The Boiling Point | ✔️

37 | the eyes

ASHTON

A year ago, if you told me I'd be hunched over my desk constructing a delicate fondant rose for homework, I would've thought you were high out of your skull. But I guess this isn't exactly homework for class. It's homework for Summer's class.

Armed with a toolkit I took from school, I burned the candle at both ends all for the sake of perfecting this thing. Summer made it look effortless, but wrestling with these fragile petals has been keeping me on the edge of frustration, each one susceptible to the gentlest touch.

The minutes tick by as I work in the morning light. When I hear my dad stirring in the next room, I realize I'm pushing the clock. This rose is the best one I've made, I can't let it go just yet. I can deal with being late.

I'm adding one of the last layers when a thump on my door makes my fingers flinch, my body tensing as Dad lets himself in.

"You're cutting your shift at the gym today," he states, voice groggy. "I've got a difficult car I want you and Travis working on."

"Sure," I mumble, focused on the petal I'm smoothing in place.

Usually I'd hide something like this from him in a heartbeat, anything that might give him ammo that would push his tolerance for me attending such a snobby school. But hiding this rose would require me to squash it out of sight. After all the effort I've put in, that's a hard no. So I brace myself for whatever belittling crack he's about to make, sensing him lingering in the doorway, watching.

"What is that?" he asks.

I briefly explain, trying not to lose focus when he walks over and picks up one of the discarded roses I gave up on.

He scans it with sunken eyebrows. "This is the kind of thing you do at that school?"

"One of the things. Cooking's my strong suit, though."

I'm still waiting for the wisecrack, but the way he's probing at the rose makes me stop working. His curious expression is genuine, the first trace of culinary school curiosity I've seen from him since... ever.

"What?" I slowly ask, half expecting him to crush the rose in his hand.

But he just sighs, putting it back on my desk. "I really don't get it, Ashton."

"Get what?"

"Why you're into this stuff. The cooking," he says, folding his arms over his creased shirt. "It'll make money, sure, but so would cars. You're good with cars. I just... don't see the point of doing this when you're already set with something else. I don't get the interest."

I press down the last petal before I respond, not because I don't know what to say, but because I know what I'm about to say is going to wind him up and I might not get the chance to finish. But I can't stop myself.

"Maybe you don't get it because you're not the one I got this interest from."

I can almost feel the air thicken, just how it does any time I dare allude to my mother. I lean back in my chair, looking up at him. His shoulders have stiffened, his expression shifting into an emotionless plank. Waiting for me to backtrack.

I won't.

"Uncle Lucas always said she had a way with food, didn't he?" I remark. "Makes sense I have it, too."

He blinks once, grabs me by the shirt, and heaves me up so fast I would've fallen if he wasn't holding my weight. His nostrils flair as he stares me down, his jaw unmoving. I don't bother twisting out of his grip. I accepted this as soon as I brought her up.