The Art of Moving On | ✔

CHAPTER THREE; part one

     It doesn't take long for Private Weston to become a fan favorite.

     In a small town like Aurora, all you need is one person to start talking and then word-of-mouth will have everyone stopping by to see what's what. It turns out, Dres is pretty much a bad ass in the kitchen. All people can talk about is how amazing the cupcakes are. We sell out faster than Dres can bake. Even with his early morning prep we barely keep up with the demand.

     Dolores says I'll probably keep my schedule permanently since it's so busy. I have half a mind to suggest that they hire a second person, but some part of me, a part I'm unwilling to acknowledge, doesn't want to vie for Dres's attention. However minimal that attention is.

     It's late Wednesday and things are finally slowing down. I've stolen myself away from the counter to wipe down tables and get things ready to close. Halston and Grace have found a table on the upper level and are nose deep in textbooks. We have a Calculus exam coming up.

     I'm cleaning a neighboring table to theirs when Halston looks up and asks, "Have you tried this?" She's holding a half eaten cupcake with wide eyes peering at me.

     Since most of it's been eaten I can't tell what's the flavor. Not that it really matters since I haven't tried any of the cupcakes. It's been hard, especially when I walk into the kitchen in the morning after practice, and Dres has finished a bunch of batches and the whole place smells heavenly.

     I could buy them, but whenever I finish my shifts, there's really nothing left to buy. I don't think it's appropriate for me to be purchasing the merchandise while I'm on shift. Plus, I'm not really in the business of making Dres hate me.

     "Cas?" Halston says looking at me expectantly.

     "Which one is that?" I ask.

     "It's the salted pecan fudge. So good. Seriously where does he come up with these things?" I feel myself getting ready to respond, to say something about Dres's talent, something gushing and pathetically exemplary of my growing feelings for him. But I catch myself as Dolores passes by. She hears everything and has proven to be a gossip in the worst way.

     When I think about it logically, I know I shouldn't be indulging this pathetic crush. I should squelch it before it has time to take root and grow. It's no good liking someone who doesn't like you back, who can't because anatomically it's not their preference.

     My track record is pretty good with keeping away from straight men. There's nothing worse than developing feelings for a man who likes women. Except probably a homophobic man who likes women. Dres doesn't strike me as a homophobe, though. He's made his place accessible in so many ways, with the all-gender bathrooms where he has free sanitary products and the ramp he installed to the second level. 

     I grab a few more dishes before I head back down, ducking into the hallway towards the kitchen. Dres is there, his torso splayed across the large island as he wipes it clean. There's the lingering scent of baked goods laced with bleach permeatig the air. Dres is very partial to bleach. Like potentially a little too partial, if the red stains at the hem of his teeshirt are any indication.

     He glances up at me, his hair brushing his forehead as he does and my grip on the bin of dirty dishes wavers. I adjust it in my arms and close the distance to the sink quickly. I tell myself to ignore him. He's off limits, my brain chimes. And he's rude. Horribly unfriendly. Okay, so he's not exactly rude. He's actually painfully cordial.

    Still. There are a litany of great reasons not to like him. And yet somehow I find those reasons only reinforce my feelings. They make me want to get know him, to make him get to know me so that he'll like me, too.