by M. J. O'Shea
Fuck it.
“Sunday sounds great. How about”—Henry reached up and brushed Tristan’s silky fair hair back from his face—“I come over with some ingredients after I get the bakery opened up and you can show me how to make propah English biscuits.”
“That was your worst attempt at my accent yet. Absolutely pathetic.” Tristan snorted. “You may as well give up. You’re never going to get it.”
“It was amazing. You just don’t understand my theatrical genius. So, biscuits, England style?”
“Henry… I burn toast. I can’t boil an egg. I have trouble heating water without something going disastrously wrong.”
Henry laughed, feeling his face crease into a genuine smile. “Okay. I’ll cook, you can watch. Or I could teach you? I’m an excellent teacher.”
“You could try,” Tristan said doubtfully.
“I’ll talk to you soon.” He reached out and touched Tristan’s arm again, and then, when Tristan didn’t seem to mind, leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips. “And I’ll see you on Sunday.”
“Great,” Tristan said. He looked a little dazed, and visibly shook himself before turning and walking up to the front door of his building. Henry watched for a moment, then headed back down the street.
ON FRIDAY afternoon, he met Trixie in Washington Square Park with her Boston terrier, Dolores, whom she called Lolly for short. Trixie had wanted to meet in Central Park, near the Met, which was closer for her. Henry had bitched that she never came down to his neck of the woods, and she’d relented.
There was a breeze that day that brought the temperature down enough for him to be able to bear being outside in the barely wavering early October heat. Henry wore khaki shorts and a pale blue shirt rolled to his elbows, and Wayfarers on his face to take the edge off the sun’s glare. For dog walking, Trixie had chosen a mint-colored tailored dress, a light cardigan, and wedges. She’d pulled her glossy dark hair into an intricate knot at the nape of her neck, and one of her typical scarves was wrapped around her head and flowing out behind her. Henry wondered if she even owned a pair of yoga pants, or maybe a nice warm-up suit. Some running shoes? He doubted it.
“So, how are things with you?” Trixie asked as Dolores sniffed at a bush that obviously had caught her notice.
“Good,” he said. He hadn’t talked to his sister nearly as much since Tristan had waltzed into his life. He could tell she was a little annoyed but trying to hide it. Henry wondered if a dinner date with just the two of them and maybe a new Louis Vuitton would work to soothe her. Assuming there even was one she didn’t already have.
“And the bakery?” Henry hadn’t been imagining it. There was a tiny bit of tightness in her voice.
“I’ve just hired a new front-of-house person. Her name’s Rose.”
“Rose,” Trixie mused. “She’s either an octogenarian who wants to be your grandmother, a Jewish mother of six, or some hipster kid from NYU.”
Henry laughed and pushed Trixie’s shoulder, just gently. “None of the above. Well, actually….”
“Wait, wait. I’m going with option three.”
Rose had a nose ring and waist-length dreadlocks she tied into a knot on the top of her head. One whole arm was covered with tattoos, and she had more rings than she had fingers. She’d had several stacked one on top of the other the day Henry met her. But she’d been impeccably dressed when she’d turned up for the interview, had good experience, and wanted to move into catering management. Henry thought if he decided to expand that area of his business, doing more events and parties and weddings, Rose could actually be an asset. He’d hired her on the spot. After a couple of days, it felt like she’d been there forever.
“She’s not at NYU,” Henry said. “And I think if you called her a hipster, she’d punch you.”
“I love being right,” Trixie said with a little self-satisfied sigh. “What about your love life? Dating anyone?” Trixie already knew that answer. Henry lied anyway.
“No.”
“That means yes. Tell me everything.”
Trixie looped her arm through Henry’s and let Lolly lead them through the park, sniffing the ground and wagging her tail. Trixie had always been very interested in Henry’s happiness, according to her, at least, and she took the opportunity to grill him about his love life as often as possible. Sometimes he thought she might take a little too much interest in his love life. It was probably easier than thinking about her own.
“Trix,” Henry sighed, trying to get her to back off. No dice. She wasn’t about to let this one go. The fingernails digging into Henry’s arm told him as much.
“Like ripping off a Band-Aid,” she said comfortingly. “Tell me everything.”
“His name is Tristan, he’s from England, and he works in advertising,” Henry said in a rush. “He’s very good-looking and his accent is adorable. I like being around him, and I’m seeing him again on Sunday.”
“There.” Trixie patted his arm gently. “Isn’t that better now?”
He laughed, but it wasn’t funny. Just the thought of Trixie meddling in this one made his heart palpitate. She was sweet but intense. Henry wasn’t sure Tristan was ready for his sister’s brand of intense. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if he was. “If you say so. Tell me what’s going on with you.”
“Oh, you know.” She waved one hand demonstratively. “The usual.”
Henry did know, and nodded sympathetically, making humming noises in the right places as she filled him in on all that was important on the Upper East Side. Boyfriend of the moment, fabulous trips with fabulous people to places where everyone was, you got it, fabulous. It all seemed so shallow, but apparently it made Trixie happy. To a point, at least. Every time he listened to one of her chattering, one-sided conversations, he got a little bit more grateful he was as out of that loop as possible. It annoyed his mother and sister both, but he wasn’t going to change his mind anytime soon. He’d go to functions when he absolutely had to, show up at dinner when they asked, and absolutely never allow his name to turn up in the gossip rags.
Trixie, however, was of course still right in the thick of it. Although she moaned and groaned about needing a break, Henry was starting to think she actually liked seeing her name in the society pages. It was too bad. Almost everything that was written about her was speculation and bullshit.
“Is that….” Henry pointed to a man wearing a black polo shirt and dark jeans, slightly overweight and holding a long-lens camera.
“Ugh,” Trixie said. “Yeah. Bastards.”
It was strange to think his sister was being stalked by paparazzi, and Henry immediately switched to her other side to try to mask her the best he could.
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Not really,” she said. “Ever since I broke up with Rocco, they’ve been all over the both of us.”
Rocco was the latest macho asshole ex-boyfriend who had called Henry “fag” at every opportunity, which thankfully wasn’t many. He’d done a lot of side-eyeing Henry’s ass when he wore the tightest jeans he owned to brunch one Sunday. He was also a billionaire heir to some shipping line. Henry had pegged the guy as a closet case within a few hours of meeting him and hadn’t exactly been a shrinking violet with this opinion. It had caused tension between him and Trixie for a while, especially when it looked like they were about to get engaged.
Trixie was everything a guy like Rocco wanted—she was pretty and well educated, not likely to ever have a real job, but intelligent enough to be able to hold her own in conversations about politics and world events. She was borderline anorexic, which was pretty much all anyone cared about, as far as Henry could tell. He blamed her friends for the obsession Trixie seemed to have about her looks. They, too, seemed to hop from manicure appointment to hair appointment to cocktails at the Four Seasons and purging afterward without anything meaningful to fill their lives. He hated it for his sister, but at the same time, doubted she’d ever change. Henry wasn’t going to try to force her.
/> A FEW days later, the pictures of Henry, Trixie, and Lolly appeared in the Daily News. Henry only knew because Trixie had a copy couriered to him, the pages folded back to the right page so he couldn’t miss it.
He scanned the first few lines of the article, then threw it into the trash in disgust. They had so little information about Henry to go on that they thought he was her boyfriend. He couldn’t wait to explain that to his mother. Fantastic.
JAMMIE DODGER
A favorite from across the pond,
and one of Tristan’s favorites as well :)
1¾ cups unsalted butter
1¾ cups fine sugar
1¾ cups plain flour
3½ tablespoons cornstarch
Seedless raspberry jam (thicker is better)
Sift flour and cornstarch together. Cream the butter and sugar together until pale and fluffy, then stir in flour and cornstarch to form a dough, adding more flour if necessary. Chill the dough in plastic wrap for 12 minutes, then roll out to about 5 mm thick (I find it easier to do this between two sheets of plastic wrap or greaseproof baking paper).
Cut out twelve rounds (about 2½ inch diameter). Then cut a smaller heart shape (or circle if you can’t find a cutter) in the center, about 1 inch in size. Reroll dough if needed using the scraps to make twelve more 2½-inch rounds.
Bake for 8 to 10 minutes at 350°F, then cool on a wire rack. When cooled, sandwich together with a little bit of warmed jam and sprinkle with a bit of sugar, if you like.
Chapter 7
ON SUNDAY, Henry arrived at Tristan’s townhouse, arms full of baking ingredients. He’d probably gone overboard…. Okay, he had gone overboard. It was probably a good idea to buy everything, anyway. He didn’t know what Tristan kept in his pantry—most likely not a lot, since he seemed to live on takeout.
The day was warm but breezy, lifting the dark hair out of Henry’s eyes without permission and blowing it into something that probably looked like a huge ball of cotton candy. Henry half-wondered why he’d decided to wear it down. Probably because every time they saw each other, Tristan managed to take his hair out of whatever was holding it back so he could play with it. Henry knew he was in trouble. The best kind, though. He didn’t even feel like fighting it. It had been a long time since anything had felt this good. Since he didn’t know which apartment Tristan lived in, he dumped the canvas grocery bags at the foot of the stoop and pulled his phone out of his back pocket.
“Hey. I’m outside,” he said when Tristan answered.
“Okay. I’ll buzz you in. I’m on the second floor, first door on your left.”
The door didn’t actually buzz, but Henry heard a lock click, and rushed to get through it before it locked again. Inside, it was dark and cool, the floor covered with cracked tiles. A lot of the buildings in the village looked like that in the hallways, old and a bit run-down. Once you got into the actual apartments, they’d all been remodeled and fixed up. Henry always wondered why they didn’t bother with the common areas. There wasn’t an elevator, so Henry trudged up the stairs, thankful for all the time he’d spent beating eggs and whipping batter—at least his arms weren’t straining from carrying the groceries.
At the door, Tristan greeted him barefoot, wearing jeans and a simple T-shirt. Henry paused to grin and kiss him on the mouth before stepping past him into the apartment.
It was a nice place, if a bit small; open, with high ceilings and clean, bright walls other than the tall ubiquitous expanse of exposed brick. The kitchen was down at the front, nearest the street, and an open window let in the sounds of the city beyond.
A breakfast bar separated that space from the main living area, which contained a trendy but uncomfortable-looking dark blue couch, a stark coffee table, and a big flat-screen TV.
Tristan’s bed, covered in dark red sheets, was tucked away against the back wall in an alcove made by the space the bathroom took up. It wasn’t very personal, but it was clean and nice. Especially for a twenty-three-year-old in an expensive neighborhood.
“Great place,” Henry said. He meant it too.
“It’s nothing compared to your flat.” Tristan rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously.
Henry dumped the grocery bags on the breakfast bar and crossed back, drawing Tristan into a slow, searching kiss. Tristan immediately relaxed in his arms, smiling against Henry’s lips and flicking his tongue out, silently asking for more. This wasn’t what Henry had planned, but he was more than okay with the turn of events. As Tristan wound his arms around Henry’s neck, Henry found a place for his hands tucked into the back pockets of Tristan’s jeans—a tight fit, but a great place to rest his hands.
They kissed slowly, their tongues carefully sliding together and their bodies pressed close. It was intimate and strangely fun just to kiss. Henry hadn’t gone so slowly, physically, in years. He didn’t know what it was that made him want to take it slow with Tristan, but he liked it. Henry bit at Tristan’s pouting bottom lip, stretching it with his teeth until Tristan whimpered. Then he kissed it better.
“You smell good,” Tristan said in a low voice.
“Yeah?” Henry asked with a laugh.
“Mm. Like… vanilla. Sugar. And….” He buried his nose in the crook of Henry’s neck, which tickled, but he didn’t mind. “I’m not sure. Something woody? Not food. You usually smell like food.”
Henry smiled against Tristan’s neck. “I’ve got a few different bottles of cologne. I can’t remember which one I put on this morning, but I actually did, for once.”
“It’s good. A little different than usual, but I like it.”
Tristan carefully worked through Henry’s hair, untangling the messy strands. Henry had let it grow out recently, and it actually brushed against his jaw when he didn’t have it tied back. His mom hated it—she took every opportunity to let him know—but he kinda liked it, especially when it was wavy and thick and falling in his face. It made him look a lot cooler than he was. For a while, he’d considered getting it cut. Now that it could be tied back in a ponytail—albeit a very short one—it was easier for work. And if Tristan kept doing that thing with his fingers, then Henry would never cut it again.
Leaning in even closer, Tristan nudged Henry’s nose with his own, then kissed him again, softly, softly. Lips closed, gentle brushes that sent shivers down his spine.
“I came here to cook, not spend all day kissing you,” Henry whispered. “You know, not that I’m complaining or anything.”
Tristan pouted, then laughed a little and reluctantly let Henry go. “Okay. I spoke to my mum last night and she e-mailed some recipes over. I’ve got a conversion thingy on my phone so you can translate it into something that makes sense for you. If you need it. You’re probably super baker anyway, right?”
“Yes. It’s my hidden ninja power. I will probably use the chart on your phone, if you don’t mind.” Henry ran his hand once more down the length of Tristan’s arm and squeezed his hand. “Are you ready to get to work? You can be my sous chef today.”
Tristan pointed a thumb to himself. “Burns water, remember?”
“Oh, I’m sure I can get you to do something useful.”
His mind was immediately filled with dirty thoughts—he could make Tristan very useful indeed. Later. Baking first.
Tristan had an iPad and pulled up the e-mail from his mother, which contained several recipes all written into the body of the message. Henry leaned on the breakfast bar to read.
“It must have taken her forever to do this,” Henry said softly as he scanned through the lists of ingredients and directions.
“She doesn’t mind,” Tristan said. “Mum loves to bake, and she and her friends share recipes all the time.” He rested his hand on Henry’s lower back, and leaned forward to rest his chin on Henry’s shoulder and watch as he scrolled through the iPad. “I told her about you, you know.”
Henry’s belly fluttered at the thought of someone’s mom in another country knowing how much he liked her son. “Yeah?
What did she say?”
“Not much. She always wants to hear about New York. I think she’s pleased I’ve finally met some people outside of work.”
“Met some people? What exactly did you tell her about me?”
Tristan laughed. “Well, I didn’t go on and on about how hot of a kisser you are, if that’s what you mean, but she knows we’re seeing each other.”
Henry nuzzled Tristan’s head with his own. Tristan turned to kiss him on the cheek.
“Bakewell tarts,” Henry read. He scanned the ingredients and the directions. They didn’t seem very complicated. “I think I can try those. We’ll need to go and get some almonds or almond flour ideally, but there’s a place on the corner that should sell it.”
“I love Bakewells,” Tristan said with a dreamy sigh. “So good.”
“Okay. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be back.”
“You don’t want me to come with you?”
Henry shrugged. He did, but…. “I’ll only be gone a few minutes. Why don’t you just relax? E-mail your mom and say thank you for me, maybe.”
It was hard to explain how the people in the food world were more family to him than his own family, and taking Tristan around to his typical haunts would be like bringing him home to meet the parents. He’d met Millie a few times. That was enough pressure for now.
HENRY’S FAVORITE little specialty baking shop right off of Eighth had the almond flour Tristan’s mom’s recipe called for, and he grabbed two bags, just in case. He forgot how much the recipe called for, and he didn’t feel like making another trip later. He waltzed back to Tristan’s, barely able to keep himself from grinning openly at nothing and looking like a nutjob.
Back in Tristan’s kitchen, he dumped the supplies out of his grocery bags and set the iPad propped up against a bag of flour so he could read the instructions. Tristan immediately wrapped himself around Henry when his hands were empty and plastered his face with slobbery kisses. Henry laughed and pushed at him halfheartedly.
