by Peter Styles
“Of course I do—”
“Then maybe think about staying alive. You know, for her sake. Because it’s not like she gets much of a dad now, when he’s drunk and sorry half the time, so how do you think she’ll feel when you die at fifty because your liver gave up?”
It hits him hard. He almost curls over with the sudden shame and pain he feels. I keep doing this to her. To all of them, he thinks, the tears threatening to come back. He pushes them back, though, trying to button it away.
“Hey—no. Stop. Cry.”
“What?”
“I can tell what you’re doing. Stop holding back. You feel shitty, yeah, because you feel like you’re not doing enough. And you aren’t, but that’s not bad, okay?”
“How is that not bad? You’re not making any sense—” Stephen says hotly, embarrassed, frustrated, and tired.
“You can be not okay,” Rowan says firmly, emphasizing each word, “But you need to accept that. You need to take responsibility for not being fine and you need to get help. Change. If you don’t say I feel like shit, how the hell are you going to start changing that? How are other people supposed to help you?”
“I don’t expect anyone’s help,” Stephen says shortly, downing the rest of the coffee and finishing the croissant. He starts getting to work, sure that he’s stable enough to face the day.
Rowan stays by the chair for a minute, seeming frustrated but somehow patient in a way he’s never been before.
“Fine. But people are going to want to help you. When they do, maybe try accepting it. It’ll do you good and you won’t seem like a dick,” Rowan says lightly, turning his attention to the first batch of the day.
It’s offhand and unworried but it still gets to Stephen like a tiny flame. It warms him somehow, in a way the coffee hadn’t. Why? He can’t bring himself to think about it just yet, so he just gets back to work, resolving to think about it later.
8
So maybe he doesn’t hate Stephen as much as he thought he did.
“Really? Last I heard, you hated his guts,” Lina says. He can hear her amusement through the phone line. It makes him frown reflexively.
“I mean…he was kind of…he just rubbed me the wrong way. He seemed like a walking disaster—which he still is; I know that hasn’t changed—it’s just…”
“Just what? You finally realized no one is as perfect as you are?” she asks. If it were anyone else, he’d think they were being defensive. The way Lina says it, though, he knows she doesn’t mean to be angry or rude. She’s just pointing out the truth.
Which, as much as he hates to admit, is really what he needs to hear.
“I just…he has an ex-wife. And a kid in college, who apparently is going to art school.”
“Ah. The art school got you, didn’t it?”
“That’s not the point,” Rowan says, even though he’s already smiling. “I mean…he had a life once, probably. Happiness. It’s just…something got screwed up along the way and now he spends every night drinking. He showed up drunk today. Like, actually drunk. As if he’d started at ten and hadn’t stopped until right before he walked up to the store.”
“Jesus. How is he still alive?”
“I know, right? That’s what I told him. I mean, I had to remind him he has a kid who probably wants him around for awhile,” Rowan mutters, as he towels off his hair. His room is dim, lit only by a lamp he left on while he went to shower.
“Did you really tell him that?”
“Yeah. Why?” Rowan asks, caught off guard by her surprise.
“I mean, getting you to interact with people is like pulling teeth. I can’t believe you not only interacted with someone but also, like…tried to help them.”
“I’m not that antisocial,” Rowan argues, dropping onto his bed heavily. Even as he says it he frowns at the ceiling, thinking.
She’s partially right. He makes a point to stay to himself, other than once-a-month drinks with coworkers. Nothing has ever truly interested him enough about strangers; he’s certainly never wanted to try to help someone in the way he’d reached out to Stephen. Not that he thinks about it. What the hell was I doing, pretending I knew what his daughter thought? That it was even my responsibility to help drag him out of the hole he was sinking into?
He blames it partially on Jen. No matter how standoffish Rowan was as a kid, or how tough they both were raised by his aunt, Jen was always a softie at heart. She even cried for Rowan, one afternoon at recess when some kid pushed him off the slide and he dislocated his shoulder. Rowan was carried off to the nurse’s office and Jen appeared barely two minutes later, knuckles scratched from punching the other kid in the face. When she cried, it wasn’t because of the blood on her hands; it was because, as she said, they were mean to you for no reason. You never did anything.
He has to wonder if he’s that bully, now. If maybe jumping to conclusions about Stephen was more of a jerk move than he originally thought. After all, Stephen is incredibly helpful around the store. He knows his way around the kitchen and provides great customer service—Rowan’s sure Stephen has made some of the customers regulars, too. There’s no doubting that Stephen loves what he does at the bakery. He’s never let his personal issues seep into his work—at least not before Rowan found him at the back door.
After telling him he wasn’t doing enough for his daughter, Rowan realizes.
“I think I might have screwed up.”
“What did you do?” Lina asks patiently.
“I think…I probably said something dumb, without realizing how much it would affect him, and he went off and got drunk that night and never happened to get…un-drunk.”
“Sober,” Lina reminds him, sighing, “And you can’t take responsibility for everyone, Rowan. Though it’s good that you realize you might have been a jerk. Listen—whatever you’re thinking, it’s not your job to fix this man.”
“I know. Believe me, I know. I just…think maybe he’s used to hiding the fact that he needs fixing. I think he’s used to other people backing away from his pain. Maybe he just needs someone to kick him in the ass.”
“Please, for the love of God, do not assault your coworker.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. I do,” Lina says, “and I know you’re too stubborn to argue with, so I’ll just leave you with this: whatever you do, know that you’re letting someone in. Trust works both ways. If you want him to trust you, or even like you, you’re going to have to trust him and like him, too. It’ll be terrifying and hard but you’re going to have to do it, if you want to help.”
“I know,” Rowan murmurs, turning to look out the window. The stars are just visible and he fumbles for the lamp, flicking it off so he can see the sky better. “It’s risky and dumb and I have no reason to. I just…think maybe I could do some good, if only a little. Besides, I’m not even staying.”
“Just be careful,” Lina repeats, a little quieter, “and don’t lie to him. Okay?”
“Yeah. Have a good night,” Rowan says, stifling a yawn.
“You too, Rowan. And don’t forget to bring us cupcakes when you come back.”
He goes to bed after hanging up, his only thoughts about what he’s going to do when he sees Stephen at work the next day. Whether he should try to push the subject any more. Somewhere between drifting and completely relinquishing himself to dreamland, he decides it’s worth it. By the time he wakes up, he can’t remember why.
Rowan is in the middle of throwing together a batch of eclairs, barely keeping on top of the lunch rush. Someone came in and ordered almost the entire case and they have a regular that comes in at one o’clock every weekday without fail to order a half dozen. All he can do is frantically throw things into a bowl, trying to keep everything straight while trying to keep up with the other pastries demanding his attention.
Shit, I forgot the vanilla extract. He practically sprints to the pantry, glad the kitchen is small and there aren’t a million pastry chefs running around. He reaches for the bot
tle on the high shelf, arm stretched above his head, and just as he does, something on the top tips over. He flinches, preparing for whatever it is to hit him, and then he suddenly feels a press against his back and a small oof.
When he gets the nerve to peel his eyes open, he sees one of Stephen’s arms stretched over his head, maneuvering something back onto the shelf.
“Oh.”
“Careful. Next time it might take your head,” Stephen says, tone serious, but he’s grinning. Rowan can’t even answer. He’s stuttering—mentally—from the feeling of the chest against his back and the strong arm at his shoulder. It shouldn’t affect him as much as it does, except...it does.
“You want me to tray this?” Stephen calls, suddenly in the kitchen. It takes Rowan a moment to snap out of his flushed stupor, jolting from where he’s frozen at the shelves. Get it together.
“No, I forgot something,” Rowan says quickly, determinedly avoiding Stephen’s eyes so that he can concentrate on his pastries. He’s still a little bit shaken by the encounter.
It’s not like he doesn’t know Stephen is attractive. That much is obvious. It’s just…there was never any attraction there before. Right? There was certainly never any desire to pursue the man, especially given what Rowan knows about the man’s romantic history. Plus, he’d been married to a woman. Although that doesn’t always mean anything, especially given the fact that it didn’t work out. He has to snap himself out his sudden spiral, reminding himself that it’s rush hour and there’s no time to daydream.
By the time the lunch rush is out, they’re both sweaty and hassled, trying to pick up some of the mess while winding down for the day. It’s technically the end of Rowan’s shift but he stays anyway, knowing Stephen will need help getting the place straightened out while keeping track of what’s in the oven.
“Ro? You sure you wanna stick around?” Jen asks, peering into the back. She’s already untying her apron. Rowan fights the urge to glance at Stephen, preoccupying himself with wiping down the table.
“It’s no problem. It’s not like I have work at home, anyway. Plus, most of the flour mess was me.”
“Really?” Jen raises an eyebrow. He tries to ignore her stare. So, maybe I’m a neat freak. I was distracted. “Okay. Well, don’t work too hard.”
“Yeah. Go home and take a nap.” Rowan smirks, waving her away as she sticks her tongue out.
The evening is quiet, so Rowan is left feeling a little in the way. His hands start shaking at five o’clock and he pauses to stare at them. I’m not that nervous, am I? It only occurs to him after a minute that all he’s eaten for the day has been coffee and a pastry that morning.
“Do you—I mean, it’s already five, but…um. I’m going to get food,” Rowan corrects, frustrated with his inability to be clear, “Do you want anything?”
He realizes after the fact that he’s not even looking at Stephen so he turns to the man, swallowing his anxiety to look him in the face. He’s pleasantly surprised when Stephen smiles—genuinely, without any trace of sly humor. No smirk. “Sure. Where are you going?”
“Probably just next door.”
“Oh. Well, just tell them my regular. They’ll know,” Stephen says, reaching to pull something out of his back pocket, but Rowan waves the man away.
“It’s just lunch. Kind of. I’ll be right back,” he says, throwing his apron on a hook.
Walking, however briefly, gives him a chance to clear his head. He tries to pass off his strange encounter with Stephen—I’m just hungry and tired, he tells himself, but then a little voice at the back of his mind tells him, You weren’t then. It also, unfortunately, reminds him that Stephen is apparently made from very solid muscle. Strong. Firm. By the time he gets to the deli register, he’s halfway miserable and also growing more nervous about what’s going to happen when he returns to the bakery.
“Hi. What’ll it be?” The cashier is a young man, probably still in high school, the side of his nose decorated with a tiny silver stud. He seems cheery.
“Um—club sandwich for me, please, no tomato. And…Stephen said you’d know his usual?”
The boy grins, adding the order, and tries to sneakily give Rowan a once-over. He’s not very successful.
“Well. Tell Stephen we’d still like to see him, even if he does have someone to pick up his lunch for him now,” the boy says, barely able to bite down his smile.
Oh God. Rowan stutters, trying to figure out how to say we just work together, but somehow his tongue won’t move. He ends up standing at the counter while the cashier leaves to grab the order, already apparently half-prepared, and then the bag is in his hand and he’s weakly bidding the cashier farewell.
“That was fast,” Stephen says when Rowan returns. The comment breaks him out of his shocked stupor.
“I think they already had yours ready,” Rowan says drily. “How often do you get lunch there?”
“Almost every day,” Stephen laughs, reaching into the bag to pull out a sandwich. “I’m not good at preparing for myself. It’s just so easy, too. Hop over on break and get a BLT. Yum.”
“Guess so,” Rowan says, unwrapping and then biting into his sandwich. It’s fantastic. Just like he remembers.
The rest of the day passes quickly, less traffic and more prep occupying their time. Rowan might be an extra hand but it seems they could always use one; he manages to get the pantry items rearranged, pulling stock from the back of the deep shelves and updating the list. It’ll be one less thing for Jen to do at the end of the week, which will be a pleasant surprise, he thinks. Before he realizes it, the cashiers are locking up their registers, saying goodbye before they walk to their cars.
“Huh. Time flies,” Rowan mutters to himself, sliding the clipboard in his hand back into the drawer under the manager’s register.
“That it does.”
He almost has a heart attack when Stephen’s voice issues from beside him. He manages not to jump, though, calmly collecting his racing heart while he turns to the other man.
“I’ll help you close up. It’ll go faster,” Rowan offers, reaching for a broom. He makes sure to double-check everything as he goes, moving from the front of the store to the double doors by the kitchen. He props them open as he sweeps, stuck in thought.
“You know, I hope I didn’t make you feel bad when I pointed out your mistakes earlier last week,” Stephen volunteers, wiping down a tray. His voice echoes in the empty kitchen.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Rowan finally says. It was me and my need to be better. Now that he can recognize it, he knows it was silly. Not that he likes having to admit how easily he’s swayed by other people’s perceptions of him.
“It kind of was,” Stephen says, smiling as he raises an eyebrow. “This is your family. Your history. It was rude of me to just correct you like I knew better.”
“Well, you did,” Rowan snorts, “I’ve been away from home for years. I haven’t even been working in a similar industry.”
They’re quiet for a few minutes and then Rowan can feel it—a small closeness, blossoming between them. Like the reluctant friendliness is starting to reach out more, roots burying themselves in both men.
“What do you do? Back home?”
“I work for a video game company,” Rowan supplies, smiling, “as an animator, mostly, but doing other things, too. It’s nice. My boss is an old friend.”
“That must be nice. Why video games?”
Why? He hasn’t had to answer the question in a long time. He tries to remember what it was he used to say—some spiel focused on character traits and work ethic, he thinks—but suddenly it’s gone. There’s nothing. He blinks at the floor. Why do I do it?
“I…it was different,” Rowan finally says, not sure what else to say. Part of him panics a little—How can I not remember why I chose to do what I’m doing? The thing I claim to be so dedicated to? What I spend my entire week doing? He changes track quickly. “What about you?”
“I was working at the
factory before. Tedious work, being one man in a production line. I hated it. Felt like it was killing my heart and soul. After—well, after a while, I figured I needed to stop. I made a change. This seemed like the furthest extreme I could reach,” Stephen smiles, gesturing at the building around him.
“Isn’t that true,” Rowan laughs. “I mean, you’re good at it. At talking to people, too.”
“Really?”
The way he says it makes Rowan pause. He frowns, turning away from the front counter, and sees Stephen smiling to himself. Oh no, that’s cute, Rowan thinks, feeling a flush climb up his neck and towards his face.
“Yeah. Of course. I mean, you’re great at talking to the customers. They love you. You don’t see it?”
“I, uh, figured they just talked because they had to. I work here.”
The thought makes Rowan laugh. Really laugh. He’s not sure why—it’s not particularly funny. It’s just that somehow, Stephen thinking he’s holding customers hostage is so incongruous. It’s like he can’t see what he’s doing—which is probably right, Rowan realizes, since the man drinks most of his nights away. Rowan’s starting to get the impression that Stephen doesn’t think much of himself.
“Wow. You know, you don’t look as intimidating when you smile and laugh,” Stephen points out. Now, it’s Rowan’s turn to splutter.
“Intimidating?”
“Yeah. You’re always a little sour, you know that?”
“Sour?”
Stephen laughs, moving closer, guiding his mop as he steps up to the doorway in front of Rowan. They’re suddenly very close.
“Well, you’re kind of always…unhappy-looking. It’s good to know you can be happy. I’ll have to try and make you laugh more.”
His smile is kind of crooked, Rowan thinks, watching the way one corner of Stephen’s mouth is a tiny bit higher than the other. Suddenly, all he can think of is that only Lina has ever been so blunt to his face, and the way Stephen does it is so vastly different and somehow, better. He’s telling Rowan the truth, without any clear worry about how it’s going to affect him. Rowan wants to say something clever in response, but all he can think about is how he can smell whiskey and powdered sugar and he’s suddenly very much compelled to taste.
