by M. A. Hinkle
“No.” Cathal frowned at his pad. “It’s about this. What we’re trying to do.”
Damon looked at his potatoes. Then he sighed and set down the grater so he could look at Cathal’s writing. What he saw was not heartening, and not because Cathal’s spiky, tight handwriting was illegible even to people without dyslexia. “This is highlighted.”
“Yes,” said Cathal, missing the disgust in Damon’s tone. Or ignoring it. It was hard to tell.
“And there are sticky notes.”
“Yes.” Cathal nodded firmly.
Damon scrubbed his hands down his face. “I was going to try and concentrate on what you were saying, but this will be unbearable, and I need something to do with my hands.” He sat back down and picked his grater up. With this to do, he wouldn’t feel like strangling Cathal. Hopefully.
And now he was thinking about the way Cathal had looked at him last night. Like he was being sincere.
No, no, that was the really annoying thing about him. One second, everything was fine, and he was saying you weren’t worth the air you breathed, and then he’d turn on a dime and say something so nice you wanted to push him out of a window, Game of Thrones–style, so he couldn’t do it again.
Case in point. “You think better with your hands busy anyway,” Cathal said. “Era always said that.” Damon’s head snapped up, and his eyes narrowed, waiting for the punch line. But it wasn’t there.
Not touching that with a ten-foot pole. Or a twenty-foot pole. Or any kind of pole. Damon didn’t understand that expression.
Cathal tapped his lips. Then he pulled one of the Post-it notes off his paper, flipped it over so the sticky side was facing up, and wrote a single word on the back.
Despite himself, Damon peered across the table. “Obdurate? What the hell does that mean?”
“Stubborn, intransigent, obstinate,” said Cathal, like those were simpler words.
Damon’s first instinct was to ask if Cathal had eaten the dictionary, and, if so, how soon they’d have to take him to the hospital. But there was a more important question. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Cathal blinked, and his eyes came back into focus. “Nothing, really. But it’s a good word.” He said that like it was a sane sentence.
“So you wrote it down.”
“So I wrote it down,” said Cathal without changing his tone. “What I had there wasn’t useful anyway. I need to stop making plans at three in the morning, but someone disrupted my sleep patterns.”
Damon kept staring at him. “You were up at three a.m. doing this?”
Cathal glared at him. “Yes, I made a plan, because that’s how I think. The idea of teaching someone else how to be a human being is a foreign language to me, because I have been told on several occasions that I’m not human. Therefore, I had to make sure my thoughts were in order, or we’d never get anywhere.”
Damon couldn’t suppress a snort.
Cathal leaned toward him, his voice a barely veiled threat. “You said you wanted to make progress. Hence. Sticky notes. Highlighters. Synonyms. This is my process. It’s gotten me my doctorate and tenure, and therefore, it’s going to get you a fucking life.”
Damon, as usual, was at a loss for words.
Cathal smiled brightly. “So. Shall we get started?”
“Yes.” Cathal put on his lecture face, and Damon added, “But if this gets too weird, I’m pulling the plug. I don’t know how much of this I can take.”
“Limits are important. If I feel too much like beating my head against the table, I’m also pulling the plug.” Cathal’s mouth twitched, and then he grabbed another sticky note.
Damon glanced at it, saw the word “butt,” and rolled his eyes. He reached for his next potato, realized he’d finished them, and scraped the hash browns off his cutting board into a bowl of cold water. Only when he finished did he notice Cathal was staring at him like his fly was unzipped. (He was wearing sweatpants, so he didn’t have to look on reflex.) “What?”
“Are the potatoes dehydrated or something?” Cathal asked.
“They’ll get brown if you leave them out in the air.” Damon wasn’t even defensive. He was too confused.
Cathal scrunched up his nose, looking almost upset at this information. “I didn’t realize potatoes were so needy.”
Damon looked at him for a long moment; Cathal’s expression did not change. “I can never tell when you’re serious and when you’re fucking with me.”
“We’ve already had this conversation. But I was serious.” Cathal clucked. “Anyway. Not hardly the point. The main thing I came up with is where we need to start. Here, as I understand it, is your main problem. You and Era didn’t do things together.” Damon opened his mouth, but Cathal glared him down. “Let me clarify. Era did things. You tagged along.”
Damon stopped spreading apples out on the table and frowned at them. “That’s not true.” He hated the uncertainty in his voice.
Cathal’s face flattened. “Name one time in recent memory where you participated in a social event that wasn’t a work function or initiated by Era. Or one of Felix’s school things.”
Damon didn’t have to think very long about the question, since nothing came to mind.
“Precisely.” At least Cathal didn’t sound happy about it. Damon wasn’t sure he could sound happy. Smug. Confident. Satisfied. But never simply…happy. Relaxed.
Damon shook that thought away. “Okay, fine, you’re right. I didn’t want to admit it.”
“If it makes it any better, I only put it that way because Era always complained about it.”
Damon closed his eyes tightly, though the sound of her name was only a pinch, not a stab. “You don’t have to tell me that part. We fought about it—and don’t say she didn’t tell you about every single one of our fights, because I know she did. You were the only one she trusted with that stuff.”
Cathal didn’t say anything. Damon didn’t want to see his expression. He knew this was hurting Cathal just as much, but he didn’t want confirmation. Then Cathal said, “So what are the apples for?”
Damon glanced at the table. “Applesauce. It goes with the pancakes instead of syrup.” He realized he was staring blankly at the apples and shook his head, though it didn’t help. His head was always nothing but noise. “Stop changing the subject.”
Cathal made an irritated noise. “I can’t help it. I don’t know anything about food, and everything you’ve been making is really weird, so it’s distracting. I can’t stand not having the answer to a question once I’ve thought of it.”
Damon scowled. “Get to the point.”
Cathal cleared his throat. From someone else, it might have been nervous, but in addition to happy, Cathal was never nervous. “Okay, fine. You need to figure out what you did before you met Era. You cooked, but there’s got to be more to it than that.”
Damon realized he had nothing to say.
He set the apple down slowly, so he wouldn’t bruise it, and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. He wanted to turn around so he couldn’t feel Cathal’s eyes moving over his face, judging his every gesture, but his body was as frozen as his brain.
When he could speak, his voice shook, but he couldn’t stop it. “That’s the thing. Food makes me feel like myself instead of some—useless idiot. But I can’t make anything—anything—without it reminding me of her.”
He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, trying not to cry. Crying was okay. It made him feel better most of the time—as better as he could feel. But he was not crying in front of Cathal. Not ever.
Then Cathal said, “You never made dessert.”
Damon’s eyes snapped open, and he reached for something awful to say.
Then he rewound what Cathal said. “I—what?”
Cathal pursed his lips, as always when someone asked him to repeat himself. “You never made dessert.” At least he didn’t say it slowly to rub it in. “You always bought it or someone else made it.”
Damon stared helplessly at the apples. Then he laughed. It was hoarse and weak, but it was still a laugh. When was the last time he’d laughed?
He pushed his hand against his forehead again. Maybe if he hit himself hard enough, he’d snap out of his coma and he’d wake up in a world that made sense, where Era wasn’t dead and Cathal wasn’t spouting words of wisdom.
“The fuck of it is, you’re right,” he said, still staring at the apples. “They make you pick in culinary school, and I already knew how to cook, so I did that instead of pastry.” He swallowed hard and waited for the urge to cry to overwhelm him again, but it didn’t.
Damon took in a breath. “I hate it when you’re right.”
He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but Cathal didn’t seem to mind.
He flicked his ponytail over his shoulder, as he did when someone complimented him and he couldn’t be too smug. “You just hate admitting I’m always right.”
Damon did hate it, but he wasn’t upset. He’d glimpsed the edge and almost tipped over, and Cathal had pulled him back. Damon would have bet on him putting spikes at the bottom of the cliff, not yanking on his shirt to save him.
Fuck, maybe he was living in the wrong universe.
But none of that was relevant. Cathal was right.
Damon ran a hand over his hair. “I don’t know where to start learning, though. I guess I could ask the pastry chef at Stephen’s and see if she’d let me sit in or something…”
Cathal rolled his eyes. “YouTube is a thing, Damon. You can learn everything on there these days. I learned how to arm knit.”
Damon put that aside, because whatever arm knitting was, it was not part of their conversation. This, at least, Cathal would understand. “I don’t want to use the computer. Or my phone. They’re…they’re covered in things that remind me of Era, and I need to make sure I stay out of that hole. You’re right. Era wouldn’t want me to wallow in it. She’d want me to have a life.”
“I can back everything up on her computer and wipe the drive for you, if you want.” The offer was almost hesitant, and Damon looked over at Cathal to make sure he wasn’t hearing wrong. But Cathal was avoiding his eyes, with a frown tugging at the side of his lips. He wasn’t making fun, and he wasn’t comfortable either.
Damon sighed. “Fine, do whatever you want. Telling you no only makes you do it more.”
“See, we understand each other.” Cathal jumped off the table.
“Hang on, you don’t even know her password.”
Cathal shot him a pitying look. “Bitch, I knew everything about that woman. Everything.” And he left the room before Damon could demand to know what he was implying. Even though he had a pretty good guess.
CATHAL RETURNED A while later, his face studiously neutral in that way Damon was beginning to understand meant he was thinking about Era. He missed her, but he was shitty at admitting it. Not that Damon could blame him. Why go around telling everyone you had an open wound?
Damon sprinkled cinnamon on the apples, which were now boiling down in a large pot. Maybe if he pretended to be busy, Cathal would leave the computer alone, and Damon could noodle around with it in peace. He had to spend the first few minutes finding the right font and zoom that would make the characters stop moving around.
But, of course, Cathal set the netbook down and started it up. “Leave that be so I can show you.”
Damon stabbed one of the apples that hadn’t burst yet. “You do realize I’m younger than you, right? I know how to use a computer, but I don’t like spending all my time looking at cats.”
“That, more than anything else, is proof of your deep-rooted problems. And also more fuel for my hypothesis that you might be a time traveler from the 1940s. I’ll find the cryogenic chamber eventually.”
Damon pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re not going to leave me alone.”
“Think of me like your AA sponsor. You need someone to hold you accountable, or you won’t make positive change. In other words, if I don’t watch you like a hawk, you won’t do it.”
Damon glared at him, but Cathal just swung his legs and smiled a disarmingly handsome smile.
No, no, that was the most annoying thing about Cathal. He was so goddamn good-looking sometimes. You couldn’t bring yourself to smash his face against the table because his cheekbones were too perfect.
His eyes weren’t bad either, for all they looked like liquid nitrogen.
Damon turned his attention to the computer. As Cathal had promised, everything was blank, and the only program still installed was Chrome. He opened YouTube and hesitated. “What should I search for?”
“Baking lessons?”
Damon tried it, ignoring the way Cathal snorted at his typing. Yes, he had to look at his hands, but that was because the letters on the screen never looked right. The ones on his keyboard didn’t shift around.
Cathal glanced at what Damon had typed and made a face. “Oh, damn, hang on.” He took the laptop before Damon could protest and looked something up. Then he passed it back.
Damon half expected Cathal to have pulled up porn. Or maybe a Rickroll. But he’d changed the font, and suddenly Damon could read the text. Damon couldn’t help but frown. “Is this a trick?”
Cathal let out a sigh, though it wasn’t as annoyed as usual. Maybe he knew it was justified. “It’s a Chrome extension to make it dyslexia-friendly. Felix’s got the same thing. I promise, the laptop is not a bomb, and it will not explode.”
Damon thought about glaring some more, but what was the point? Cathal had done something nice. This time, he found a series of videos featuring a pleasant blonde woman talking about baking techniques.
Cathal clapped him on the shoulder. “There you are. Go nuts.” He walked out of the kitchen.
Damon glared at the blonde woman, but it was a front. He shut his eyes. “Cathal?”
“You rang, Jeeves?” Cathal paused in the door of the kitchen.
Damon didn’t throw his laptop at Cathal, though it would have been satisfying. “Thanks.”
Cathal stared at him, his brow furrowing as though he didn’t know what to make of it either. “Sure. But don’t go hacking alien technology or whatever the kids are doing these days. You know, since you’re a whole two years younger than me.”
“You’ll be forty before me!” Damon yelled after him.
“I’m going to burn your house down!” Cathal yelled back.
Damon returned his attention to the laptop and realized he was smiling. When had that happened?
FELIX SEEMED DISTRACTED when he came home from school, but that just meant he wasn’t singing. He wasn’t upset. Or at least, he perked up when he saw Damon starting the first round of potato pancakes. “Ooh, brinner!”
“That’s not a word.” Damon frowned at the pancakes. Not that he was paying attention to them. The most important rule of pancakes: the first batch always came out like crap. Too bad they didn’t have a dog.
Felix sat backward on one of the chairs. “It’s on Urban Dictionary.”
“How many times have I told you not to tell your father about things you learned on Urban Dictionary?” said Cathal. Damon looked up, unsure when Cathal had come in. “You’ll confuse his poor dear heart.”
Damon rolled his eyes, moving the pancakes off the heat to a plate. “I’m ignoring that, but only because I’m in the middle of something. Felix, get plates for us, then take this stack to the table.”
Felix bounced over, though he frowned at the pancakes. “Oh, they’ve got potatoes in them.”
“You say that like it’s a disease.” Damon bumped Felix with his elbow.
Felix blew a raspberry. Damon ignored him, so Felix did as he was told and went to the table. He picked four pancakes off the stack with his fingers.
Cathal made a disgusted noise. “Good God, I thought they sent you to a private school for a reason.”
Felix blew another raspberry. “I have to act all formal and fancy at school. I don’t want to d
o it at home.”
“You are a trial.”
“For once, I have to agree with him, son,” said Damon, suppressing a smile. Again, he had no idea where it came from. “Bring that plate back. I need it.”
Felix did, but then he tried to prop his head on Damon’s shoulder, which didn’t work—first, because Damon was six inches taller, and second, because Damon was using that shoulder.
Damon nudged him again. “You know how to make pancakes. Sit down and eat.”
“Mahhhh,” said Felix, but he went back to the table.
“Why so fidgety, Felix?” said Cathal, his voice innocent. “It’s almost like you’ve got something you want to distract us from.”
Felix narrowed his eyes, which was not intimidating, unless you thought kittens and other cute things were intimidating.
Damon rolled his eyes. “Yes, keep making fun of him. It’s worked so well.”
Cathal set his cheek on his hand. “Look at you, trying to be sarcastic. It’s adorable. Like goats wearing pajamas.”
Felix stared at the massive pile of applesauce on his pancakes and sighed. “Okay, okay. He still won’t talk to me.”
“Your ears are all red,” said Cathal, his voice fond.
Felix hunched up his shoulders. “Cathal, you’re mean.”
“Dearest boy, I never pretended to be anything else. But I merely draw attention to your blush because it suggests to me that you’re holding something back.” Cathal gestured for Felix to continue. “To use the vernacular, spill.”
“Well, he didn’t look like he was going to die of embarrassment when I sat by him. That’s good, right?”
Cathal rubbed his face, hiding a smile. “All successful romances do require that you don’t kill your partner.”
Damon shot him a look, warning him to back off, but Cathal deliberately did not acknowledge it. “Well, what did you talk to him about?”
“Not anything bad.” Felix cut his pancakes into smaller and smaller pieces. “I told him about my classes and stuff. He’s in a bunch of advanced things, so maybe he thought it was boring and didn’t know how to say so.”
