by Anna Martin
Trixie grinned up at him. Henry knew what was coming. “Seriously. Good work, bro.”
“What? I’m only twenty-nine. Please don’t make me sound like a cradle robber.”
“Sometimes I forget that I’m the older one.” She sighed. “Must be my youthful glow.”
“Or the fact that all of your friends are mentally still in prep school.”
Trixie elbowed him in the side. She hadn’t taken offense at that. They barbed each other constantly about shallow friends and angsty hipster tendencies. It wasn’t mean; it was just the way they were.
“Hey, when are you bringing this one home to meet Mom and Dad?” Trixie asked.
No, no, no. I was trying to avoid that. “Um, we hadn’t really discussed it, why?”
“Because you have to, obviously. I mean, how long has it been since you two met?”
Not very long in the grand scheme of things, really. It was weird that, after only a month or so, Henry couldn’t imagine his life from before he and Tristan had been together, and he didn’t even want to think of the possibility of an after. Tristan had seeped into every crack and crevice of him, from the bakery and his apartment to the neighborhood and his plans for the future. Crazy, right? Henry couldn’t seem to help it.
“You totally need to come to dinner at the house, Tristan. My mom will love you,” Trixie went on. Henry wondered when she’d started doing hallucinogenic drugs. It wasn’t that Tristan was inherently unlovable or even someone his parents wouldn’t approve of—it was just that his mother didn’t ever “love” anyone. Especially not in the all-encompassing, adoptive way Tristan’s exuberant parents seemed to love, according to everything Henry had heard so far.
“Tr—”
“Sure, if you wouldn’t mind.” Tristan looked sweet and shy. Henry wanted to shield him from the world he’d grown up in.
“Fantastic! Well, I really do need to go. I’m having tea with Corneila. How continental of us.” She giggled, kissed both of them on the cheek, and was off in her typical blur of fabrics and handbags and loud shoes.
“Your sister is….” Tristan looked like he didn’t know quite what to say.
Henry laughed softly. “I know. Gotta love her, though.”
Tristan nodded. “She seems lovely.”
“Yes. Lovely.”
Tristan elbowed Henry. “Quit copying me.”
“Never.”
Banoffee Pie
Bananas, toffee, and a chewy graham-cracker crust. It’s a treat kids can’t resist from our friends in the UK.
* * *
Crust
1½ cups graham-cracker crumbs
10 tablespoons butter, melted
* * *
Filling
2 (14-ounce) cans sweetened condensed milk
3 large bananas
1½ cups heavy whipping cream
⅓ cup confectioners’ sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
* * *
Preheat oven to 350 °F.
First, the crust. That’s the simple part! Mix graham-cracker crumbs with melted butter and press mixture into 9-inch pie plate. Bake for 5 to 8 minutes.
Lower the oven temperature to 300 °F for the toffee filling. To create toffee filling, you’ll need to turn the sweetened condensed milk into toffee or dulce de leche. To do this, pour the condensed milk into a 9x12x2-inch glass baking dish. Cover with foil and place dish inside a larger pan. Add water to pan until halfway up sides of baking dish. Bake for 1½ hours.
Once both the crust and filling are cooled, spread half of the filling inside crust. Slice the bananas and layer on top of filling. Pour remaining half of filling over bananas, spreading evenly. Whip the cream with the confectioners’ sugar and vanilla and spread on top of toffee filling and bananas.
Easy as pie!
Chapter Fourteen
Tristan sighed and squinted, leaning in to better peer at his computer screen. He was fiddling with backgrounds in InDesign, something he normally hated doing, but today it was the perfect, mindless task.
His mind kept wandering, all the way back uptown through the streets of Soho, right into the West Village and into Henry’s bedroom. There, his imagination took over, filling his mind’s eye with the sight of Henry sprawled naked on expensive sheets. Or Henry naked, water sluicing over his gorgeous, even skin. Or Henry in the kitchen, naked but for an apron, flipping pancakes on a hot griddle.
Tristan had been forced to explain about the pancakes his mum made every year on Shrove Tuesday—Pancake Day, for most of Britain—which were more akin to thin, papery French crêpes than the thick breakfast treats that were served on this side of the Atlantic. At home, they ate pancakes liberally doused in lemon juice and sprinkled with sugar. Henry covered his with butter and strawberries. Tristan wasn’t yet sure which version he liked better.
The task at hand meant moving images by impossible margins and changing colors by the tiniest variation of hue, as if the consumer would absolutely not buy the damn brand of glassware unless his blue was the absolute perfect shade. That was absolute rubbish, and everyone knew it, but the client got what the client wanted, and what they wanted was for Tristan to develop a permanent squint.
“Hey, Tristan.” A smooth, familiar voice disrupted his work.
“I’m busy, Jordan,” he said, his voice monotone and expression grim.
“Didn’t you hear?” he continued, ignoring Tristan’s protests. “We just won another account. A big one.”
“Great.” He’d tried to sound enthusiastic but the word fell flat.
“I’m sure you’re a shoo-in to be involved.”
Tristan looked up, then, to the smarmy git who had been making his job—and therefore his life—an utter misery. For some reason, though, now that he had Henry and everything that came with a new relationship, the people here didn’t seem to be able to hurt him anymore. Not really.
He grinned widely, showing off because he could, even though he never normally would. Jordan was a special case. “I’m sure I am too.”
* * *
That night, Tristan had a Skype date with his parents. They caught up fairly regularly, chatting for a couple of hours one night in the week, then again on the weekend if they had time. Since Tristan had become more involved with Henry, he’d missed one or two of the dates, and he felt wretchedly guilty about it.
Because of the time difference, Tristan waited until five until he turned his laptop on, when he knew his parents would be settling in for the night, about to go to bed. The little icon for “Mum and Dad” glowed green, and he hit the call button, stupidly excited to see them.
“Tris!” his mom crowed when they finally connected.
“Hi, Mum,” he said, throat suddenly thick.
Tristan’s mother still worked at the primary school where she had been a teacher since before he was born. Although she’d moved around some over the years, teaching different age groups and taking on responsibility for different things—most recently, the school choir—there had never been any danger of her leaving the profession. The local school where she worked had always been sought after for the excellent teaching standards and small class size. And for Mrs. Green, who was patient and kind and made learning fun.
“Your dad got caught up at the pub with the boys,” she said. “He told me to tell you he loves you and he’ll catch you on the weekend.”
Tristan nodded, disappointed but understanding. His dad worked in a local building firm as a project coordinator and contractor. Often, when builds ran over schedule or over budget, he got caught at the office trying to settle disagreements between the different parties. Typically, those nights, he ended up getting roped into going to the pub after and wouldn’t pour himself into bed until nearly midnight.
“Okay. Tell him I love him too.”
“Will do. How are things?”
“Good,” Tristan said automatically, then leaned back against the wall and grinned. “Really good.”
“Oh? I don�
��t suppose this has anything to do with this Henry?”
He’d already told her the basics—that he was dating someone called Henry, who was lovely. That was usually all he would say about boyfriends when it came to his mum. She didn’t have any problem with whom her kids dated, male or female, but they weren’t the sort of family that overshared about their sex lives.
“Henry, yeah. He’s really brilliant, mum.”
Her face flushed pink with happiness. “Is he really?”
“Yeah. One night, I’ll get him to come over, and you can talk to him.”
“That would be nice.”
They talked about everything and nothing during these conversations. Life back home was slow, it always had been, the reason why an eighteen-year-old Tristan had been itching to get away. Things didn’t change from one week to the next, but his mum still filled him in on the “hatches, matches, and dispatches”—births, marriages, and deaths, to everyone else. He didn’t really care that Donna from work was now a grandmother for the third time, but he liked listening to his mum talk, so he let her chatter on about things in the town.
Hearing a familiar voice was a soothing balm on the jagged edges of Tristan’s day, and he leaned back, content to listen to his mum’s broad Yorkshire vowels rounding out all her words. She reached and touched the screen, probably to his cheek.
“I miss you, sweetheart.”
“Miss you too, Mum. I’ve got holiday time coming up, I’ll try to get back home and see you.”
“Well, me and your dad were talking, and I thought we could come out to you too. Do some Christmas shopping in New York.”
“That would be amazing,” Tristan enthused. “There’s not a lot of room here, but I can make space for you, so you only need to get flights. And you can fly direct from Birmingham and Manchester these days, there’s no need to go all the way down to London.”
“We’ll sort something out,” she said gently. “Maybe we could meet your Henry.”
“That would be good.” Christmas was a long time away, but something instinctive told Tristan that Henry would still be around in a few months’ time. Maybe for even longer than that. “Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. Henry made Bakewells from your recipe, and now he’s selling them in the bakery. They’re really popular too. He put your name on a little card and everything. I need to send you a picture.”
“Really? Imagine that.”
He could tell she was pleased as punch with her name in a fancy, big-city bakery.
“He’s messing about with flavors and stuff. But yeah.”
They talked for nearly an hour more until Tristan was yawning a little and his mum was making noises about making a snack for his dad, and they said goodbye with real regret. It was only when Tristan closed the laptop down that he saw the missed call from Henry. Only ten minutes ago.
“Hey,” Tristan mumbled when Henry answered.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Was just talking to my mum. Are you getting ready for bed? I forget if this is an early night.”
“I slept for a couple hours this afternoon, I’m fine.” The warm voice was as soothing and comforting as his mother’s, just in a completely different way. “How’s your mom?”
“Good. She’s good.”
The homesickness was a hot twist in his belly, and Tristan felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
“Babe?”
“Sorry,” he sniffed. “I just miss them.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Tristan huffed a laugh. “You don’t have to do that. I’m okay.”
“Five minutes.”
And he rang off. Tristan couldn’t be bothered to go around the flat and tidy up; instead he quickly used the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and was just changing into his pajamas when the buzzer went off.
Henry arrived looking like the cavalry. Warm. Soft. Safe.
“Hey.”
Like he was taking care of an actually sick person, Henry guided Tristan to bed and started to strip off his own clothes, sweatshirt and jeans and socks, then crawled into bed behind Tristan wearing a T-shirt and boxers.
“You didn’t have to come over.”
“I know,” Henry murmured. His lips were close to Tristan’s skin, a puff of warm air over the back of his neck.
“Thank you for coming over.”
“Anytime, baby.”
* * *
They slept until Henry’s alarm went off at four, and then he slid out of bed, leaving Tristan with warm kisses on his shoulder before slipping back into the cool predawn.
There was something to be said for being someone’s comfort—not just a fun person to date or a really awesome roll in the hay but meaning something to a person who meant something to him. It felt like they were building the very strong foundation for a relationship, a real romance that would last, well, longer than his previous romances.
That morning, Henry worked without the usually familiar sound of the radio playing music for him to sing along to. He would never achieve complete silence, not in the middle of the city, but he actually embraced the noise of an awakening New York as he worked.
The back door to the kitchen was propped open, providing the soundtrack to a morning that Henry spent in his own head, thinking about things. When his phone rang at nine, he answered to his sister, only then realizing he’d been frowning hard. His forehead ached.
“Hi, Trix.”
“Hello, darling. I have an appointment this morning in your neck of the woods. Will you still be at the bakery at, say, eleven?”
“Almost certainly,” he said with a laugh, and made a tentative date to see his sister for lunch. Trixie hardly ever made anything more than the lightest of pencil marks in her planner; of course, there was no way of her knowing what better offer might land on her lap in the next couple hours.
He worked on a batch of Moravian spice cookies, fiddling with a recipe and adding flavors until he was happy with it, then shoved the first two dozen into the oven. They’d be ready for the lunchtime rush, but he’d have to rely on Millie’s feedback from the customers since he’d be gone by the time they started selling.
When he’d finished the rest of the cookie dough, Henry made a batch of Bakewells just to fill up some time. He’d only do the one batch today—when they were gone, they were gone.
“Knock, knock!”
Trixie stood in the doorway that led to the kitchen, a bright-pink, half-eaten macaron in hand.
“You better have paid for that,” Henry muttered.
“I’m a backer.”
Henry snorted. “You are not. Unless you’d like to pony up.”
“I never said financial backer. I’m an emotional backer.”
“You are that,” he said, relenting, and crossed to give her a hug. “I even changed for you. Where are we going?”
“Oh, I just thought we’d grab a sandwich somewhere.”
“Works for me.”
He’d be back later to start on the doughs for the next day, so Henry didn’t shut the kitchen down completely like he did at the end of the day. It was warm enough still, at least on some days, that Henry didn’t need a jacket. Trixie was wearing a gauzy cream-colored dress, another flowy scarf, and her fall boots—completely impractical, but that never seemed to stop her.
“So, how’s your boyfriend?” she asked, looping her arm through his as they walked up through the Village in the direction of the park.
“He’s good, thank you,” Henry said. He didn’t acknowledge the “boyfriend” comment at all, which caused Trixie to stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Henry Livingston,” she said dramatically, her hand at her chest. “You haven’t had a boyfriend in forever.”
“Jeez, thanks, Trix. Wanna shout it a bit louder? There are folks in Jersey who didn’t hear you.”
“When are you bringing him to brunch? Dinner? Cocktails?”
She started walking again, and it was Henry’s turn to drag his feet.<
br />
“Um, you know that’s not going to happen, Trixie.”
Henry’s sister gave him a pointed look. “He’s a nice guy. You know Mom and Dad will want to meet him.”
“Because that’s turned out so well in the past. Look, I like Tristan a lot. I don’t want to expose him to the bullshit that will surely occur if I bring him to any Livingston social occasion. He’s too nice for them.”
“You should give him more credit,” Trixie said airily as they crossed over Seventh. “Sure, he’s got that sweet charm about him, but I bet he’s got balls of steel.”
“Can we please not discuss my boyfriend’s balls?”
“Can we please?” she said, flipping Henry’s words back on him. “I’m always up for details.”
Henry elbowed her. “I plead the fifth.”
“Oh jeez, bro. You’re no fun.”
* * *
Henry turned up at Tristan’s apartment with flowers. They were just street-cart roses, nothing special, but it made him feel special to have someone to take them to.
After talking to Trixie at lunchtime, Henry had sent Tristan a message asking if he could take his dashingly handsome boyfriend out to dinner. He’d scored a reservation at the Waverly Inn and wanted to show off a little.
When Tristan opened the door to his apartment, Henry had his arm twisted behind his back, hiding the flowers, then unfurled his elbow dramatically to thrust them into Tristan’s face.
“These are for you.”
The color rose in Tristan’s cheeks, the sweetest pink, and Henry just had to lean in to kiss it.
“Thank you. No one’s ever bought me flowers before.”
Henry silently vowed to do it more often.
He followed Tristan into the apartment and waited while Tristan stuck the flowers in a tall glass tumbler filled with a little water. He’d dressed nice: khakis and a dark-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, making his milky smooth skin look even paler.
