by Anyta Sunday
“Leave the cleanup. We’ll do it later.” He wanted to shout: ‘Stop with the we!’ Instead, he stuffed more trash into the bag.
Paul heaved himself to his feet. “Better go check on Charlie.” But before he got three steps, Charlie shuffled into the room.
“Papa?”
Karl caught sight of the boy’s pale face; he cradled his stomach in his arms. The look was one Karl knew well. Too much cake and soda. “I feel sick.”
Charlie belched, and Paul steered him right to the bathroom. Karl heard the splash and Paul’s curse before they got there. Karl went straight for the mop and cleaned up, while watching Paul lightly rub Charlie’s back as he chucked a few more times into the bathtub.
Make it three words: Never, ever again.
Karl quietly helped Paul make Charlie feel better and get him into bed. Paul stayed outside the boy’s room for a good half-hour while Karl attempted to straighten out the lounge. He was only a third of the way through when Paul came back in. Without saying a word, Paul piled dishes and cleared them away.
It was sort of odd that they didn’t speak, but Karl didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to explain his standing anymore—not even to himself. No, Paul would have to be the one to talk first.
They finished with the cleaning, and Karl sank into the sofa, flicking through cooking channels.
Paul lingered in the space between the two sofas, before choosing to perch himself on the arm of the one Karl was on. In a rather loud and rushed outburst, he said, “Thank you, Karl.” He scratched his head, his eyes closing. “Uh, thanks for today. Helping with Charlie. The party. I seriously wouldn’t have managed without you there.”
Karl muted the television and leaned back into the sofa, twisting so he faced Paul. “Sure.”
Paul stood, walked over to the wooden trunk on the other side of the room, then came back carrying a large wrapped box. “I, ah, I can’t believe all the organizing you did this week in preparation for today. I wanted to show you that I appreciate it.”
Karl stared at the box Paul was handing him. He took it with a frown, but settled on joking his way through opening it. “You know, it’s Charlie’s birthday, not mine.”
“I know that,” Paul retorted. “Yours is a couple of days after mine.”
Karl lifted his gaze to meet Paul’s. “Thorough much with my resume, huh?”
Paul gave a nervous chuckle. “Nah. I remembered.”
“That’s an awful long way back to remember.” Karl certainly couldn’t recall that far back. Well, not in such detail.
“Yes, well, you always had your party the same weekend I did. Kids went to yours, you were cooler.” Hearing that tugged at something sensitive inside Karl. “Anyway,” Paul continued, “this is thanks for helping out today, this week.”
A little zing went through him as he and Paul locked eyes. This time he was the first to pull away, imagining the dick kid he was, inviting almost the whole class to his party except for Paul. And Paul, alone at his own . . .
He picked at the tape and pulled back the paper. Then froze.
In fine gold writing, Culinary Heaven stretched across a silver box lid. Warily, he looked inside—
There it was. The same pan he’d eyed up a week ago.
He suddenly felt sick. Like maybe he needed to sob but couldn’t, and—and he didn’t deserve this.
He couldn’t unpack it. Couldn’t even look at Paul. Didn’t even give a murmured thanks. Just stood up, leaving the box on the sofa, and made for the bathroom—Paul and Charlie’s bathroom. There was even a framed picture Charlie had drawn of fish over the towel rack. He sat on the closed toilet seat, head in his hands, fingers gripping at his hair.
A soft knock at the door. A hum—like a sound someone made when undecided if they should say something or not. “Are you okay?”
Was he? Not really. Pull it together. “Be right out.”
He listened for Paul’s retreating steps, but they didn’t come. For some reason, that annoyed him more than it should have. He yanked the door open. “I said I’d be right out.” He made to pass Paul, but Paul moved surprisingly fast, blocking his path.
“What’s up? You barely looked at the gift. I thought it was something you wanted.”
“I do. At least, I did. I—” Damn, why couldn’t he just suck this up?
“Do you want me to exchange it?”
“No, I—” What? What! He let out a frustrated growl, and spoke between gritted teeth. “I don’t get you. Why’re you doing this?”
Paul didn’t say anything, then shrugged. “Just wanted to say thanks.” He turned to leave, and that really was too much.
Karl snagged his pullover, stopping him. “You confuse me.”
“What?”
Words spurted out of him, thick and fast, and not within his control. “You’ve been cold all week, then today everything’s okay again. You’re like a—a big yo-yo, and I can’t make sense of you.”
“I haven’t been cold—”
“Yes, you have, ever since the weekend when . . . ”
Paul paled, covering his obvious shock with a frown, feigning like he didn’t have a clue. Dammit!
“When you kissed me.”
Paul stepped back from Karl, ramming into the wall. He looked ready to object, but Karl cut him off, coming closer. His confusion and frustration were taking him over. Now to a much quieter tone, one more lethal. “Paul.” He leaned over, his five o’clock shadow almost grazing Paul’s cheek. “Do you, or do you not, find men attractive?”
No answer. But that wasn’t good enough. He wouldn’t stop until he got one this time. This frustration was too much.
“Because you know what I think?” Karl let his lips hover at Paul’s ear, feeling the heat of their bodies standing so close. Softly, he spoke, feeling the shiver that crept through Paul. “I think you do.”
“N-n-no.”
Karl’s voice fell into a whisper, “Why don’t I believe that?” He drew back, but only an inch, so he could see his face. He listened to Paul’s uneven breath that hitched when he touched his arm. They stared at each other, Paul frozen into the wall. When he bit his bottom lip, Karl followed the movement. Such fine lips. He really wanted to—
Karl captured them in firm kiss. Not so hard the man couldn’t push him away. If he wanted.
Paul kept entirely still, but as Karl gently teased with his tongue, his lips parted, and his jaw relaxed. The tiniest moan escaped the man, and Karl found it more than appealing. Satisfying.
Paul’s hands found his arms, gripping them as they deepened the kiss. Yes, Paul, this feels good, doesn’t it? The hands moved from his arms to his back, pressing him closer. Karl obeyed, closing his eyes at the feel of their chests together. He could taste a little of his apricot mango frosting on Paul’s lips, and smelt the tangy scent of his aftershave.
Paul’s fingers clutched at his hips. The heat that rose in him when he did that was almost too much. With effort, he broke the kiss, stepping back. He didn’t want to get carried away. He wanted answers. Touching Paul’s now somewhat swollen lips, Karl said, “That was nice.” He dropped his hands. “I think you liked it, too.”
Paul slammed his eyes shut, knocking his head back against the wall. The silence stretched between them, only their breaths accompanying it. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth. Did you?” He knew the answer was yes, had felt it brushing against his thigh, but he wanted Paul to say it.
“I can’t.” Paul managed after another long pause.
“Can’t admit it?”
Paul’s head shook slightly, his whole body trembled. Karl watched as his eyelids fluttered open and he stared at the ceiling. His chest rose, and held, then fell. He swallowed. Fists balled at his side. Finally, Paul spoke, his voice hesitant. Unsure.
“I can’t . . . l-like it.”
9
Bananas
“I-I CAN’T . . . LIKE IT.” Paul continued to stare at the ceiling, his Ada
m’s apple continuously bobbing in the laden silence before Karl could respond.
An uneasy feeling wormed its way into his gut. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like whatever Paul said next. “Why not?” he finally managed.
Paul sighed, rolled his head to the side, and looked at Karl out the corner of his eye. “I just can’t.” He pushed himself off the wall and strode away.
“Why the h—why not?” Karl called after him, his frustration piquing.
Paul didn’t stop, but Karl heard the low words he uttered.
“Because it’s a disability.”
* * *
Karl nicked himself with the shaving blade. Again. That was going to make a great impression in his interview this evening.
He rinsed his face, patted it dry and, in the cloudy mirror, stared at his calm façade. The same one he schooled whenever Paul entered the room. But the look was utter bullshit. If Paul only glanced at what was underneath, he’d see Karl’s hurt belying it all.
Disability. Two weeks later, and the conversation still plagued Karl.
Paul’s one word brought it all back: Something’s wrong with you. It’s disgusting. Fix yourself—or do you want to be a social deviant? Don’t come back, you’ll cripple this family.
Though Karl tried to brush off the short conversation, it kept replaying in his mind—that and their preceding kiss. He should’ve said something back, but like with his family, he’d been speechless.
Good thing the guy had worked longer hours lately, barely requiring them to interact. Because he still didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like he’d admit to being hurt. Karl could handle it. That’s exactly what he was doing.
A knock came at his bedroom door. “Karl-Karl!” Charlie sounded excited.
Karl shrugged on a shirt, quickly buttoning.
“Hey,” he said to the Winnie-the-Pooh pajamaed boy in the hall. “Finished dinner already?”
“Yep. Papa says I have to go to bed now, but I want you to read me a nighttime story.”
Charlie dragged Karl to his room and planted a stack of books on his lap. When the kid was all tucked up, Karl began to read, doing the voices as the monkey requested. He heard a shuffling in the hall. When he glanced at the open door, he made out a shadow.
Charlie’s face contorted when he got to the princess part. “That doesn’t sound like a girl. Speak higher.”
Karl poked out his tongue. “You sound like a girl. How about you do her voice?”
“Can’t read yet. But I could teach you to sound like a girl! You have to squeak more. Like this.”
At Paul’s stifled chuckle, Karl felt his lips tug into a grin. For a moment, a small sadness settled over him. If he got the job, things would be . . . strange without Charlie around. Karl listened to Charlie’s enthusiastic girl imitation as he stared at the colorful pages on his lap. A part of him didn’t want to leave, but a bigger part wanted to get closer to his dream. And the way things were with him and Paul, well, his own apartment would be a good thing, too.
“Karly, what’s wrong? You don’t like this story?”
Karl shook off his frown, and gave Charlie a cheesy smile. “The story’s fine.” He continued reading, but his thoughts still spiraled and it was hard to concentrate.
The job advertisement he’d seen at the end of last week had to be a sign. Right? Okay, so it wasn’t the best restaurant in town. But it was a step in the right direction.
Karl ruffled Charlie’s hair and wished him goodnight. When he stepped out of the boy’s room, Paul had disappeared. That was . . . a good thing. Yes. He tried to control the stamp in his step as he made his way back to the bedroom. Then the force with which he shut his door. So what it slammed? The hinges were really well oiled. Or whatever.
He fired up his laptop. Checked his mail to be sure what time and where his interview was. 8:00 p.m. La Vista. About to click out, a new mail popped into his inbox. Karl stared at the sender name. William Sharp. It’d been over a month since his last email. Instead of deleting, like he usually did, Karl opened it. The message was short, brief, but very much to the point.
I’m sorry, Karl.
Miss you.
Karl closed his eyes. Reading it, he could almost hear Will’s voice. He fumbled for his cell in his pocket. Without looking at the screen, he could get to Will’s number. It rang three times before he picked up.
“Hello? Karl?”
Creamy. Will’s voice had always been smooth, even when frustrated or angry. It used to have such a calming effect on him. Now it just reminded him of that day.
“Karl? I know it’s you. Look. If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine. I’ll speak.” It whistled down the line as Will sucked in a breath. “I deserved that wicked hook to my nose.” There was a pause, and Karl could imagine Will touching his face over the spot he’d hit him. “What I did . . . it was . . . I’m so sorry. I fooled myself into believing you loved me as much as I loved you. If I’d known it wasn’t the case, I never would have proposed to you like that. And I should never have done it in front of everyone.” He drew another breath. “It slipped out, and I’m sorry the pain it caused you, because believe me that was not the intention.”
Karl wanted to say something. Wanted to forgive. To be as generous as Paul was to him. Only the words stuck in his throat. Under the big lump that was his idiocy. He’d felt so justified breaking it off with Will. Calling him a fucker, sucker-punching him. Only now he wondered how much of that was him, lashing out at the hurt of his parent’s reaction.
Apologize. Forgive him. He didn’t mean it. Will wasn’t really the one to hurt him.
And yet, a part of him still couldn’t get past the fact that Will was to blame. If he’d just not said anything . . . His family would still ring him up, inviting him home for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and end all conversations with a signature ‘love you’. He’d get to be near Pop’s ashes again.
Karl drew a breath, trying his best to ignore the ‘what if’s’. “I’m sorry, too, Will.”
There came a murmured ‘thank you’, after which Karl mumbled goodbye and hung up.
The entire way to his interview, the call occupied his thoughts. Specifically, Will telling him he’d loved him. Karl didn’t love him back. Maybe that’s why he’d left him so quickly. Karl bowed his head, admitting to himself that maybe the reason he hadn’t tried to forgive Will was because he didn’t care for the relationship to continue. Will’s outing him, if accidentally, was an excuse for him to leave. For them to break up.
It was a cruel way to go about it. Maybe he really was a bully at heart.
Suppressing these thoughts, Karl searched for a thread of confidence to ace the interview. As soon as he and the chef/owner stepped into the kitchen, that small thread grew until butterflies flapped in his gut. A hint of cinnamon and apple spiced the air. And he breathed it in with a smile.
“Right,” Chef Adain said, pointing to a table of ingredients, “Résumés mean squat to me. You have twenty minutes to make a starter and a main; I’ll judge you on that.”
Karl smiled. Finally someone who was willing to give him the proper shot he needed. Without much ado, Karl went to work. He whipped up a caperberry pasta salad, and, as a starter, walnut and three cheese stuffed mushrooms. Things flowed fluidly for him in the bounds of the kitchen, the utensils he used comfortable in his grip—natural. Timing was a piece of cake. He’d practiced for this. Every day refining his skills.
Chef Adain called for him to stop just as Karl finished arranging the dishes on their respective plates. Without so much as a glance at Karl, Chef Adain slid the food towards him. “Timing was fine. Food design leaves a little to be desired.”
He first tasted the mushrooms, his facial expression giving nothing away. Karl’s pulse galloped and beads of sweat gathered at his hairline as he waited. He stretched his neck either side in an effort to calm himself. Then found himself holding his breath as the Chef cleared his throat. “Starters are okay.”
Okay?
Just okay? Karl frowned and stared at the starter as the Chef tried the main.
“Meh.” Chef Adain’s fork clattered to the plate. For the first time, he met Karl’s gaze. “Look, kid, the food isn’t without its merits, but it just isn’t there yet, and, honestly, I don’t have the time it would take to train you.”
Karl trudged back to his car. Climbed in, but couldn’t bring himself to insert the key. He banged the back of his head on the headrest and fought the urge to blast the horn, gripping the steering wheel instead. He continued to sit, staring out onto the dark street, until he felt the cold biting into his fingers.
* * *
Karl crept back into the apartment, he could hear Paul on the phone in the lounge, and was glad he could go in unnoticed. He made his way to the kitchen, immediately getting out some milk and cocoa.
He felt . . . hollow. Apt, too, because the truth was, cooking was how he defined himself. He’d thought it was something special about him. Guess he was class-A up himself. He managed a taut smile at that and nervously reached for the wooden spoon. He stirred the cocoa, meant to make him feel better. Funny how this spoon—an extension of himself just this morning—now felt foreign. He gripped tighter. Tried to ignore the feeling he was a novice at something he used to rule.
His vision blurred as he stared into the swirling milk and chocolate; Karl blinked back the tears, but not before one escaped, dropping into the pot. He quickly swiped his eyes. Everything was fine. It’d be all good.
He returned to stirring, faster this time. As if the heat and friction could evaporate that lost tear and make it non-existent.
“What’re you making?” Paul’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and Karl twisted toward him in surprise.
“Oh, hot chocolate.”
“Is there enough for me, too?”
Karl hesitated. Weird, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to share. Didn’t think he could handle any negative comments about his cooking right now. And he already knew the hot cocoa was ruined. It’d come to the boil, no doubt the bottom of the pot had burned, and then there was that stupid tear.
