you to understand why I didn’t say anything. Yesterday,” Rowan tries, knowing he should be starting up the coffee machine but also knowing he needs to clear the air.
“It’s fine. It wasn’t your problem,” Stephen says evenly, turning away to start the first batch of eclairs.
“No, it was. I need you to know that I do care,” Rowan emphasizes, “and I should have said something because I know how hard you’re working, how much you actually want to change—”
“You don’t know that,” Stephen says. It’s the same tone of voice he used before, like he’s trying not to get emotional but he feels everything that’s happening with acute sensitivity.
“I do. When we went out with Jen, you had one drink and then you didn’t go to the bar that night. Then you told me you were taking time off from the bars. You seem to really want it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Wow, original,” Rowan jokes sarcastically, trying to take the edge off by smiling. “I know it’s hard. I know you feel like you ruined things with Melissa and you’re sabotaging them with Jordi. I know. But I’ve seen the decisions you’ve made this past week. And that’s all there is to it. One night at a time. Change as it happens. You don’t have to plan the next twenty years.”
It’s more than he’s ever really said before. More than I would ever try to tell someone. Except his heart is beating too fast and all he can think about is how much he wants to do this right. I want him to be better. He feels selfish for thinking it though, as if he’s saying I want him to be better for me. No matter what, he tells himself, the least he can do is help Stephen back onto his feet. Anything else is secondary.
“I messed up,” Stephen says quietly. “I expected her to give up on me, you know. Melissa.”
“I get that,” Rowan tries, “and I know you were with her for a long time, right?”
“I was. But that’s not even it. I just…she kept looking after me, even after she didn’t need to anymore. For her to just give up…”
“I don’t think she will,” Rowan says, thinking. Should I? Is it too much? He tries to approach it as carefully as possible. “But…maybe it’s good that she’s done. Maybe you need space from her—from what you went through—to heal. From what I saw, it seems like she brings up the past for you. And it may not be on purpose but it isn’t helping.”
“I screwed up in the past,” Stephen reminds him, even though he looks a little less miserable.
“Yeah. But going back isn’t going to help anything. You need to focus on moving forward. On now.”
He’s not sure if he gets through to the man but for the rest of the day, Stephen doesn’t seem as downtrodden as he did before. Maybe this can work. Maybe.
11
He still feels a sting from Rowan’s decision not to speak up in front of Melissa. It had hurt—he’d expected some support; just a little, really. Not an outright argument but something to help him up. Something to help show Melissa that Stephen was doing better. That things had changed in a week.
So much had changed.
He’d felt…different, after the week with Rowan. Not changed but faced with the possibility of change. It was better than he expected—as if all of his stress and self-doubt had evaporated. Something about the way Rowan put him at ease and made him forget about his past had helped him. Laughing each night, talking about happy memories, sharing their individual passions and dreams. He went to work each morning after without thinking about his failures—at least until Melissa showed up. Her argument just brought everything back again and he was left hopeless afterwards.
He didn’t go drinking that night, after seeing Melissa. He felt the compulsion to go and then something soured in his mouth. He was standing in front of his bed, thinking about the last time Rowan was there, and he hated to replace the taste of vanilla with the burn of whiskey. No matter how much Rowan had turned away, Stephen couldn’t help but wish for what they’d had. Not just the night they were intimate, but the simplicity of every night they had spent together and how nothing else had mattered. How there weren’t any questions or expectations.
Rowan trying to prove that he cared had just bolstered Stephen’s hope. Just a tiny bit; just enough for him to convince himself he could try...that there was a possibility. Still, no matter what he wants, he knows he can’t jump into anything again...not now that he’s felt pushed away once. He’s not about to jump back into bed again. He feels too old and too beaten for that kind of casual thing. He can’t stop caring about Rowan, though. Rowan just…cares, no matter how unaffected he is by everyone else. Stephen both wants to learn from him and show him just how to loosen up. Stephen isn’t sure how he ended up being one of the people Rowan likes, but he knows enough to know it’s a rare gift. He can’t lose it.
“What are you doing tonight?” Stephen asks without hesitation because he’s thought about it since last night. He knows his questions and he knows the ways Rowan could answer.
Rowan looks up from his line of cinnamon rolls, eyes wide as if caught by surprise. He hurriedly starts lining up another row, looking for all the world as if he’s running through an inner monologue. It makes Stephen want to laugh a little bit. He’s so cute.
“Um—going home? What…you think I’m flying off on a private jet? That’s only every other Friday.”
Stephen snorts, shaking his head. Okay, I planned for everything but his sarcasm. Which is, arguably, the only thing I could count on from him. Rowan’s smiling, a little more relaxed, which is good. I need him calm for this.
“Want to get dinner after work? Properly, this time.”
Rowan pauses. Stephen tries to keep working, acting as if it’s routine. He needs Rowan to know this is just a simple invitation; nothing attached. No sex; no helping the less fortunate. He’s just planning on something basic. Two friends going out. The fact that they’ve had sex—kind of—means nothing...or it does, but not in this context.
“Sure. Ideas?”
“Just one. You like Italian, right?”
“Sure,” Rowan smiles, finishing his tray. “What are we celebrating?”
“Adjustable shower heads.”
Rowan laughs harder than before and Stephen smiles inwardly. Good. This is good. Being on the same side feels so much better to him than not knowing who to trust. At least if he has Rowan he knows what to expect. He knows to expect the sarcasm and the quiet and the patient pragmatism. The truth, even when he doesn’t really want to hear it.
The day goes well. They work together better than even their first week of being friendly; they know each other’s routines and quirks now. Rowan always works on Stephen’s right side and he always grabs an extra spoon when mixing, knowing Stephen will forget his. Stephen passes Rowan extra flour for the table before mixing dough, sure that Rowan won’t have enough from his handful. Things do work so much more seamlessly with both men navigating with
each other instead of just around each other. It’s as if they finish each other’s sentences, except they’re just passing ingredients and ducking away from lowering oven doors.
“That was fast,” Jen says, raising her eyebrows as Stephen slips a new tray of croissants into the case.
“Guess so. Productive day,” he shrugs, balancing the empty tray in his hand. Jen looks him over, a question flickering over her face.
“You know, it’s been a lot neater since you and Rowan have stopped bickering.”
“Who says we stopped?” Stephen replies, raising an eyebrow. Jen narrows her eyes at him, suspicious.
“Hey, asshole, I hate you. Also, the brownies are done,” Rowan supplies, leaning against the door to the kitchen.
“Thanks, jerk. Why don’t you crawl back under your mixing bowl for the rest of the week.”
They’re both grinning like idiots. Jen rolls her eyes and Rowan snickers, holding the door as Stephen slips into the kitchen. They let the doors swing shut, preparing to unload the oven, and then Jen yells back at them.
“You’re both weirdos!” she yells, leaning through the swinging doors for a brief moment.
“Be still, my heart,” Stephen snorts.
“She’s a real charmer,” Rowan grins.
Stephen feels more and more positive as the day passes—he and Rowan are more comfortable around each other again, even if Stephen keeps pulling back from too much contact. I just need someone to be on my side, he thinks, and being together would probably be a little too hasty. Not that he isn’t interested—the other night is proof enough of that. It’s just that he knows with heavy certainty that it would be irresponsible and damaging to get into a relationship when he’s still trying to convince himself every moment of the day not to drink to forget.
He doesn’t get nervous until right around closing. Was this a bad idea? He reminds himself that it’s not a date. That doesn’t stop him from dropping a spatula, though, which he has to rewash three times after dropping it again. Jen gives him a look when she comes in from the front to find him dropping it again.
“God damn it,” he mutters, throwing it into the sink.
“You tell that spatula, Stephen. It’s not the boss of you,” Jen says, grinning.
“I’m just hungry,” Stephen says by way of excuse, trying to concentrate on not dropping anything as he finishes up the rest of the dishes.
“Good thing we’re getting dinner,” Rowan muses, walking past with an empty cardboard box.
“Dinner?” Jen echoes, her smile slowly widening. Stephen resists the urge to sigh. It takes a lot of energy he doesn’t have.
“Yes, Jen. You know, the meal most humans eat in the evening. The last one of the day. Typically heavier than breakfast and lunch, although we’ve been told it should, in fact, be the lightest.”
“Okay, smartass. Guess I won’t have to drive your mopey butt home.”
Stephen snorts at that. He almost tunes Jen and Rowan out as he keeps working. The banter fills a gap he’s been pretending isn’t there.
He remembers being a kid in a quiet house. He’d turn the television on sometimes just to stop the silence from invading his mind. The kitchen was off-limits; he wasn’t allowed to touch anything and he was always terrified his mother would know, when she came home late, that he had done something. Most days he just let the radio or television murmur in the background while he drew, crayons filling up pages with cakes and carrots and all kinds of images copied from ads and magazines. He was kind of a tiny masochist, drawing all the things he couldn’t have—and when his mother got home, he would shove his things under the bed and wait for her to make pasta like she usually did, a cheap attempt to soak up the wine she usually polished off on her way back home.
Sometimes the fruit compote Jen makes reminds him of the wine his mother used to drink. He still can’t really bring himself to drink anything red. It feels wrong.
“Ready?” Rowan pulls Stephen out of his mind, untying his apron.
“Yeah. Yes,” Stephen corrects, shaking his head to rid himself of the memories. He can tell there’s a brief flash of worry and hesitation in Rowan’s eyes but the man seems to brush it away, instead opting to smooth things over. Pretend.
Rowan stays relatively quiet until they’re in the car, driving away from the bakery. He fidgets in his seat, knee jumping and then stopping self-consciously. His fingers tap on the side of the car door and then stop, twisting in his shirt. Stephen raises his eyebrows.
“Sorry. I, uh—I’m not used to not knowing where I’m going.”
“What, you? A control freak? I never would have guessed,” Stephen says, feigning surprise. Rowan gives him a pretend dirty look.
“Ha, ha, Rowan likes to know where he’s going, so funny. It’s good to know where you’re going,” he argues, “just in case you need to prepare.”
“We’re eating Italian, not going to war.”
“Food is war.”
Stephen laughs. He’s strange. A good strange, though. He feels a little privileged—as if he’s getting to see a side of Rowan that rarely comes out. The snappy comments and jokes all seem like tiny bits of gold. Precious moments. Stephen wants to collect them, hoarding them away to look back on after a bad day. He thinks they might make the world a little brighter.
Whoa. Too far. He draws himself back a little, adjusting his body to sit straighter.
He pulls into Sevini’s after fifteen minutes of driving, thankful he’s had time to pull himself together. He gets the feeling he’s going to need his composure.
“I don’t know if I ever came here,” Rowan admits, shoving his hands into his pockets as he follows Stephen in. “Maybe I just don’t remember.”
“Maybe. It’s pretty popular,” Stephen muses, waiting to be seated. He recognizes the girl that walks up to them, her reddish-brown ponytail swinging with each step.
“Stephen! How are you?” she beams, pulling him into a hug.
“Good, Delancey. How’s the book coming along?”
“Almost finished,” she winks, “just doing some editing. Who’s your friend?” Stephen doesn’t miss the way she slides her gaze towards Rowan, something sly in her expression.
“Rowan,” Stephen introduces him, “he’s Jen’s cousin. Came down to help at the shop for a little while.”
“Rowan,” Delancey smiles, “Good to meet you. It’s nice to see Stephen finally bringing someone in. I was getting sad just watching him eat alone.”
She softens the words with a reassuring hand at his arm. He can’t really argue with her. He did probably look like a sob story, sitting in a corner booth with a plate piled high with pasta. It’s not my fault I like to eat a lot after working out, he thinks, and I’m tired when I come in. He doesn’t say anything, though, instead weaving through booths as Delancey sits them at a table in the back corner.
“You two get comfortable,” she smiles, “I’ll send someone over for drinks and orders in a few.”
“Thanks, honey,” Stephen smiles, waving her away.
“Are you sure you’re not working part-time as the mayor?” Rowan asks drily. The corner of his mouth twitches as if he’s fighting the urge to smile. Stephen smirks, wondering if he can get Rowan to crack.
“You caught me. Don’t tell Jen. I’m about to pass a new citywide tax to pay for my luxury condo in Miami.”
“Oh, she won’t like that. You know how vocal she gets about things she doesn’t like.”
“Of course. So, there will be a nice little donation to the bakery and Jen can get those ice cream machines she’s been harping about for the past three years.”
“Ice cream machines?” Rowan asks, finally breaking into laughter. “What the hell are we going to use ice cream machines for?”
Stephen almost forgets what he’s supposed to be worrying about. They pick up where they left off before Melissa showed up, and talk about unimportant things—whether pie or cake is better and whether it’s reasonable to assign three hours of homew
ork per class in college—and eat between sentences, somehow carving a little world for themselves in the back of the restaurant. Rowan drops a bowtie pasta on the floor and Stephen pokes fun at him. Stephen almost spills his water, fumbling for the cup as it stutters at the edge of the table, and Rowan has to hide his face behind a cloth napkin to stop laughing.
“I think you’re going to have to roll me home,” Rowan says when they finish, elbows lazily braced on the table.
“I could put you in the bed of the truck,” Stephen snorts, “I’m sure that’ll be fun.”
“Please don’t. I once lost a baseball cap on the back of a truck. I’m traumatized.”
The waiter comes to pick up their dishes and slips a black checkbook onto the table. Stephen reaches for it and at the same time, Rowan does. Their hands meet over the folder, bumping awkwardly, and the tiny touch somehow upends everything. Stephen can feel his face heating up.
“I’ve got it,” he tries to say, waving Rowan away, but the other man just raises an eyebrow, slipping it away with an easy smile.
“My turn,” Rowan reminds him, twirling the pen over in his fingers. That looked nice, Stephen thinks numbly. What else is he good at—he stops himself quickly, trying to force himself to think of something—anything else.
Anything else but Rowan’s hands on his skin and his mouth...
“Thanks for coming,” Stephen says, a little too loud, and then he realizes what he’s just said is probably the most awkward choice he could have made. Kill me now. He feels like a stupid teenager again, trying and failing miserably to pretend he doesn’t have a massive crush on someone.
“I mean, how could I turn down food?” Rowan jokes. His smile is softer than before, as if he realizes the shift in tone.
How is he so good at making people feel comfortable? Stephen feels like he’s the one following when they leave the restaurant; he almost gives up the driver’s seat for a second, feeling like he’s the one being treated rather than the other way around.