by J. Daniels
I’ll give her whatever she wants.
I push a rough hand through my hair. My fingers slide down to my neck where I grip harshly at the skin. “Right. I almost forgot. I can’t do our breakfast tomorrow.”
Our breakfast.
Jesus Christ. I’m bailing on this again. I can’t catch a break with this fucking day.
Brooke studies me, lowering her coffee after taking a sip. Her mouth pulls into a frown.
She looks . . . disappointed?
No. That can’t be. Why would she look disappointed? Taking a bloody minute involves distance. I’m giving her that.
I drop my hand and continue with my lie. This fucking sucks. “Since I canceled classes on Saturday while we were away camping, I decided to add on a few early ones this week to make up for it. I didn’t want to lose any potential clients. It would’ve been bad business not to offer.”
In my mind, I try and remember the names of some of my attendees who requested classes before sunrise. There was at least a handful of them, business women who work long hours in the city and have difficulty getting home at a decent time. Weekends are usually spent with family, so they inquired about something before work. I told them I would consider it.
Maybe I could quickly throw something together for tomorrow so I don’t feel so terrible about making this up.
I rub at my jaw.
Come on, mate. She wants a breather. Look at her. Look how she’s acting. She would’ve canceled on you anyway.
“That’s really early. People are insane wanting to workout instead of sleep.” Brooke looks down the footpath, her gaze possibly following the couple who just strolled past, hand in hand. Making it look simple.
We can have that. Be that.
All too quickly, she lowers her eyes back to her cup.
“Mm.” I look away and observe the world around us.
Cars go zipping down the street and a few bicyclists zoom past in a blur. The sun peers out from behind a cloud. Warmth spreads across my neck and down my forearms.
It’s a gorgeous day, but I’m too tense now to enjoy it. My shoulders are tight and my back aches. Hopefully my next four classes will help with that.
“Well.” Brooke turns her head, her pony flopping against her shoulder. She lifts her cup and weakly smiles up at me. “Thanks for the coffee. I should go.”
Instinctively, and just because I really fucking want to, I move to lean in and kiss her, but catch myself before she seems to notice my intentions. Straightening and shoving my hands in my pockets, I give her a quick nod. “I’ll see you around then.”
I think I see something, maybe a glint of a distaste for my bullshit impersonal goodbye. Whatever it is, it’s gone before I can analyze it, and so is Brooke.
She turns without saying another word. Without giving me another glance.
I watch the soft sway of her hips until she disappears around a corner. I saunter in the direction of my car, my hands curling in my pockets. Tensing, releasing, and tensing again. I think about how else I could’ve responded to Brooke’s irresolution just now. How I could’ve reacted differently, and if it would’ve mattered.
I think about it all afternoon.
Through four classes, while I struggle to keep my attention off the studio window and the bakery across the street, I picture Brooke’s face on the footpath when I first found her out there.
Those big, rolling tears wetting her cheeks. Her quivering lip. The way she startled when I approached her.
I remember the feel of her hands on my chest as she shoved me off, yelling about how she doesn’t know men like me.
Good, I recall thinking. I want to be the only one. Her only one.
Seven o’clock rolls around. Stragglers from the last class finally gather their towels and water bottles and exit the studio. I shut and lock the door, allowing myself one glance across the street.
One more glance.
The lights are off in the bakery. Brooke’s probably home by now. Or out, erasing me from her memory. Replacing me . . .
The thought makes me nauseous. I take a long, hot shower and heat up some soup for dinner.
Sitting at my kitchen table with my bowl in front of me, my laptop opened, I update my website and send out a newsletter via email, informing subscribers of the additional class tomorrow morning.
Maybe I’ll at least have one person show. That’s enough to transform this lie into a truth.
I swirl my spoon around the bottom of the bowl, stirring up the vegetables. Just as I’m about to close out of my email, a new message shows up in my inbox. The sender, [email protected], heightens my intrigue.
The small bookstore down the street.
I move the mouse and open up the message, quickly scanning the short paragraph.
Trish, the owner I met a few weeks back, has mentioned my class to her daughter, who in turn informed her roommates. Excitement is brewing. They are all interested in attending and are hoping for something this week. Maybe something permanent, if they all enjoy it.
My first smile in hours stretches across my mouth. A lightness moves through me.
I type out my response, my suggestion of a day and time. I allude to my enthusiasm as well, and welcome any parents or siblings, offering my standard ‘first class on me’ discount. I send the email and grab my phone to shoot out a quick text to my sister, Ellie, as I pad toward my bed.
She’ll be so excited about this.
I sit on the edge of the mattress with my phone in my hand. Instead of opening up a new text, my thumb hovers over the last message from Brooke. I hesitate, then press on the screen to enlarge it.
Brooke: I’m a genius. Let’s camp out in your loft! That way I can enjoy the tent (and you) and I won’t even have to be outside. FANFUCKINGTASTIC idea, yeah? ;)
Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my legs and stare at the screen. I read the message two more times. I breathe deeply, evenly as I picture Brooke admiring the tent pitched in the corner of my room.
By the window, obviously. I’d like her to see the stars.
She climbs in excitedly and tugs on my hand. We tumble down together onto the soft, billowy sleeping bag and clutch at each other. Clothes are stripped. I taste her skin, nuzzling my mouth between her legs. My hands fit to her curves, squeezing her hips, her breasts. She explores my body with her eyes and wild touch, dragging her nails across my back, arching off the floor and writhing against my tongue.
Our wanting is vigorous. Our desire frenzied.
I fall back onto the bed, closing my eyes and reliving that moment as if it were real.
As if it still could be real.
BROOKE
After my emotional collapse in the middle of the city, I leave Mason on the sidewalk and hurry to my car.
I just want to keep to myself the rest of the day. I need space to think, to get a hold on things. Calm the fuck down and breathe a little.
If I had any sick leave left, which I don’t, thanks to my bout of pneumonia this past winter, I would fake an illness and head home instead of back to the bakery.
I don’t want to talk . . . to anyone.
I’m expecting Joey and Dylan to bombard me with questions and clever little comments when I step through the door, but surprisingly, they leave me alone. I don’t have to ask. It’s strange. Maybe they can hear my tangle of thoughts. Maybe they received a call from Vince and he’s filled them in on my enormously unprofessional outburst, or maybe I just look two seconds away from needing a straitjacket.
If I yell at one more person today, someone might actually have me committed.
Whatever their reasoning for backing off, I seem to settle in my solitary. My mind grows quiet and I busy myself with work. The rest of the afternoon goes by in a blur of baking timers and detailed decorating.
At home, after inhaling some leftovers, I pop my headphones in and listen to my playlist while I change my nail color. I stay in my room all night with the door shut. No one disturbs me. Smart move on their p
art. I am still irritated with Joey, though not as much as I was before my run-in with Mason, and hardly at all after I make a decision about him while I’m lying on my bed, reading through our old text messages.
Mason: I apologize for staring at your chest like that this morning. Did your mates notice?
Me: . . . . . .
Mason: What does that mean? Yes?
Me: That was my ‘one second while I ask them’ text. They didn’t notice. But now they know you were all up in my boobs and will be watching for it tomorrow. Your cover has been blown.
Mason: Did you notice?
Me: Yes.
Mason: Hmm. I like to think I’m pretty covert with my obsession, but your tits in that top did me in. I nearly lost my mind a little.
Me: Really? I don’t think they look any better today than they normally do. I am wearing a new bra. Maybe that’s it.
Mason: What store did you purchase it from? The bra and the shirt. I want to send a thank you gift.
Me: Shut up.
Mason: Maybe a nice bottle of wine? Or jewellery? With a note attached detailing my appreciation.
Mason: I suppose I should go to church and thank God as well. Your tits are some of his best work.
Me: Well, while you’re there, go ahead and give him props from me.
Mason: For what, sweetheart? My cock?
Me: Yup! Your PERFECT cock. I’ll say a few hallelujahs for that masterpiece. I’ll even drop to my knees . . . to worship.
Me: And by worship I mean suck your dick, just in case that didn’t translate in Aussie speak.
Mason: Right. Getting hard. Not a good thing before class. I’ll see you later, yeah? Take care of those tits for me. If they need a good squeeze, I’m just across the street.
I muffle my laugh against my hand. I trace my smile with the tip of my finger.
I make a decision, and God, it’s easy. It’s so easy to choose him. To choose this.
I don’t care anymore. I don’t care what anyone has to say about what I’m doing with Mason. Friends. Family. I’m not going to allow their opinions or remarks to get to me. I’m also going to stop overthinking everything and freaking out in the middle of the day. This is making me happy, and that should be the only thing that matters.
It is the only thing that matters.
Yes, I still have no idea what I’m doing, because this is completely new to me. Being this happy and not having sex with the person who is making me this happy, wanting to be around the same person all the time and it having absolutely nothing to do with my desire to sleep with them. It’s confusing and unexpected.
But I can’t stop smiling.
I can’t stop smiling.
Damn him and his adorable little yeahs. I’m completely caught up in this guy.
After my shower, I wait for Mason’s nightly FaceTime call, but it never comes. I’m half expecting not to hear from him. It’s what I asked for. My little minute.
The other half of me wonders if he’s staring at his screen as much as I am.
I fall asleep hugging my body pillow, my hand clutching my phone. I wake with it tangled up in the sheets and the battery nearly dead.
God bless car chargers.
When I step inside the coffee shop Tuesday morning, I find myself searching for Mason amongst the crowd.
It’s a habit now, seeking him out. He always beats me here.
His tall, lean frame usually perched against a wall while he skims a newspaper. When he spots me, he sets the paper on top of the stack next to the registers and bends to kiss my cheek. We joke about which absurdly sweetened coffee drink I’ll be ordering today. Cavities are a risk I’m willing to take. I wrinkle my nose when he drops a tiny pad of butter into his black coffee, turning down his offer to taste it.
Butter in coffee? And he thinks I’m crazy for requesting a non-fat latte with extra whipped cream and chocolate drizzle. Please.
This has become our routine. I pay for Joey, Reese, and Dylan’s coffees, while Mason insists on paying for mine. We walk together to the bakery and chat for a few minutes before he tells me he’ll see me later, takes the treats I offer him, the ones I now know go uneaten, and crosses the street.
I watch him slip inside the studio. Joey and Dylan watch me watch Mason slip inside the studio. The three of us exchange teasing looks, then we all proceed to get to work.
But Mason isn’t here today, and I knew he wouldn’t be. After breaking our breakfast plans due to a work obligation, I knew I’d be going through this morning ritual alone.
So why am I still looking for him? Why am I still expecting to see him leaning against that wall in loose shorts and a T-shirt that clings to his muscles, his hair still damp from a shower, casually unkempt in a mess of waves on top of his head. His blue eyes bright and engaging, and that charming smirk lifting his mouth.
It’s odd, how I expect him. It’s automatic. I want him to be here, and he’s not.
I carry my order down Fayette street, my eyes shifting between the sidewalk ahead and the studio as it comes into view. Cars and large delivery trucks obscure my sight. When a break in traffic comes, I strain to catch a glimpse of Mason, teaching his class, but the brutal glare of the sun blinds me.
Oh, well. I’m sure I’ll see him later.
I step inside the bakery and smile half-heartedly at Dylan as she works her fingers through Ryan’s blonde wavy locks.
I still feel like an asshole for yelling at her like I did. I regret not sending another apology via text last night.
And one early this morning.
She lifts her head and grins back at me, all casual and pleasant, as if nothing unusual happened yesterday. “Hey. Where’s Mason?” Her eyes trail over my shoulder.
Okay. I guess this here is all good. I can probably get rid of those classifieds I swiped from the recycling bin last night.
I sit the coffee carrier on the display case next to Ryan. She swings her legs in the air, her pink ballet slippers catching in the light and sparkling. “He had a class really early today,” I explain, dropping my hand to Ryan’s knee and giving it a light squeeze. “Hey, girlfriend.”
She stops chewing her muffin, looking up at me, her cheeks stuffed with food. “Hi, Aunt Bwooke,” she mumbles, spitting bits of blueberry onto her dress.
“We have that cupcake order that’s going to be picked up at eleven. Five dozen red velvet. Can you get started on them?” Dylan asks in a tone that suggests I do as she says.
Her questions regarding work-related duties are never to be interpreted as questions. They are always commands.
Do these or I will fire you.
Roger that.
I nod and grab my coffee. “Sure.”
“I’ll be back to help you as soon as I get this mess fixed.” She sighs exhaustedly, staring at the back of Ryan’s head as she struggles to work out a knot. “No more letting Daddy braid your hair, baby, okay? He has no idea what he’s doing.”
I wave at Ryan and slip into the back, sidling up to the worktop. I set my coffee down and begin pulling supplies off the shelves.
Mixing bowls. Cupcake tins. A few spoons and spatulas.
Reese enters the kitchen with Drew in the infant carrier, his free hand straightening out his tie.
“I hear you suck at braids. What’s up with that?”
He stops short and gives me a puzzled look.
I laugh and point to the doorway. “Ryan. Your wife is in there untangling her hair. With two girls you really need to step up your game. Watch a YouTube video or something.”
His eyes widen. “They have videos like that on YouTube? Hair braiding tutorials?”
“Yup.”
“Huh.” He looks down at Drew, his hand flattening down his tie. “All right. Thanks. I’ll check it out.”
I watch him exit the kitchen, smiling at the idea of Reese, Mister Serious, hovering over his laptop late at night without Dylan’s knowledge, because knowing him, he will want this to be a surprise. He becomes a hair br
aiding expert overnight and twists Ryan’s hair into some elaborate pattern, completely flooring his wife.
I can also see him getting extremely frustrated when he can’t figure it out after countless tries and leaving heated comments below the videos, explaining his aggravation.
NumbersGuy: This tutorial is too complex. You need to break this down better and explain your steps as you go through them. No one can follow this. The image quality is also quite terrible. Do better.
Either scenario makes for a funny story.
I retrieve my apron off the wall and slip it over my head, wrapping the long strings around the front of me and tying them together into a loose bow.
A gift from Joey when I first started working here. Right after we first made nice.
I run my fingertips over my embroidered name, remembering how excited I was when I first put this on.
Did I know then that I’d be making a career out of this job? Or how much I’d end up loving it here?
My phone beeps from the back pocket of my jeans, breaking into my little moment of nostalgia. I pull the device out and open up the new text.
Mason: Sorry I had to cancel breakfast.
I go over the message twice. Slowly.
There’s nothing unusual about it. A standard apology, but it reads strange. No sweet introductory greeting. No nickname thrown in, sweetheart or gorgeous or little devil.
I like that one. I like thinking I’m Mason’s greatest temptation. His only sin, he once said.
But this message isn’t his typical style at all. It seems too impersonal for him. Something he might send a stranger, or someone he doesn’t bother to give nicknames to.
What gives?
I quickly type my reply.
Me: That’s okay. How was class?
Mason: Great.
Great . . . that’s it?
Huh.
I stare at the screen, expecting more. More than just one word. I’m certain it’s coming. Maybe a ‘Let’s do breakfast tomorrow instead’, or a ‘Can I have you for lunch?’ to which I will then respond with something overtly sexual, and he will confirm that he does indeed mean lunch in the true meaning of the word, and also the implied innuendo.
