A New Beginning

by Peter Styles

  “You and Jen are really close,” Stephen says before he can figure out why. “You grew up together?”

  Maybe he’s thinking about Jordi when he says it. She’s a single child, after all. Or maybe he’s thinking about his own childhood, devoid of any relatives or siblings. Maybe he just really wants to know how Rowan is so good at being…good. At putting other people at ease.

  “Yeah. We’re more like siblings than cousins,” Rowan smiles, looking out the window. “She was always more outgoing than me, though—and we’re not the same age, so we weren’t usually in the same friend group. It was still good, though. We grew up learning about baking from her father—my uncle.”

  “So that’s why you two can bake in your sleep,” Stephen jokes. “I can never catch up.”

  “You’re good,” Rowan insists immediately, turning in his seat suddenly, “Really great. You know when to start every batch and you know all the ins and outs of the shop. I might be able to make things, sure, but that doesn’t mean I know anything about the shop. I’d like to but I…gave that up, I guess.”

  Stephen has to take a moment to absorb the litany of compliments. He feels a little warm from them—he was always a little unsure about his place at the shop, even if he’s aware of how much he knows. Something derails his train of thought, though.

  “What do you mean, gave it up?”

  “I kind of…ran away for college and never came back,” Rowan says uneasily. He turns back towards the door a little, an arm crossing over his chest. Closing himself off.

  “But you did come back. You came to help—and Jen was happy; I’m pretty sure your aunt and uncle wouldn’t shut you out even if you broke the oven,” Stephen smiles, trying to poke at the man gently.

  He’s gifted with probably the best sight he’s seen all day. Rowan smiles, genuine and warm, and his eyes seem to melt like pools of gold. God, I love his eyes, Stephen thinks.

  “Thanks. But I still went off on a completely different path. Sometimes…I kind of wonder what it would be like if I’d stayed. Worked at the shop. I do love baking.”

  “You could still do it,” Stephen tries, hoping he doesn’t sound too pushy or excited. “You’re obviously good at it and if you like it more, why not? There’s time. There’s always time.”

  He pulls up to the guest house as he’s talking, stopping quietly in front of the door. Rowan stays in his seat for a moment, pondering. Stephen waits for him to speak, wondering what will happen. It’s true. There’s time. And maybe that would mean I’d get to see him more. Take time to learn about him. He feels like they accidentally skipped a lot their first night together, either because of exhaustion or pent-up frustration and desire. He wants to go back, to the part before sex. To the trust he’s missing.

  But Rowan tugs his seatbelt off and then turns to Stephen, something unreadable in his expression. He leans over the tiny space between them and Stephen feels his breath hitch, panic and excitement and confusion swirling in his head. Everything seems to evaporate when Rowan kisses him, quiet and slow. Stephen doesn’t think when he reacts, desperate for the warmth; he pushes closer, a hand slipping behind Rowan’s neck, brushing against impossibly soft hair. His pulse thrums in his veins and he wants to pull Rowan over the center console to let him climb into his lap.

  Wait. The reminder rings in his ears suddenly, cautioning, and he tries to pull away as gently as possible.

  He feels like crying when he sees Rowan. The man’s expression is one of bliss, the peace fading away as he realizes what’s happened. All Stephen wants to do is lean in again, maybe follow him inside—but he can’t. He knows better.

  “I can’t—” Stephen tries to say, hoping he’s not ruining everything, and he feels a mounting frustration. Why can’t things just be easy for me? He wants to say yes, follow Rowan inside and pick up where they left off. But he knows it’s a bad idea. Especially since he’s still spending his nights anxiously wondering about Jordi and whether or not he can completely stop drinking.

  “I know,” Rowan says quietly. He looks frustrated—with himself, maybe, but Stephen can’t tell for sure. “I—um, it’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”

  “…night,” Stephen manages, watching helplessly as Rowan slips out of the car. The departure doesn’t feel soured or uncomfortable; it just feels…lacking. He thinks they could probably both tell what was laying beneath the surface—some sort of deep attraction, pulling them closer despite the fact that they need time. That Stephen needs time.

  He so badly wants to find a way into Rowan’s heart, pulling himself close like nothing else in the world matters. But he’s not going to pursue anything while he’s still emotionally a mess; he doesn’t want to foist his problems onto someone he actually wants things to work out with. Besides which, he’s still having issues coming to terms with the fact that he’s somehow managed to start falling for a man from the city. They couldn’t be any more different.

  Stephen showers and lies in bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Rowan. It’s not until he’s drifting to sleep that he realizes that he not only didn’t have a glass of whiskey before bed, but he didn’t agonize over the decision. He simply didn’t do it. .

  The shift happens after work the next day. Stephen is making mille-feuille and Rowan makes a comment—add nutmeg, it’ll taste better—and then Jen jokingly suggests they get together and update the recipe book.

  They do.

  “If we do this, you promise me something,” Rowan tells him, washing dishes as they close for the day.

  “What?”

  “We do our little baking sessions in the evening. After work. And if you ever feel the need to drink, you call me and we bake instead.”

  “Even if it’s three in the morning?” Stephen asks, smiling. He feels his heart throb a little. It’s a good pain; it tells him he feels something real. Something he wants so badly he’s willing to make a leap for it.

  “Especially if it’s three in the morning.”

  Stephen holds him to it. They make garlic croissants one evening after work, a Wednesday when they’re both exhausted but they both want to spend time together. Jen waves them goodbye from her car and Rowan pulls his jacket tighter in the cooling night air.

  “If I pass out in your mixing bowl, promise to pull me out,” Rowan groans as he slumps against the car door.

  “That’s a promise I can’t keep,” Stephen smirks. When they get to his house, he reaches into the fridge and Rowan stiffens for a brief second. There are calculations and questions flying across his face. He looks like he wants to ask something or maybe say something or maybe both. Stephen pulls two cans out, trying to keep his face neutral. “Coke?”

  “Yeah. Definitely. I’ll need the caffeine,” Rowan says, accepting the soda. Stephen thinks he hears relief in his voice.

  It’s the only tense moment they have. The rest of the night goes easily, Rowan learning where everything is and Stephen watching Rowan as he bemoans the lack of fresh garlic in the house—bagged garlic? I can’t believe that’s a thing. It feels like time stretches into forever, like they’re in some sort of capsule where nothing can go wrong and nothing matters.

  They meet again and again, a week going by in the blink of an eye. Each time Stephen feels more and more clear, as if he’s gradually wiping a film away from his life. He feels like he’s turned back time a few years, erasing the time he wasted and making up for it with endless batches of pastries he ends up handing out to the neighbors in the mornings. He has something different to look forward to, now.

  They’re at work one evening and Rowan has an early shift. He doesn’t stay like he usually does; Stephen notices him untying his apron and frowns.

  “Leaving?”

  “Going to pick up a few things.” Rowan smiles. “The guest house needs some attention and I’m out of toothpaste. I’ll be back at close.”

  Some of the worry in Stephen’s chest dissipates. He waves Rowan away and gets back to work, wondering what t
hey’ll make next. He doesn’t have much time left here, he thinks. Maybe two weeks at most. The knowledge has been chewing away at the back of his mind. He hates to acknowledge it; thinking about the fact means recognizing that Stephen might lose his chance. That it could already be gone. If I don’t have him around to help me out, can I stay sober? Can I even stay happy? He wants to believe he can be better on his own. That’s what he needs; he needs to fix himself before he can consider being close to someone else.

  It gets closer to closing and Stephen is cleaning up in the kitchen, stowing trays and wiping down counters. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he pauses. No one texts him, much less calls—he almost hesitates to answer, wondering if it’s bad news, and then he sees Rowan’s name on caller ID.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey. God—okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t know—” Rowan starts, the words spilling out in a rush, and Stephen feels anxious just listening to him.

  “Whoa—slow down. Just start from the beginning, okay?”

  “I was about to head back or ask you to pick me up and my aunt and uncle caught me. They want to go out for dinner with me and Jen.”

  “Okay—that’s great, right?” Stephen leans against the counter, confused. Everything he’s heard from Rowan and Jen seems to indicate that they have a good relationship with Jen’s parents.

  “I mean…it is, I just…we usually—”

  “I’m not going to go dive into a bottle of Rebel Yell just because I don’t see you after work,” Stephen snorts. “Go. Have fun. If you still want to drop by later today, just give me a call. Okay?”

  “Okay. Yeah. I’ll do that,” Rowan says, sighing into the phone. “Bye.”

  Stephen shakes his head, smiling, and finishes putting the kitchen in order. Jen emerges from the front with a good night and he waves her away, taking his time to check everything again before locking up. Before he knows it, he’s standing in front of his truck, looking at it with a blank mind. He jumps out of his trance when someone passes by on the sidewalk, laughing and talking on the phone.

  “Don’t make this weird,” he mutters to himself, starting home.

  There are bottles in his house. He knows this. Somehow, though, their call isn’t as strong as before. It’s still there, of course—just one drink isn’t going to affect you—but he ignores it. His heart seems to remind him that if he gets through the day, it means he’s still strong on his own. On a whim, he sets a record to play in the living room, gathering every bit of alcohol he knows he has and lining the bottles up by the sink. He hums absentmindedly to the music, pouring as he goes and trying not to wrinkle his nose at the burning smell. I guess my drain’s going to be really clean. Maybe I should use it in the bathroom sink, too.

  He pours what’s left into a large pitcher to do just that, trying not to knock over empty rum and vodka and whiskey bottles, the glass a multicolored forest by his sink. They don’t even look happy. He feels a little bad as he’s pouring the cocktail down the bathroom sink—I probably should have just given it to someone—but he finishes “cleaning” anyway, wrinkling his nose at how much the house smells.

  “Well, at least it still smells like home,” he says to no one in particular.

  I wonder if Rowan will come by. He knows he’s too preoccupied by thoughts of Rowan; wondering how he’s doing, if he’s having a good dinner, if he’s thinking about going back to his apartment and job in the city. His heart aches a little at the thought but he can’t bring himself to feel inconsolable. Why don’t I feel as bad as before? He wonders if it was too much alcohol—he’s a bad, maudlin drunk—or if it’s just because he feels safe. Secure. Like no matter what happens, he’s not going to lose Rowan, or what they have. It’s progress.

  He makes a frozen pizza and finishes the entire thing, despite his better judgment. He walks up to his bedroom afterward, thinking he’ll watch something on his bed, and promptly passes out on top of the sheets, tired and full. The smell of alcohol is still in the air but he somehow ignores it, thinking instead about asking Rowan to make pies next. He likes pies.

  12

  He tries to call Stephen as he’s leaving the restaurant with his family.

  “Not answering?” Jen asks, pulling her curls over one shoulder.

  “Nope.”

  “He probably doesn’t even know it’s ringing. You know—”

  “He always keeps it on vibrate, yeah,” Rowan says, smiling fondly as he remembers their last kitchen escapade. Stephen had sent him out for more flour and Rowan had tried to call him to ask about whether he wanted ice cream or not. When he didn’t get an answer, he’d bought it anyway. The look of pure shock and joy on Stephen’s face had convinced Rowan that surprising him was always the way to go.

  “Who is this, dear?” his aunt asks, gaze and smile sharp. It’s the look she gets when she’s onto something new.

  “Stephen. We, uh—work together.”

  “In the city?”

  “No—no, at the bakery,” Rowan corrects.

  “They’ve been baking every day for, like, a week,” Jen snorts, unlocking her car. “Were you going over tonight, Ro?”

  “I wanted to. Not sure if he’s awake, though…”

  “Rowan, it’s nine o’clock,” his uncle says, raising his eyebrows in an unimpressed expression. His aunt laughs at that, slapping her husband’s shoulder with a smaller hand.

  “All right,” Rowan grumbles, faking annoyance, “I get it. Jen—”

  “Yes, I’ll drive you,” Jen sings, already turning the key and buckling herself in. Rowan rolls his eyes and hugs his aunt and uncle briefly.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart,” his aunt says. He feels like he might be blushing.

  Jen is thankfully quiet during the ride over. Rowan’s grateful that she doesn’t poke any more fun at him; he’s not sure how to handle it anymore. I know how I feel; it’s just that Stephen has to get himself together, first. Rowan has known since their first ‘date’ after the bar what he wants. Maybe he can’t explain it but he knows it’s there. He’s drawn to Stephen and the way the man loves—how he loves his job, his daughter, and even his ex-wife. How Stephen tries to do right by everyone, even if that excludes himself. Rowan just wants to help Stephen learn how to help himself as much as he tries to help everyone else.

  “Make smart choices!” Jen yells when she drops him off, grinning as she pulls away. Rowan ignores her, heart already pounding as he approaches Stephen’s door. He knocks once, waiting nervously, and looks down at his phone. No messages or calls.

  He tries knocking again and calling Stephen’s name. A small seed of doubt curls in his chest—little tendrils reach into his mind, telling him he’s drinking and why couldn’t you just skip dinner to bake with him? He knows the little voice is wrong; if Stephen can’t keep himself sober for a few hours, the problem is more than Rowan can solve. He glances around, wondering, and tries the door handle.

  It’s unlocked.

  “Wow, you’re really asking to get robbed,” Rowan calls out as he enters, locking the door behind him. He pauses, waiting for an answer, eyes skimming the room. He can tell the kitchen light is on and there’s a record player in the corner, open and frozen. Rowan steps forward to fix it, thinking maybe he forgot to turn it off, and then he smells something. Something very, very strong.

  His heart drops as he walks into the kitchen, hoping he doesn’t see what he thinks he will. There are bottles lined up against the sink, haphazardly crowded and empty. Oh, my God, he thinks, what did he do?

  “Stephen!” he’s yelling as he runs around the ground floor, trying to find the man. Rowan is almost certain he’s going to find Stephen passed out somewhere, slumped on the floor in a drunken stupor. He runs up the stairs, feet pounding, and curses his stupidity. Of course you couldn’t help him just by trying. Of course this was going to happen. Why didn’t you just get him help? Why did you have to try and fix things yourself?

  He makes it into Stephen’s room, flinging the door
open, and sees Stephen curled up on his bed. He’s still clothed, an arm dangling over the edge and hiding his face.

  “Stephen,” Rowan says, still half=shouting, “Please, Stephen, wake up.”

  Stephen groans and grumbles, squinting as he rubs blearily at his eyes. He frowns, looking over at Rowan with mingled confusion and happiness.

  “Rowan? Why are you yelling—”

  “What did you do? How much did you drink? Ste—”

  “I didn’t drink, what are you talking about?” Stephen says, the pleasure in his expression evaporating as he pulls away. Something in his gaze is resentful. Rowan shakes his head, frustrated.

  “I saw the bottles, Stephen, what—”

  “Yeah, the bottles I dumped? Good job, Sherlock. Jesus. You realize if I drank all that, I’d be dead?”

  Rowan sits on the edge of the bed, mind swirling. I just need to wait. Think. Part of him already knows it’s true—it was dumb of him to get so worked up in the first place—but he’s still anxious. He’s still not sure he believes it.

  “You dumped them? Then—”

  “Yeah, it reeks in here,” Stephen interrupts, yawning as he stretches. “Give me some credit. Did you really think I’d fall apart just because you went out to dinner?”

  Yes? No? Maybe? Rowan doesn’t know how to answer. He knows he wanted to believe Stephen would be okay. Part of him worried Stephen wouldn’t be. In the end, his only thought was that something would happen and he’d have to face the consequences. To have this revelation happen without so much as a blink of an eye from Stephen is throwing him off.

  “I—”

  “You did, didn’t you?” Stephen asks flatly. “You thought I’d just start drinking again.”

  “No—listen, I didn’t know what would happen,” Rowan says, trying to get things back on track, “and I just…I was worried. Okay? And it does smell like a distillery in here.”

  He got up to open a window, but also to hide his face. I was so worried. He didn’t know what to expect, walking into a house that reeked of alcohol. He partially expected to find Stephen drunk or drinking. The fact that he wasn’t is fantastic but it doesn’t change the fact that Rowan had felt that panic. It was so consuming he ignored the simple logic that things were clearly not what they seemed.