It's been a year since Clay, otherwise known as Porkchop, planned the graduation event in Newport Beach. The event where a handsome Tyler Hamilton caught Clay off guard by kissing him. Clay, up until that day, had never kissed a boy before.
At 24 ye...
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"OKAY, I'm gonna need you to respectfully slow the fuck down."
"I'm not even going fast, Tyler," Ethan snapped. "This is the standard pace for learners."
"It shouldn't be! It should be much slower for my slippery hands," I said, fumbling over the dough in front of me once again. It fell from my hands back onto the counter.
"Making mini pies is simply not as hard as you're making it out to be," Ethan argued. "Didn't you flour your hands like I told you too?"
I dropped the dough again, and looked over at my little brother. "Flour?"
"Uh yeah."
"Did you say flour?"
"Yeah, I said flour!" Ethan exclaimed. "So you didn't flour your hands?"
"No, I fucking oiled them," I said.
Ethan's eyes widened, and he gave me the biggest, most exaggerated eye roll of all time. "Why would you oil your hands to touch dough that is already slick?"
"Fuck if I know!" I yelled, waving my hands in the air. "Maybe it's because I need a slower tutorial!"
"I have given this tutorial to a handful of people, all who have been completely able to follow my basic instructions. I could list these people off for you. Alex, Jesse, Alexander, Celeste, DeShawn—"
"I get it!" I interrupted. "And when did you teach DeShawn how to make hand-pies?"
"When Celeste came over to hang out with Alex while she was in town, and DeShawn came, and Celeste was like 'make yourself useful and go get everyone's favorite Lord and savior, Ethan Hamilton', and I was like 'heck yes I'll make pies, but I need 2 much larger hands to help me because my small hands are delicate and fragile and get sore easily," Ethan explained. "The point of listing people off was to make you embarrassed—"
"I get the point," I said. "It's not rocket science."
"Oh, pardon me. Apparently little finger-food pies are, though, to you."
I turned to Ethan, holding the dough in my hand, up in the air like a threat. "Sass me one more time, E, and this dough is hitting you in the forehead. Immediately."
Ethan faked distress. "Oh my god! Oh my god! Not the ever-so-soft dough I marvelously created! That would hurt so bad! It's almost like it would hurt you more than it would hurt me because I don't need to make these pies for a very special romantic gesture. I'm just doing it out of the goodness of my heart."
I groaned and let the dough flop down to the counter.
A year.
That's what today was. An entire damn year since Clay and I started "dating." Seeing each other. Having fun. I didn't know how to label it because in the beginning, it wasn't like we were strictly together. But it was basically like we were. And I counted it.
