by Sarina Bowen
Push and turn. Push and turn. Kneading a loaf has always centered me. When I can bake, everything is right with the world. The yeasty smell of dough soothes me.
Meanwhile, I make it my business to learn everything I can about the coffee shop. I master their espresso machine and figure out when all the deliveries happen. Their cash register system is nothing too complicated.
“I’ve got this,” I tell Audrey on Wednesday. “You can let me open up the place tomorrow if you want to start sleeping in sometimes.”
Her smile is a mile wide. “We are thrilled by this idea, trust me. But Kieran’s dad just had surgery, so he’s not coming in for a couple days. After we get through that, I promise Zara and I will let you open for us. We can’t wait.”
“Awesome,” I say.
“Listen, about Kieran…”
I turn down the music—we’re rocking out to an old Violent Femmes album this morning—and wait for Audrey to continue. I’m desperately curious about Kieran, to be honest. He’s working that whole strong-and-silent-type thing. Those brown eyes. Those strong shoulders. If I spotted him in a gay bar, I’d be all over that.
“He’s kind of quiet,” Audrey says.
“You don’t say.”
Audrey laughs. “It’s just the way he’s made. I mean—he’s the best kind of guy in the world. He’ll do anything for his family. But he’s not a charmer. Zara and I don’t like to leave him alone with the customers for too long. He isn’t rude or anything, he just has RGF.”
“Resting…grouch face?
“Exactly!” Audrey giggles. “My whole point is this—don’t take it personally. People sometimes get the impression that Kieran doesn’t like them. But that’s not the case.”
“Gotcha,” I say. But I’m really thinking, Oh, honey. You have no idea how much he wants me gone. “Is his dad going to be okay?”
“Yeah,” Audrey says as she hands me a bag of coffee beans to pour into the grinder. “It’s back surgery, which sounds dreadful. But it’s not the sort of thing that kills you.”
I stay quiet, hoping she’ll keep talking about Kieran. My curiosity runs deep. What’s the other job he runs off to every afternoon? Is he single? Does he date men? Women? Both?
But Audrey doesn’t elaborate. “I’m going to flip the sign, okay?”
“You go, girl.”
She unlocks the front door, flips the sign from CLOSED to OPEN, and hangs the Open flag outdoors.
I hope we have a flood of customers and sell every last one of the onion bialys that come out of the oven. I need the Busy Bean to be the most profitable business on the planet.
And I need that paycheck.
Kieran reappears after a couple days. He’s taciturn behind the coffee bar, serving customers promptly but silently. He doesn’t have much to say to me either, but I’m not offended.
“Are you sure six work days a week isn’t too many?” Zara asks while pondering her new work schedule. She has me baking alone in the kitchen on three mornings and coming in later on three more.
“It’s all good. I need the hours,” I assure her. That’s what happens when you walk away from your life with nothing.
“Okey dokey,” she says.
My first morning opening the kitchen alone is on a Saturday. And it’s Kieran who’s scheduled to show up at eight. I hear him walk in the front door, whistling. “Hello?” he calls out.
“Hey,” I reply. “It’s only me back here.”
There’s a pause. I wonder if he’ll even respond. Would he really ignore me completely? “Oh. Hey,” he says a beat later. “Morning.”
I go back to work shaping the bagels I’m making, but he doesn’t appear in the kitchen. I hear the sound of chairs moving around on the wood floors as he checks the front of the house.
Then it gets quiet.
I have a tray of muffins to bring up front, so I step out of the kitchen. At first I don’t spot Kieran, but then I realize he’s standing on a stool behind the counter, his hand raised as he sketches something on the signboard.
Taking another step, I see the blackboard wall has been swept clean, and Kieran is drawing a new design. In multicolored chalk he’s fashioned a big turkey—a tom with a colorful spread of tail feathers. There’s a speech bubble beside his beak that says, Life is short. Eat dessert first.
“Wow. Do you draw everything on the displays in here?”
Kieran startles. For a second his balance goes haywire, and he comes close to falling off the stool. “Shit,” he curses under his breath. He puts a hand to the wall to steady himself. Luckily, only the chalk falls down.
“S-sorry,” I sputter.
“No problem,” he says, but his eyes close briefly, displaying his irritation.
“That’s a killer drawing,” I say, even though he probably doesn’t care what I think. “I assumed Zara did all the art and wrote all the notes. Because the quotes around here are so…”
“Snarky,” Kieran offers.
“Yeah.” They really are.
He jerks a thumb at the talking turkey. “I just channel my inner Zara when I’m changing up the weekly wisdom.”
I snort. It’s the first funny thing I’ve heard Kieran say. He doesn’t talk to me, and he isn’t chatty with the customers, but sometimes I’ve heard him and Audrey laughing together, so I know he’s capable of joy.
He’s still Mr. Enigma. I wish I could say that I didn’t care, or that I haven’t been watching him, but that would be a lie. I’m definitely tuned in to the Kieran channel, even if the signal is sometimes hard to make out.
“So, uh, is your dad okay now?” I ask, hoping to keep the conversation alive.
He makes a face and then climbs down from the stool. “He’ll be fine. And he’s cranky as ever.” He bends down, and I absolutely do not check out his ass as he retrieves the chalk off the floor. It’s in two pieces.
Kieran lays the broken pieces carefully in a tray of chalk on the counter. Even the tray is beautiful, with at least two dozen colors, each of them long and perfect. Except the salmon piece, which is now a glaring imperfection among the carefully kept rainbow.
“Oh man,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
I nod at the chalk. “It was perfect before.”
Kieran looks down at the tray and shrugs. “Perfect-looking art supplies don’t stay that way very long. Unless you don’t use ’em. And then what’s the point?” He turns to me and removes the tray of muffins out of my hands, and I realize I’m still standing here holding them like a dummy.
He slides the tray onto the counter and then uses tongs to arrange half a dozen muffins on a plate.
Meanwhile, I’m watching his back muscles flex, because Kieran is hot, and I have no shame. A man is the very last thing in the world that I need right now, but nobody ever said I was smart. If I were better at self-preservation, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
“You want to make yourself useful and unlock the front door?” he asks without a glance in my direction.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, snapping out of it. I hope Kieran doesn’t tell Zara that I’m a slacker. “I’ve got a couple more things to finish up in the kitchen, and then I’ll help you with the morning rush.”
Kieran says nothing. He readies the counter for our first customers and ignores me.
On my way back into the kitchen, I allow myself one quick glance at his biceps straining the sleeves of his T-shirt. Because I never did have any self-control.
Zara comes in three hours later, beaming. “Check it out!” she says. “I slept until seven and played with my kid. And the customers still got served.”
“And the building is still standing,” I add from behind the counter. I’m wiping down the espresso machine because we’re experiencing a midmorning lull.
“Anything to report?” she asks, hanging her jacket on a hook.
“Nope,” Kieran says. He’s eating one of my bagels slathered with cream cheese.
Zara points at him. “You want
to take off? I know things are still nuts at your house.”
“Sure,” he says, then crams the last bite into his mouth. “Thanks.”
“Dude,” Zara says. “Where’s my bagel? Tell me you still have sesame.”
“I saved you some in back,” I promise her. “Sesame and poppyseed.”
“Score,” she says. Then she snaps her fingers. “Kieran, wait!”
He stops halfway to the door.
“Look.” She grabs something out of the pocket of her hanging jacket—a key ring. “It happened. They’re gone.”
He stands very still. “Really. You’re kidding.”
“Nope. But they paid me for next month, too, so it’s hard to even be angry. So? Are you in? No pressure.”
“Heck yes.”
“Heads up.” She tosses the keys, and Kieran grabs them out of the air. “It’s yours whenever you’re ready, but your lease doesn’t start until December first, since the other guys paid for November.”
“Whoa, thanks.” Kieran stares at the keys in his hand as if she’s given him a treasure. “I’m not sure when I can actually use these.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s something to look forward to, right?”
“You have no idea,” is his answer. Then he actually smiles, and it transforms his face. Damn, that smile is potent. “I’ll need furniture. Guess I’d better get on that.”
“And kitchen stuff. Towels. Sheets. It’s endless,” Zara says. “But who doesn’t love to shop?”
“Me,” Kieran says with a gruff chuckle. “I better post my listing, too. So I can pay for all of it.”
“For a roommate?” Zara asks.
“Yeah.” Kieran pockets the keys. “Lots to do. Later! Thanks, Zara.”
He’s almost at the door when Zara says exactly the wrong thing. “Hey, maybe you don’t have to hit up Craigslist.” She turns to me. “Roderick, are you looking for a place to live? Where are you staying, anyway?”
Kieran’s gaze flies to mine, panic in his eyes.
“Oh no, I’m all set,” I say quickly. “I’m staying with my parents for a while to save money.”
Kieran blinks, relaxing.
“Okay,” Zara says, nodding twice, as if she realizes she’s overstepped. “Put me to work Roddy. What needs doing?”
“We should make some cookies for the afternoon crowd. You want to bake or serve?”
Kieran slips out while we’re discussing it. I don’t even see him go.
A rented room is something I need very badly, but I am way too proud to say so.
Kieran
With Zara’s keys in my pocket, I feel like a new man. This is it. The rest of my life starts now.
I drive home, thinking optimistic thoughts. I need to order a bed to be delivered to the new place. I’ll do that right away, even if I’m not ready to move.
If you have a bed, it’s official, right? Everything else can come later.
Since it’s Saturday, I don’t have to go to my Burlington job. Kyle and I have plans to bale the oat straw, but it’s not even noon, so we’ve got five hours of daylight left.
While we’re out there, I’ll tell Kyle that I’m moving out. He can get used to the idea while I’m still here, working hard while my dad heals up from his surgery.
But eventually I’ll be a free man—free to live somewhere else and let Kyle take on most of the farm labor with dad.
And free to figure a few other things out, too.
I bump along our dirt road with the music blaring, feeling optimistic. And I just ate the chewiest, most amazing sesame bagel I ever tasted in my life. Even if part of me still hopes Roderick will turn tail and leave town again, I will miss that man’s baking.
When I park my car outside the farmhouse, though, reality sets in. Kyle’s pickup isn’t here, and neither is my parents’ truck.
Inside, I find my dad in his easy chair, looking uncomfortable. Actually, uncomfortable doesn’t even cover it. His lips are white with pain. “You okay?”
“Do I look okay?” he snaps. “Is your mother back yet?”
“No,” I say slowly. “Where’d she go?”
“Grocery store,” he grunts.
“You want help getting out of that chair?”
His lip curls with the horror of needing help performing such a simple task. I can see him wrestling with his choices—remain in pain, or accept help from his least favorite son?
“Yeah,” he eventually grunts. As if it kills him to ask me for help.
I reach down and offer him my hand, which he grasps with both of his. Then he pulls himself up with a weary groan.
“Doctor said a straight-backed chair would be better than that recliner,” I remind him.
“Not deaf. I heard him.”
Right. “Where’s Kyle?” I ask as my dad eases past me, walking like a ninety-five-year-old.
“Dunno. Not my job to keep track of him.”
So I guess it’s mine. I take out my phone and shoot off a text to my brother. Can we bale straw today?
His response comes quickly enough. I’ll start it tomorrow.
Where are you?
Watching college football with Griff on his lunch break.
I feel a sharp, irrational pang at being left out of these plans. I’m usually at work right now, though, and not free to hang out in the middle of a Saturday. They wouldn’t expect me to be available.
It would have been nice to be asked, though.
With nothing else to do, I go outside and collect eggs from the chickens. Rexie barks hello, trotting across the meadow to see me. And the hens cluster around me like groupies at a rock concert. At least the animals are happy to see me.
Since I’m here, and it’s a nice dry day, I decide to bale some of the oat straw myself, even though it’s really a job for two. But then I discover that I can’t, because we’re out of diesel for the tractor, and Kyle has driven the truck with the tank on it to Griff’s.
I shouldn’t be so annoyed, but I am anyway.
Kyle, please get some diesel and come home. It’s the perfect day for baling.
Griff wants me to press some cider, comes his response.
My blood pressure spikes, because Griff will pay Kyle for his hours, so of course Kyle wants to stay. But didn’t we just talk about this? Kyle’s double-dipping can’t happen on my dime, and I’ve already pitched in too many hours this month.
I don’t think Kyle realizes that Dad’s back may never be a hundred percent again. It’s going to be a rude surprise when I’m not around to pick up the slack anymore.
Look, I’m available now, I reply. I would have gotten started alone. But the diesel tank is with you.
Fine, he replies a minute later. On my way. I can almost hear him grumbling, like I’m inconveniencing him right now.
While I’m waiting, I move the chicken tractor and take care of some other chores. On a farm, there’s always something more to do. Clock-out time comes only when it’s too dark to see.
Kyle drives up eventually. He’s remembered to get the diesel on his way home, so at least I don’t have to go to jail for murder. “Hey,” my brother says, jumping out of the truck, his movements brisk. Again, it’s obvious he’s mad at me for interrupting his Saturday.
He won’t stay mad, though. Kyle doesn’t hold a grudge. He’s an easygoing guy. He sees no evil and takes no sides. Still, it’s frustrating to me that he never notices all the tension and the crosswinds in our family. I feel like I have to carry that burden alone.
It’s easier to be Kyle than to be me, and I envy him more than he will ever know.
After we gas up the tractor, we hitch up the baler and drive it out to the field. “You want to bale or toss?”
He shrugs.
“I’ll toss,” I say, taking the harder job.
“Okay,” Kyle says easily. Then he climbs back onto the tractor, and off he goes.
I move my pickup truck into the field and wait a moment until the baler poops out a few square bales. Then I st
art heaving them into my pickup truck.
It’s repetitious, and the truck needs to be constantly moved. But the physical activity starts to work its magic on me. When I’m moving, my mind becomes calmer.
Kyle and I have always been farm boys, unafraid of hard work. My brother may be flaky, but once you get him started on a task, there’s no one better to have on your team. When I was a little boy, I thought my father and my big brother were everything. I was never happier than when we were all outside together, working shoulder to shoulder.
Those were the days when I was ignorant of the shadowy corners of my parents’ marriage and too young to notice that my dad would never love me as much as Kyle. I thought Kyle’s status was due to birth order. He was the bigger brother and therefore more admirable. And therefore I was always trying to compete. I worked my skinny little butt off so I could wield a hammer like Kyle or lift a fifty-pound bag of chicken feed. There was only the fresh air and the sunshine and my zeal to do the work of real men.
I just assumed I was every bit as deserving of my father’s love as Kyle was, and that I’d get my share eventually.
Spoiler alert: I never did.
Meanwhile, I developed interests that nobody else in the family shared. Although I didn’t know anyone else who could draw, I did so obsessively. My father’s green John Deere was one of the first things I drew, and it became the subject of hundreds of pictures. I used up every green crayon in the house, and when they were gone, my mother joked that I’d have to start drawing Kubotas, because they’re orange. So I did. Problem solved.
Art was something that was only mine. Kyle couldn’t compete. And I needed that, because my desperation to be Dad’s other sidekick wasn’t working out so well. I didn’t know why.
Until one ugly day when I was fourteen, and I overheard my family’s big doozy of a secret—that I was the kid nobody had wanted.
It was a hard thing to hear at fourteen, but many things in my life made more sense after that.
