Y/n's POV
I follow Clay out to his car, surprised to see it's nearly spotless other than one backpack that he throws into the backseat. As I sit down, an almost overwhelming aroma fills my nose. "It smells like... flowers in here," I observe, looking around for the source.
"Surprised?" he asks. I just nod in response. It's not that I think he's unclean, there's just not very many guys who keep their things nice. "It's that little turtle in the corner up there. My mom got it for me. The scent is supposed to last for a year."
I stare at the odd little thing and its tiny face stares back at me with boredom. "How long has it lasted so far?" I ask, buckling into my seat.
"Three years," he states plainly, putting the car in reverse and pulling out of the driveway with ease. "A bit obnoxious if you ask me. I just keep waiting for the thing to die out."
"It's seriously been in here for three years?"
"Well, no. I used to have a different car that it lived in, but it's been in here for the last two years."
"Wait, wait, wait. So you have two cars?" He laughs at this as if it's completely preposterous.
"The old one is my older sister's now. I don't need two cars. I barely leave my house as it is." That would make sense for why his car is so clean. He has no reason to keep anything in it.
"Okay, so I'm curious, and you don't have to answer if you don't want to, but what the hell do you do?" I ask after a moment, breaking the silence. He laughs a genuine laugh—one that makes his eyes light up, one that I can't help but join in on. "I'm sorry, that sounds so bizarre and offensive. I mean like, for work. Your mom always talks about it like she's so damn proud, but refuses to tell me what it is."
He thinks for a moment before answering. "I'm a second grade teacher."
"No way." Clay seems like he's really nice, and I'm sure he's good with kids, but I could never picture him in front of an entire classroom of them, talking about how you add big numbers together. It just doesn't fit his vibe.
"Fine, fine. It's just that my job is rather boring."
"With the way Isabella talks about it, I don't see how that could possibly be true." This makes him smile.
"Well, I'm an accountant. But it's for this huge firm downtown Orlando and we do stuff for all sorts of big names. I dunno. If you get down to it, it's just a whole lot of math." I narrow my eyes at him, but he's focused on the road.
"Listen, I don't mean to be offensive and I'm certainly not saying that I think you're bad at math... but your mom told me you went to high school for two years then never went to college and I feel like you'd have to have a lot of college experience to get a job like that." He shakes his head and lets out a breathy laugh.
"God, what didn't dear Isabella tell you?"
"What you do for a living," I answer after a moment. He lets his head fall back onto the headrest for a moment before focusing back on the road. "Fine, fine. I'll stop bothering you about it. But I do plan to find out eventually."
"We'll see about that, George."
"George?" I ask.
"Curious George. That little monkey that likes to do everything people tell him not to do."
"So you're calling me a disobedient monkey?"
"I might be," he says, pulling into a parking spot and turning off the car. "Okay, you better know right where this stuff is because I sure as hell don't." I roll my eyes and climb out of the car.
Walking inside, I take note of how much our outfits contrast. He's wearing black sweatpants and a blue button up while I'm covered in color. The only black thing I have on is a pair of licorice earrings. Other than that, I'm wearing a little lavender sundress and some white flats. It's not that we're polar opposites, I just appear to be a little overdressed for a mere shopping adventure.
"Let's get baking stuff first so that you don't have to carry the milk around the whole store," I say and he nods, letting me lead the way to the baking isle. I pick out everything Isabella asked for and stack it into a basket. "Okay, that's everything." He's stayed mostly silent the entire time we've been in the store, only observing as I picked out the items.
He seems to wander around a bit looking for the milk, but we eventually get there. I begin to wonder how long it's been since he came to this store. He seems really nervous around everyone we pass and his hands shake as he grabs the two gallons of milk. "Hey, are you okay?" I ask, stopping him from walking toward the registers.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just like I said... I don't go out very often."
"But didn't you stop to get eggs on the way to dinner?"
"Yeah, wasn't much more pleasant than this. Very busy, though, so at least no one paid attention to me." Why is he so nervous about people seeing him? Has his time at home had that much of an effect on him?
"Okay... Let's just check out then so we can get out of here." He nods and resumes his path to the checkout line, keeping his eyes trained on the ground like his life depends on it.
His weird daze seems to completely disappear the instant we get in the car, but I don't ask. Despite what he may think after my questioning earlier, I do know when to keep my mouth shut. As we pull out onto the highway, he rolls all the windows down, letting the wind rush through the car. I let my hair out of its bun since the wind is going to ruin it anyway and find myself engulfed in it only a moment later. As he switches the radio on, I let my arm rest on the hot windowsill. A moment later, I look over to see him smiling at me.
"What?" I ask, nearly shouting to be heard over the wind.
"Nothing," he responds. "Your hair is just absolutely everywhere. How can you stand it?"
"You get used to it. Makes me feel kind of like I'm in a teenage coming-of-age movie, though. I don't quite know if that's a good or bad thing." He just laughs and speeds up, obviously breaking the promise he made to his mother. Not that he followed the speed limit on the way to the store anyway.
"Hey, I have a question for you," he says after a while. I nod, turning my attention away from the little turtle and onto him. "What do you do for a living?"
"Easy, I work at a bakery. Ask me something harder." He rolls his eyes.
"Where are you from?"
"Born in Pennsylvania, lived in Georgia most of my life, moved to Florida to open a bakery with my best friend, Samantha."
"Hold on, you own a bakery?"
"Co own, but yeah. We opened two years ago."
"But you've only lived here for a few months, right?"
"I've only lived next to your mother for a few months. Before I was renting an apartment with my friend and her sister a little closer to the bakery."
"No wonder my mom likes you, you're like her dream daughter," he says, shaking his head a little.
"What do you mean by that?" I ask.
"Well, I just mean that my mom has always wanted all of us to be obsessed with baking like she is, so I'm sure she sees you like the kid she always wanted."
"She has four kids. Besides, Maisie loves baking."
"She didn't used to. I had never heard her talk so enthusiastically about it until like a month ago when she came to visit and asked to make cookies. You're probably the one who got her so interested." I hadn't really thought about that before. The first few times I came over to bake with Isabella, Maisie wasn't interested at all. She just sat at the counter drawing and watching us. It was only a little later that she started asking to bake with us, eventually begging me to come over just to make something.
"Huh, I guess you're right. So does that mean your mom loves me more?" We both laugh at this as we pull into his driveway. Putting the car in park, he turns to me, examining my face in silence for a few moments.
"I think she might, Y/n." We both get out of the car, laughing yet again. His dad waves from the roof where he's installing even more Christmas lights and we both wave back. Inside, the kitchen is bustling with activity as Isabella rushes around getting different ingredients out and hanging recipes on the cupboards. "God, mom how many things are we baking," Clay asks, smiling as he glances at each different paper.
"It's really not that much, I swear. But I knew you and your father would need a recipe for everything, so I wanted to be prepared." He laughs, setting the milk and decorating supplies on the counter. "Oh, by the way, your brother is home. One of the kids threw up, so they sent everyone home from the sleepover early." She smiles with clenched teeth and wide eyes, obviously stressed out by the unexpected arrival. "He's absolutely devastated that it's cancelled. Would you mind going in and talking to him?" Clay nods and heads toward his brother's room.
"Is there anything I can help you with, Isabella?" I ask, catching the measuring cup she accidently sent flying across the counter.
"Oh, I'm quite alright. Maybe you could help with Nathan? He was sobbing when I left... poor boy. I know he's been waiting for this birthday party for months."
"Of course." I creep up to Nathan's door, listening to make sure I don't interrupt anything.
"Hey, don't worry about it, buddy! Thomas is gonna get all better soon and then you can all go back over to spend the night! Besides, now you get to hang out with your super cool brother and bake with mama." I hear the little boy sniff a couple times and decide it's a good time to join them.
"Hey! How's it going Nathan? Your mama said you're super sad about your party."
He nods and explains to me about the boy, Thomas, puking everywhere and everyone having to pack up their stuff right away and go home. "The barf got on Max's brand new soccer ball too! It was totally gross and he was crying because the ball was ruined. His mom said she could clean it and stuff, but I think she was lying."
"You'll have to ask him about it later, won't you?" He nods, smiling at me. "Hey, why don't we go help mama in the kitchen so we can make some yummy cookies!" He grins and barrels out of the room in his pajamas.
"That was easier than I thought it would be," Clay remarks, still leaning against the bed frame. As I nod, he begins sifting through some of the books on Nathan's floor. "God, these were all mine once upon a time. I feel like it's been forever."
"Kinda has been," I agree, taking the books from him and stacking them on the bookshelf. "Come on, let's go help your mom. I think she might go insane." After helping him up from the floor, we head toward the excited yelling of Nathan so that we can finally bake the holiday cookies we've been preparing for all evening.
To be continued...
word count: 2009