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.
Dad looks like he's about to burst along with that vein in his forehead, but as I hold my own, never breaking eye contact, a flicker of pain joins the animosity in his icy irises. It happens rarely because he rarely looks at me this close, and it's happening because she's fresh in his mind. He's looking at me and he's seeing her. He's seeing the eyes he will never forget as long as I'm around to remind him.
Even though nothing can normally stop his knuckles from raining down, even though she's not here - she stops him this time.
His fingers loosen with the clarity, dropping me to the chair. "Get there early this afternoon. It's a big job," he mutters as he leaves.
❖❖❖
I make it to school with about five minutes to spare. Can't say I've ever been on a skateboard and had to simultaneously keep a piece of fondant icing intact, but having it secured in a container helps. First time for everything.
I clock Summer sitting alone on a couch before class, writing something in a book.
"A rose for Summer Rose," I quip, holding it in front of the page. "Not bad, huh?"
"Ashton! What the hell, it's perfect!" She gently takes it, examining. "You did this?"
I fall onto the cushion next to her. "Yes I did it. You think I hired someone?"
"No, ugh, it's so pretty," she whines, twirling it between her fingers. "Why do you have to nail everything you do?"
I smirk, taking the rose back. "Guess I just have a talent for nailing pretty things."
She bites back a smile as her eyes roll. They're bright, but then they dim a little before she drops her gaze.
"What's up?" I cautiously ask, setting aside the rose container to show Chef Ross later.
Okay, okay: to show off to Chef Ross later.
Summer exhales heavily, her face falling, then she tells me about Mrs. Villa stopping her before she left the house. She tells me about her punishment. The blackmail.
"Jesus. Videos of you? Of us?"
"One at the party. And just of us on the porch, but yeah. It's bad."
I tap my fingertips to my mouth, thinking back. "Kinda wanna see that."
She waits exactly point-zero seconds to elbow me so hard in the ribs that I shield myself for another blow out of habit, and then a look of regret overcomes her. "Oh god, sorry! Are you... do you have any...?"
"I'm fine," I laugh, her doubtful expression inciting me to lift my shirt to assure her of my bruise-free body. "All good. Except for, you know, the crazy chick attacking me."
"Sorry," she breathes into her hands. "Worst morning ever."
"Could be worse," I say, watching her pull back her hair. "Imagine Villa had a hidden camera in your room that night."
She throws me a glare. "As if you wouldn't love that."
"Her watching it? I would not love that."
"But you'd love there to be something to watch." She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. "Have you ever done it? Filmed yourself... with someone?"
"Like you really wanna know."
"Try me."
I reel in my smile, letting my glance at Charlie currently shaking down a vending machine speak for itself. Summer follows my eyeline, understanding washing over her.
"Of course," she says through a tight sigh.
I prop my arm on the backrest. "Someone jealous, Cupcake?"
"Please," she drawls, but she can't help looking at Charlie again.
My laugh makes her eyes flit back to me. "The thing about videos, though, is that they can be deleted. Like they never even happened. So just swipe the footage, delete it, and she'll have nothing on you."
"Uh-huh, and another thing about videos is that they can be copied," she counters, absently fidgeting with her book. "Which I'm sure she's done because she's a fanatic. So no, it's over. I made my bed, now I just have to suck it up and lie in it."
Her fidgeting has pulled my attention to the pages of her book, or more like what's on them. "Were you drawing that?"
"Hm?" She glimpses down in distraction. "Oh. Yeah."
She hands it over with just as much distraction when she sees me trying to get a better look. I first thought they were only sketches of flowers, but the flowers are spiraled around a sketch of a cake. I flip back through the pages, coming across drawing after drawing. It reminds me of a fashion designer's sketchbook, complete with scrawled labels and notes filling the gaps.
Some of the pages even have photos of perfect replicas of what she's drawn. A crescent moon cake that almost looks like it came from a cartoon, cookies that have been used as a canvas for detailed decoration, cupcakes with realistic piped flowers bunched together to create a bouquet, a variety of cakes, pieces of colorful fondant fruits, pies, chocolate truffles.
You can see the progress from the start of the book and how she's improved, and I figure she must be self-taught. No wonder she's so ahead in patisserie class.
Honey Boy. I read the title on a more recent page. The first title I've seen.
"Why's this the only one with a name?"
She looks over, skimming the page before she jolts with alertness. "It is? Didn't realize." Her voice gives the slightest crack as she grabs at the book.
I hold it back, watching the blood rush overcoming her. "So what's so special about this one?"
"Nothing!"
She's right, there's nothing inherently special about it. In fact, it's pretty simple compared to the others. I study it as she tries to swipe the book away. It's just a cupcake. Dark chocolate bittersweet frosting piped in spiky barbs, honeycomb pieces, and a hidden honey-cream center. Her agitated reaction is way too overblown for something this simple.
And then I see the date scribbled at the bottom corner of the page: the day after the party.
I feel my mouth curling. "Wait, is this about me? Am I your muse?"
"Give it, Ashton, I'm serious!" Her pitch almost mimics a boiling kettle whistling on the stove. Spewing steam included.
I stand, holding the book above my head as she jumps on the couch to try and get it. She still can't reach.
"Okay so I get the connection, bitter on the outside, sweet on the inside, right?" I think out loud, holding her off. "But why the honey? Could have been caramel, or vanilla, or—"
"God, you're such a jerk! Give it to me already!" she screeches.
People have started filing into class, eyeing her futile attempts to climb me like a tree, but she doesn't pay them any attention.
"Only if you play nice." I smile, way too smug for my own good. "Say please."
"Please give it to me, you asshole!"
I click my tongue. "Mm. That wasn't very nice. Now I'll need a pretty please."
She stops jumping, glaring a hole into my face. Probably fantasizing about ripping it off my skull.
Her mouth scrunches before her words strain through clenched teeth, "Pretty please."
"Not until you explain the name."
If looks could kill, dismember, and absolutely obliterate.
"The color of your eyes remind me of honey," she mutters. "There. Happy?"
That unexpected answer takes a moment to register. The eyes? Not my usual highlight for girls. At least, not the highlight they tell me about.
I could push her further, get in a little more teasing before she completely loses her head, but all I do is lower the book. Eyes locked. Honey on hazel.
Summer snatches the book from me. "I hate you."
"Sure you do."
A reluctant smile surfaces and she throws her middle finger in my face. She hops off the couch, keeping it aimed at me until she's through the classroom door.
a/n: wow a chapter that ends on a high note?? can't remember when last that happened!
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