Authors: J. Daniels
If I yell at one more person today, someone might actually have me committed.
Whatever their reasoning for backing off, I seem to settle in my solitary. My mind grows quiet and I busy myself with work. The rest of the afternoon goes by in a blur of baking timers and detailed decorating.
At home, after inhaling some leftovers, I pop my headphones in and listen to my playlist while I change my nail color. I stay in my room all night with the door shut. No one disturbs me. Smart move on their part. I am still irritated with Joey, though not as much as I was before my run-in with Mason, and hardly at all after I make a decision about him while I’m lying on my bed, reading through our old text messages.
Mason: I apologize for staring at your chest like that this morning. Did your mates notice?
Me: . . . . . .
Mason: What does that mean? Yes?
Me: That was my ‘one second while I ask them’ text. They didn’t notice. But now they know you were all up in my boobs and will be watching for it tomorrow. Your cover has been blown.
Mason: Did you notice?
Me: Yes.
Mason: Hmm. I like to think I’m pretty covert with my obsession, but your tits in that top did me in. I nearly lost my mind a little.
Me: Really? I don’t think they look any better today than they normally do. I am wearing a new bra. Maybe that’s it.
Mason: What store did you purchase it from? The bra and the shirt. I want to send a thank you gift.
Me: Shut up.
Mason: Maybe a nice bottle of wine? Or jewellery? With a note attached detailing my appreciation.
Mason: I suppose I should go to church and thank God as well. Your tits are some of his best work.
Me: Well, while you’re there, go ahead and give him props from me.
Mason: For what, sweetheart? My cock?
Me: Yup! Your PERFECT cock. I’ll say a few hallelujahs for that masterpiece. I’ll even drop to my knees . . . to worship.
Me: And by worship I mean suck your dick, just in case that didn’t translate in Aussie speak.
Mason: Right. Getting hard. Not a good thing before class. I’ll see you later, yeah? Take care of those tits for me. If they need a good squeeze, I’m just across the street.
I muffle my laugh against my hand.
I trace my smile with the tip of my finger.
I make a decision, and God, it’s easy. It’s so easy to choose him. To choose
this
.
I don’t care anymore. I don’t care what anyone has to say about what I’m doing with Mason. Friends. Family. I’m not going to allow their opinions or remarks to get to me. I’m also going to stop overthinking everything and freaking out in the middle of the day. This is making me happy, and that should be the only thing that matters.
It
is
the only thing that matters.
Yes, I still have no idea what I’m doing, because this is completely new to me. Being this happy and not having sex with the person who is making me this happy, wanting to be around the same person all the time and it having absolutely nothing to do with my desire to sleep with them. It’s confusing and unexpected.
But I can’t stop smiling.
I can’t stop smiling.
Damn him and his adorable little yeahs. I’m completely caught up in this guy.
After my shower, I wait for Mason’s nightly FaceTime call, but it never comes. I’m half expecting not to hear from him. It’s what I asked for. My little minute.
The other half of me wonders if he’s staring at his screen as much as I am.
I fall asleep hugging my body pillow, my hand clutching my phone. I wake with it tangled up in the sheets and the battery nearly dead.
God bless car chargers.
When I step inside the coffee shop Tuesday morning, I find myself searching for Mason amongst the crowd.
It’s a habit now, seeking him out. He always beats me here.
His tall, lean frame usually perched against a wall while he skims a newspaper. When he spots me, he sets the paper on top of the stack next to the registers and bends to kiss my cheek. We joke about which absurdly sweetened coffee drink I’ll be ordering today. Cavities are a risk I’m willing to take. I wrinkle my nose when he drops a tiny pad of butter into his black coffee, turning down his offer to taste it.
Butter in coffee? And he thinks I’m crazy for requesting a non-fat latte with extra whipped cream and chocolate drizzle. Please.
This has become our routine. I pay for Joey, Reese, and Dylan’s coffees, while Mason insists on paying for mine. We walk together to the bakery and chat for a few minutes before he tells me he’ll see me later, takes the treats I offer him, the ones I now know go uneaten, and crosses the street.
I watch him slip inside the studio. Joey and Dylan watch me watch Mason slip inside the studio. The three of us exchange teasing looks, then we all proceed to get to work.
But Mason isn’t here today, and I knew he wouldn’t be. After breaking our breakfast plans due to a work obligation, I knew I’d be going through this morning ritual alone.
So why am I still looking for him? Why am I still expecting to see him leaning against that wall in loose shorts and a T-shirt that clings to his muscles, his hair still damp from a shower, casually unkempt in a mess of waves on top of his head. His blue eyes bright and engaging, and that charming smirk lifting his mouth.
It’s odd, how I expect him. It’s automatic. I want him to be here, and he’s not.
I carry my order down Fayette street, my eyes shifting between the sidewalk ahead and the studio as it comes into view. Cars and large delivery trucks obscure my sight. When a break in traffic comes, I strain to catch a glimpse of Mason, teaching his class, but the brutal glare of the sun blinds me.
Oh, well. I’m sure I’ll see him later.
I step inside the bakery and smile half-heartedly at Dylan as she works her fingers through Ryan’s blonde wavy locks.
I still feel like an asshole for yelling at her like I did. I regret not sending another apology via text last night.
And one early this morning.
She lifts her head and grins back at me, all casual and pleasant, as if nothing unusual happened yesterday. “Hey. Where’s Mason?” Her eyes trail over my shoulder.
Okay. I guess this here is all good. I can probably get rid of those classifieds I swiped from the recycling bin last night.
I sit the coffee carrier on the display case next to Ryan. She swings her legs in the air, her pink ballet slippers catching in the light and sparkling. “He had a class really early today,” I explain, dropping my hand to Ryan’s knee and giving it a light squeeze. “Hey, girlfriend.”
She stops chewing her muffin, looking up at me, her cheeks stuffed with food. “Hi, Aunt Bwooke,” she mumbles, spitting bits of blueberry onto her dress.
“We have that cupcake order that’s going to be picked up at eleven. Five dozen red velvet. Can you get started on them?” Dylan asks in a tone that suggests I do as she says.
Her questions regarding work-related duties are never to be interpreted as questions. They are always commands.
Do these or I will fire you.
Roger that.
I nod and grab my coffee. “Sure.”
“I’ll be back to help you as soon as I get this mess fixed.” She sighs exhaustedly, staring at the back of Ryan’s head as she struggles to work out a knot. “No more letting Daddy braid your hair, baby, okay? He has no idea what he’s doing.”
I wave at Ryan and slip into the back, sidling up to the worktop. I set my coffee down and begin pulling supplies off the shelves.
Mixing bowls. Cupcake tins. A few spoons and spatulas.
Reese enters the kitchen with Drew in the infant carrier, his free hand straightening out his tie.
“I hear you suck at braids. What’s up with that?”
He stops short and gives me a puzzled look.
I laugh and point to the doorway. “Ryan. Your wife is in there untangling her hair. With two girls you really need to step up your game. Watch a YouTube video or something.”
His eyes widen. “They have videos like that on YouTube? Hair braiding tutorials?”
“Yup.”
“Huh.” He looks down at Drew, his hand flattening down his tie. “All right. Thanks. I’ll check it out.”
I watch him exit the kitchen, smiling at the idea of Reese, Mister Serious, hovering over his laptop late at night without Dylan’s knowledge, because knowing him, he will want this to be a surprise. He becomes a hair braiding expert overnight and twists Ryan’s hair into some elaborate pattern, completely flooring his wife.
I can also see him getting extremely frustrated when he can’t figure it out after countless tries and leaving heated comments below the videos, explaining his aggravation.
NumbersGuy: This tutorial is too complex. You need to break this down better and explain your steps as you go through them. No one can follow this. The image quality is also quite terrible. Do better.
Either scenario makes for a funny story.
I retrieve my apron off the wall and slip it over my head, wrapping the long strings around the front of me and tying them together into a loose bow.
A gift from Joey when I first started working here. Right after we first made nice.
I run my fingertips over my embroidered name, remembering how excited I was when I first put this on.
Did I know then that I’d be making a career out of this job? Or how much I’d end up loving it here?
My phone beeps from the back pocket of my jeans, breaking into my little moment of nostalgia. I pull the device out and open up the new text.
Mason: Sorry I had to cancel breakfast.
I go over the message twice. Slowly.
There’s nothing unusual about it. A standard apology, but it reads strange. No sweet introductory greeting. No nickname thrown in, sweetheart or gorgeous or little devil.
I like that one. I like thinking I’m Mason’s greatest temptation. His only sin, he once said.
But this message isn’t his typical style at all. It seems too impersonal for him. Something he might send a stranger, or someone he doesn’t bother to give nicknames to.
What gives?
I quickly type my reply.
Me: That’s okay. How was class?
Mason: Great.
Great . . . that’s it?
Huh.
I stare at the screen, expecting more. More than just one word. I’m certain it’s coming. Maybe a ‘Let’s do breakfast tomorrow instead’, or a ‘Can I have you for lunch?’ to which I will then respond with something overtly sexual, and he will confirm that he does indeed mean lunch in the true meaning of the word, and also the implied innuendo.
‘You eat your strange French toast. I eat you, yeah?’
Warmth spreads low in my belly, until my screen fades to black.
What? Really?
I light up my screen again, confusion pinching my brow.
Well, this is different.
Maybe he’s really busy at the moment? No time to elaborate because . . .
Reasoning settles over me like a thick fog.
Class. He must be starting another class. His typical first one of the day. He can’t text
and
instruct a class.
Of course. This makes perfect sense.
God, Brooke. Use your head.
I convince myself of this completely logical explanation and set my phone on the worktop.
He’ll probably text later, like he usually does. Or stop in at some point.
I smile at the thought.
The front door chimes as I’m setting out my ingredients for the five dozen cupcakes. Movement catches my attention. Joey steps through the doorway wearing dark washed jeans and a bright blue polo. He stares at me, his expression unreadable as he moves across the kitchen.
I open my mouth to utter a greeting, something to ease us back into our regular everyday banter, when he halts me with a hand in the air.
“Let me just start off by saying how much I hate not speaking to you,” he announces, stepping closer and lowering his hand.
My grip tightens on the bag of flour.
He does?
“I know this is all my doing. I should’ve apologized to you yesterday but I felt like maybe it would be better if I left you alone. Teasing you like that wasn’t . . . right of me. I regret doing it. I saw how upset I made you and it fucked with my emotions.” He leans a hip against the worktop, his arms tightening across his chest.
Typical Joey. Even in an apology, he makes it all about him. He’s lucky I like him that way.
I cock my head. “Oh, really? It fucked with
your
emotions?”
“Yes,” he snaps. “I barely ate last night and turned down a quickie in the shower. I hope you realize how little that happens. And by little, I mean never. Billy thought I was coming down with some weird virus that diminished my sex drive. He wanted to take me to the hospital.”
My mouth twitches. I open up the bag of flour. A white cloud of dust bursts onto the back of my hands and sprinkles the wood. “Good Lord. You two are dramatic.”
“Brooke.” Joey squeezes my shoulder, prompting me to look up at him. His sky-blue eyes are sorrowful. “I’m really fucking sorry, okay?”
I feel my throat tighten. “Okay,” I quietly reply.
“It’s like when I fight with Dylan. I can’t handle it. And I fucking hate the whole silent treatment routine.” He removes his hand from my shoulder and flicks his head, tousling his blonde hair. “Let’s never do that mess again.”
“Don’t be an asshole and we won’t.”
His eyes narrow. I let out a quiet laugh, and so does he. Spinning around, he rests his elbows on the worktop and leans into it, exhaling a rushed breath. “Can I be blunt with my opinion for a second?”
“When aren’t you blunt with your opinion?”
“Tuesdays, usually.”
We exchange mocking smiles. I dip a measuring cup into the bag of flour and level out a scoop, dumping it into a large mixing bowl.
Joey looks down at the wood, moving his finger through some spilled flour and making tiny circular patterns. “You’re different with this guy, Brooke. Really different. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re usually more like a puppy with men.”
I wince, dumping more flour into the bowl. “What?”
“A puppy. A cute one. Relax. Like those teacup ones you carry around in your purse.”