Alex is coming to stay.
"Alex is coming to stay! Alex is coming to stay!" I shriek like a kid as I scramble down the stairs on Saturday morning, sprinting recklessly into the living room and ricocheting off the wall as I do so. Dad, settled into his armchair with his legs up on the footstool and the newspaper crossword open on his lap, looks up, and just about has time to blink rapidly before I sweep myself around the back of his chair and wrap him up in what I can manage of a hug whilst he's sat down. "Alex is coming to stay!"
"Is that so?" He says, moderately baffled and stunned, and I let go and launch myself into the kitchen, where Mom is still doing the washing up from breakfast.
"Alex is coming to stay!" I shout as I throw myself at her, wrapping my arms around her waist and squeezing, bouncing slightly, and she starts, surprised.
"Oh!" She suddenly yelps, dropping the soapy sponge into the sink water. "Right."
"Mike!" I shout, letting go of her too and bolting back up the stairs, not even bothering to knock on his door before bursting in on him half concentrating on whatever homework he's doing, half texting someone. I interrupt both activities and leap over, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him. "Alex is coming to stay!"
"That's great, Vic!" He grins, the only one not caught off guard by my hysterics. "When, exactly?"
"I don't know yet!" I say loudly, and then I have to stop because, quite frankly, my legs are still full of lactic acid from my run this morning and now I'm out of breath again. As I wheeze slightly, traipsing back downstairs and stumbling into the kitchen once more, my heart jumps, skips and frolics madly. I lean against the door frame and catch my breath, ridiculous smile still plastered all over my face. Mom looks over her shoulder, calm as ever, and smirks as she raises an eyebrow.
"Victor," she says softly, "is Alex, by any chance, coming to stay?"
"Yes," I sigh happily, laughing out loud as I spin away from the doorway and float across the kitchen to lean on one of the dining chairs. "He's coming back for the OC Halloween party!"
"That's lovely," she smiles brightly. "It'll be nice to see him again. So he'll be around the end of October?"
"Seems like it. He can only take a few days off college, but that doesn't matter. Can he stay here?"
"I don't see why not," she nods, and I jump for joy, fists clenched, and try not to explode with excitement.
"Ye-es! Thank you Mom."
"No trouble."
For a moment, I'm slightly calmer and more collected, but it doesn't last long before I start squealing again. I haven't seen Alex since the beginning of Summer, and although for most people that may not be long, for me and Alex it may as well have been years since our last meeting. Throughout high school we only had each other and we saw each other every day - so when that suddenly changed, it was torturous.
Words cannot express my joy that I get to see him again.
I manage to pull myself together in time to take Mike to the library to meet Tony, who stands outside the building, waiting, dressed exclusively in black and holding Doug, still dressed in a high visibility ESA jacket, close to his chest. Mike barely remembers to say goodbye as he gets out of the car, but that's fine. I smile as I watch him go.
On the way home my phone rings, and I quickly glance at the caller ID and my grin spreads wide again. Pulling over the car, I answer it as quickly as I can and put it on speaker.
"Hello."
"Me again," Alex laughs, clear, bright voice ringing out like bells. "I've double checked my timetable and I can do three days over in SoCal. How's that?"
"Amazing!" I exclaim, actively stopping myself squealing. "Alex, I've been screaming all morning."
"Me too, honestly!" He giggles, voice higher in pitch. "Oh my God, I've missed you so much! Is it definitely alright to crash with you?"
"Yep. I checked with mother dearest."
"Perfect! I'll call you closer to the time with flight details, but for now, I must dash."
"See ya, Lex."
"Bye, loser," he says smugly, and then hangs up.
I have to stop myself bouncing around the house for the rest of the morning like a six year old with a play date lined up and actually knuckle down, forcing myself to be calm and composed and productive, reasoning I can be excited later, providing I get things done now. Despite still feeling high and stupid, I manage to sit myself down in my room with my laptop open on my desk and Dad's camera connected up to it.
It takes me half an hour to get to work, sure - I'm too busy being happy to concentrate fully, but once I've decided I'm going to work I'm able to switch off and focus. It's fair to say I'm in a significantly better mood than yesterday - I wasn't going to be. I woke up completely on the wrong side of the bed, still subtly fuming over that new patch on my head, and I was completely ready to be a grumpy ass for the rest of the day; but not fifteen minutes after I'd got back from my run, my phone rang, and it was Alex, and he told me he was going to come back to California for the OC event and now I feel as if I'll never be sad again.
I sip on a home-brewed coffee as my laptop registers the camera as a connected device, and then I select "import files". Hundreds of pictures flood the screen - the majority of them are old pictures that remained on the chip, so I have to scroll for a while until I find the beginning of my photo shoot with Jaime.
And I fall in love with the pictures all over again.
I haven't looked at them for two days, and I'm in a ridiculously good mood as things are, so looking at them brings a huge smile to my face. One by one, I scroll through them, bookmarking my favourites. There's one of him from a distance as he leans casually against the fence of the pond holding the two flowers he selected. His denim jacket flaps idly in a soft breeze and the light is at just the right angle to make him stand half in glow, half in shadow. There's another of him sitting down facing the pond, knees drawn up to his chest and head tilted back as he smiles with his eyes closed and his arms wrapped around his legs, the flowers lying by his side and the setting sun on his face.
"Nice," I mutter to nobody in particular.
My favourites are in the second section of photos: the nighttime shots. There's one face on of him sitting cross legged with the fairy lights draped over his body, lighting up the soft purple sweater, tumbling over his limbs and the ground upon which he sits. In the background the lights are reflected in the stream and the bridge is visible enough to be present but not overwhelming. The focus is on Jaime, sitting with his hands clasped in his lap and his head slightly tilted. In the dark and the alternative lighting his features are noticeable but undefined, blurred and indistinct. It would be a good picture to contrast with the other I liked.
The pictures, as I noted on Thursday night, get less and less artsy the more I go through them, and start to look more and more like I'm just taking pictures of someone beautiful; which, I suppose, is what happened here. And I don't mind it so much. When I get to the end of the photo reel I slip my phone back out of my pocket:
Me:
I'm going through the photos from Thursday; I love them! They've turned out great. Thanks for doing that for me :)
I'm still embarrassed, of course. I'd be mad not to be; but Jaime appears to have brushed past the Almost Kissing incident fairly easily (or is, at least, pretending to), so I'm jumping on the bandwagon on that front. Perhaps acting as if it never happened will erase the experience, whilst I carefully plot my next move so that I don't chicken out again.
Jaime:
Ah fantastic! I'm glad they look good :) it was my pleasure, thank you for asking me :3 wanna meet up sometime soon?
Oh. Shit.
Well, that's significantly less time for planning than I had originally anticipated. Mike told me to finish what I started, and that's the intention - but Goddammit, I can't just put myself out there without some serious thinking and consideration. The plan had been to actually make a move next time I met up with him, but...I can't help but feel I'm floundering in unknown territory.
Jaime:
You could come over to mine and we could bake stuff :)
Jaime:
Is it just me or is it that whenever you come up with something for us to do it's really cool and whenever I come up with something it's a nine-year-old's play date
I laugh at that, tickled by the humour, and I start to talk myself down from my sudden overwhelmed manner. Yes, I'll go over to his house; he still lives with his parents too. They'll probably be home. And it would be rude to make a move in somebody else's house and downright awkward with his folks so nearby. And he has a brother. His brother will probably be there too. So there'll be no making out in his house; that would be completely ungracious, after all.
Me:
Ah don't be daft! I'd love to come and bake :3 what kind of thing do you have in mind?
Jaime:
Do you like salted caramel? Sarah has a killer recipe for salted caramel snickerdoodles
Jaime:
Okay this is what I mean about the lameness XD
"Vic," a voice behind me pipes up, and I jump, startled, and spin around in my chair. Dad stands in the doorway, one eyebrow raised, head tilted.
"Hi Dad," I grin.
"What are you smiling at, boy?"
"Me? Nothing," I quickly bluff, but of course, too quickly to be sincere, and that stupid smile is still on my face, completely betraying my facade.
But he's not quite clued in, and goes for the most logical option: "Are you still talking to Alex?"
I hesitate for a moment; and then, deciding I'm not in the mood for a deep conversation on matters of the heart, I just nod. "Yep."
"You're very excited."
"I so am," I laugh, and that isn't a lie at least. I'm still buzzing from the prospect.
"It'll be wonderful to see him again. Now, Vic, I'm going out to the shops. Is there anything you need?"
"I'm set," I shake my head. "Need a hand?"
"No, that's quite alright. Carry on, my wayward son."
I laugh as he shuts the door behind him, and I set my phone down on the desk beside my laptop, have another sip of coffee and set about organising Jaime's photos into files on my laptop. Under my breath, I begin singing Carry On My Wayward Son, repeating the same verse over and over since it's the only part I know.
"Carry on my wayward son," I sing softly, "for there'll be peace when you are done...lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more..."
And as suddenly as I began singing, a thought creeps into my head, and I frown. Instantly puzzled, I pick my phone up again and reopen Jaime's last few messages.
Jaime:
Do you like salted caramel? Sarah has a killer recipe for salted caramel snickerdoodles
Did he just refer to his mom by her Christian name?
That's a little odd. Now and then, I'm guilty of calling my own mom Vivian; usually when I'm being sarcastic and obnoxious and I say it to wind her up a bit, and then laugh it off and apologise. I wouldn't call her Vivian when talking about her to someone else - it just feels unnatural. But he seems to have done that unwittingly, unconsciously...as if it's more natural to call her Sarah than 'mom'.
Odd.
Either way, I make up my mind fairly quickly, and I reply.
Me:
That sounds amazing omg :P when do you wanna meet up?
Am I reading too much into his wording? Probably. I have a tendency to overanalyse things, whether they're literary works, pieces of art, historical interpretations or text messages. I sometimes pick out aspects of information that aren't really there, and I think too much about what is inferred, not what is said. It's likely that's what's going on here - people probably do this all the time. It isn't really that unusual to call your parent by their Christian name, is it? I suppose, really, it depends on the family dynamic and the specific relationships they have within their unit. I doubt what he said bears any significance whatsoever.
And yet I can't shake the thought.
Jaime:
Well...I'm free...now?
"Paha!" I exclaim aloud suddenly, eyebrows shooting up and jaw dropping. Now?! Good thing I've decided against making a move. This is a tad sudden.
Me:
Now?! As in, like...now, now? Today? This minute?
Jaime:
Yeah! Heck, I'm not working, and you don't work Saturdays, and I'm bored, and all the ingredients are in the house...you aren't allergic to cats are you?
Me:
No, I'm not allergic, do you have a cat?
Jaime:
Yeah, he's fat and cute and has a lot of fur :) you can come and meet him, he likes human cuddles and treats. Probably treats more than human cuddles tbh :3
Me:
Bless XD I'll come, but I'm supposed to be picking up Mike later...
Jaime:
What's he up to?
Me:
That smitten kitten is hanging out at the library with your bestie ;)
Jaime:
Omg XD That's perfect, I'll just tell Tony to get the bus down here when they're ready to go and they can help us eat the cookies :) (but not too much. I like my cookies dammit. And if Andrew finds out we ate all of them without him he'll be pissed XD)
Me:
Alright then! I'll be round in a bit...where do you live again?
Jaime:
It's nineteen, Hawthorn Road. Pretty easy drive. You'll know it when you see it, anyway ;)
* * * * *
And I get what he means.
The house itself, number nineteen, Hawthorn Road, a few streets back from the tattoo parlour, isn't much different or set apart from any other house on the street. It's perhaps a little bigger than mine, with a small, green, grassy garden dotted with daisies at the front, a low, white, picket fence and gate, and a sandstone path leading up to its pale wood front door. The walls are a slightly off ivory and the roof is rusty red slate. The windows are large and white framed, and the curtains inside are drawn back elegantly. Cosy and well kept. The house isn't unique.
But it stands out, because instead of hanging baskets either side of the door and on the side of the house, there are bird feeders and birdhouses. It is the only house on the street that displays blackbirds perched on the picket fence, which hop along it merrily, chirping every now and then. As I park up and stroll up to the house, a small sparrow pokes its head out of a nearby birdhouse, flicks its head from side to side, checking for danger, and then squeezes itself out, flitting off to a nearby tree. Ironically, the birdhouse seems to be attached to a bird house. This is, without a doubt, where Jaime lives.
I rap three times on the wooden door, and there's a jangling of keys inside and shuffling footsteps, and a few moments later the door swings open to reveal Jaime, dressed in a polo shirt with two crosses feathers on the breast pocket, wearing non-matching socks and a feather tucked into his hair. "That was quick," he smiles, and I laugh as he motions for me to step in. Excellent. He doesn't seem awkward. Even though we've been talking normally over iMessage, I couldn't help worrying meeting in person would still be uncomfortable after the Almost Kissing incident. But it's not. Fantastic.
"You were right. I knew it when I saw it," I shrug, adjusting my beanie on my head as I walk in and look around. As he shuts the door, I take a quick look around the hallway in which we stand, and I huff with amusement. "You can definitely tell you live here."
"How so?" He tilts his head as he turns, one hand on his hip, the most casual I've ever seen him. I'm on his turf now, and he knows how to handle this situation just fine.
"Well," I chuckle, pointing to the décor on the walls, "there's a poster of the Blood Brothers musical next to the Nirvana poster."
"Ah. Yes, I suppose that's a giveaway," he agrees, moving past me and heading down the hall. "We're going to get a Hamilton poster soon. Have you heard the soundtrack? It's pretty rad. Do you want anything to drink?"
He leads me into the kitchen, smiley and cheerful, and his mood instantly infects me and brightens me too. "What have you got?"
"We have sparkling water or apple juice boxes. Or tea or coffee. No Ribena, unfortunately."
"I'll take a juice box, thanks," I say, half distracted, looking around the house as we meander through it. It's soft; that's how I'd describe it. Gentle, warm caramel colours with whites and creams and delicate patterns. It's lived in, of course; as we walk past the living room and I peer in, the cushions on the cotton sofas are slightly awry and the coffee table is splattered with opened letters and newspapers and DVD boxes - but it's a neat kind of messy, a homely kind. On the walls in the hallway there are posters and pictures; mostly posters, really, of musicals and rock bands, flyers from ice skating shows and ballets and football games. This family have framed their memories on the walls, and that's lovely. Now and then there are photos - but they seem fairly recent. The one that catches my eye is the one nearest the kitchen. It's a holiday scene in some forest somewhere, and it displays a trio; Jaime in the centre, perhaps seventeen years old, and on either side is a man a little taller than him and a woman of the same height. We move past it too quickly for me to examine it, but as we enter the kitchen I'm able to question one thing about the picture.
Where's the brother?
The kitchen is wide and bright, lit up by two windows, allowing the natural light to bathe the marble work surfaces and the polished hardwood flooring. I can't help smiling walking into it; this is the home of somebody who cooks, and that makes me immeasurably happy. "Damn," I nod as Jaime goes to the fridge and produces two boxes of apple juice. "This is a very nice kitchen."
"Andrew's favourite room," Jaime explains, and I take a seat at the breakfast bar and he slides the drink over before hopping up on the counter and swinging his legs. "He loves cooking. He's a better cook than Sarah, but she's a better baker. I've always baked so I teach her recipes all the time. So many Saturday afternoons were spent baking cupcakes, and then she'd drag us to the gym on Sunday to work them off. No doubt she'd have done the same today, if she was at home. She's at a friend's house for tea and cake. So very English."
"Very civilised," I agree as I puncture the foil with the straw and take a drink. "That sounds a lot of fun. Do you bake a lot, then?"
"I suppose I bake more than the average person," he laughs. "How about you? Are you much of a chef?"
"I cook a pretty mean pomodero gnocchi," I smirk, and he tilts his head.
"A what now?"
"It's basically shell pasta with some tomatoey stuff and cheese and onion. It's not much. But I make it taste really good. But other than that I'm hardly a Michelin chef. I can whip something together if I'm hungry, nothing special. And I'm definitely not a gifted baker."
"Well!" He exclaims, bright and chirpy, jumping back down off the counter. "I'll teach you."
Jaime doesn't half know what he's doing in this kitchen. He has all of the ingredients lined up and ready in a matter of minutes, clustered on the island counter, and the recipe book open and propped up on a stand. He doesn't reference it much, I notice, as if this is a well used recipe, and he begins to whip things together with ease. Something about this new confidence is extremely attractive when it's inserted into his normally quiet demeanour, and I feel as though I'm being shown one of those aspects of his that sits beneath his surface in that mysterious void.
"First things first," he begins, heating a small pan on the stove. "Melt the butter. Can you melt butter?"
"Is assume I'd find it quite easy," I say warily, and he steps back, handing me the spoon as he smiles and reaches for the butter to weigh. He cuts up the butter into cubes and drops them onto the scale, waiting for the pan to heat up. "Have you thought anymore about the OC evening?"
"Hmm," he hums, biting his lip and tilting his head. "I'm not sure still."
"I hear the food is always really good," I try. "It's like the food they used to serve at prize givings. And you don't have to dance or anything, you can just hang by the buffet, or sit and enjoy the music."
"Won't I have to mingle though?" He says reluctantly. "I suck at talking to people I don't know."
"Well, I'll stick with you. If someone tries to talk, I'll handle it. And Alex got back to me this morning, he's going to come. He's such a chatterbox you probably won't even get a chance to speak."
He finishes weighing the butter and tips it out of the weighing tub and into the pan, where it slowly starts to slip around the surface as it melts. "You seem to really want me to go."
Oh shit. Back up. This could turn soppy real quick so you gotta -
"Of course I want you to go," I smile. Yep, I sound desperate and like the world's biggest sucker, but I'm way past hiding that now. "I enjoy your company."
"People don't usually enjoy my company," he muses, and I take my gaze away from his deep wells of hazel to gently nudge the butter around the pan.
"People don't take the chance to get to know you," I reason. "Which is their loss, really. But I enjoy your company, and I'd really like if you decided to come."
There's no response as the butter continues to melt, almost completely liquified, and after a moment I look over to my right for some indication he heard me. He doesn't appear to be offering further conversation as he reaches for the dry ingredients, but he's smiling instead - a private, knowing smile, and I smile too as I look away again.
He measures out the flour and baking soda and cinnamon and other assorted dry ingredients whilst he tells me to wait for the melted butter to turn brown. Once it starts to change colour he pushes a bowl of measured brown sugar towards me, leaning against the counter, one hand on his hip. "Now pour the butter in with the sugar."
"And then what?"
"Whisk it?" He laughs, pulling over the electric whisk and plugging it in. "Don't look so terrified. They're only snickerdoodles."
"I don't want to poison you and your family!" I exclaim in defence, and he laughs again as I tentatively take the pan off the heat and pour the butter into the bowl of brown sugar. He pours in a bow of plain sugar he's already measured, hands me the whisk and I beat it thoroughly, worried about curdling the butter or making the sugar too lumpy - but he encourages that I'm doing it right, and already, the smell of the hot butter and sweet, treacly sugar is enticing.
Whilst I'm combining them he removes two eggs from a carton, placing another, smaller bowl in front of him, and lifts one to crack it - but he's cut off before he can do as much as touch the egg to the bowl, as suddenly, a great lump of tortoiseshell fur hops up onto the counter and meows, and his face completely lights up.
"Rolly-rolly-rollo," he calls, setting the egg back down and instead reaching out a hand as I turn off the whisk for a moment. "Vic, this is my cat Rolly. Like I said, fat and furry."
And fat and furry describes Rolly the Cat perfectly: he has a coat of thick, soft tortoiseshell fur and pale green eyes, and as he sits down within reach of Jaime's hand, tail twitching slightly and rumble coming from deep in his throat, he seems to take on a ball shape, his stomach almost a perfect sphere, displaying a tummy of white fur to accompany one white sock on his hind leg and at the very top of his tail. He almost appears to be smiling as Jaime tickles him behind the ears and under the chin, and I smile.
"Oh he is cute," I gush, holding a hand out across the marble counter. Rolly gets fully to his feet and slowly pads over, sniffing tentatively at my hand before deciding I'm safe and butting his head against my fingers, eager to be stroked. "And, as you say, rather round."
"He needs a diet," Jaime nods, going back to cracking the egg, "but don't say that to his face because he's very sensitive."
"You're pleasantly round, Rolly," I say in reassurance, and Jaime giggles. "Don't listen to him."
Uncaring about the way he waddles across the counter on his stocky legs and soft, comparatively small paws, Rolly purrs contentedly and rubs his side along my hand once before padding to the end of the counter and making a leap to the adjacent one, which runs around the edge of the room, nudging what appears to be an empty food bowl with his paw and meowing again. Jaime scoffs. "You've already eaten today, Rolly, you aren't getting any more food."
But, insistent and put out, Rolly just meows again, bowing his head to sniff the empty bowl and lick it before looking back over at Jaime, plaintive and pleading. Rolling his eyes, Jaime turns around, abandoning the eggs and goes to the cupboard above Rolly's food bowl, producing a bag of treats that catch the cat's eye immediately and set him pacing on his feet and his ears prick in excitement. Jaime offers one treat between to fingers and Rolly doesn't waste a second in hoovering it up. "There. Satisfied? You fat lump. It's a good thing you're cute and cuddly."
"Bless," I smile as Rolly licks Jaime's fingers and purrs once more before hopping down off the counter, and Jaime shakes his head as he turns back around.
"He may be fat and high maintenance and think he's the Princess of Everything, but he's part of the family. Have you ever had a cat?"
Convinced the butter and sugar is appropriately combined, I stop stirring and take a break as Jaime breaks an egg. "Apparently we used to have a cat called Tabitha when I was a baby, before Mike was born. Mom says I loved her very much and always tried to squeeze her, and I couldn't pronounce Tabitha so I tried to call her 'ginger', because she was a marmalade cat, but I couldn't pronounce ginger either so I ended up referring to her as 'gin.' Which was pretty far from the mark, but...it's the sentiment that counts."
"Okay, that's adorable," Jaime grins as he puts the now empty egg shell to the side and takes the second egg. I know he's referring to the childish way I called my cat, but I blush at the comment anyway and have to look away to stop myself acting in a way that will irrefutably be extremely embarrassing.
"Mom says she ran away a just before she found out she was expecting another baby, which was pretty sad. But financially, with another kid on the way, it was a bad move to get another pet. Although we briefly considered buying a rabbit."
"I actually had a rabbit once," he adds, finishing with the eggs and throwing away the empty shells. "She was called Mog. Pretty cute. Okay, now we add the eggs, vanilla extract and Greek yoghurt."
"Greek yoghurt?"
"Yeah, I know it's weird. But it's important."
"Something smells of cinnamon," I muse as he tips the eggs (one whole egg, one yolk on its own) into the butter-sugar mix. He raises an eyebrow, amused.
"That would be the cinnamon in the dry ingredients."
"Ah," I laugh. "Alright. Makes sense."
Once he's tipped in the yoghurt and vanilla, I steady the bowl with one hand and take a deep breathe before starting to whisk it quickly - only I start a little too quick and some mixture flies out of the bowl, and I yelp as some of the blend spatters, colouring in my black and grey flannel top with spit spots of biscuit mix, and Jaime snorts and upends himself with laughter as I turn the whisk off again and shove it away from me. "Argh! Dammit."
"How did you manage that?" Jaime exclaims, voice a higher pitch as he continues laughing and I wipe some vaguely eggy sugary mixture off my nose, and I turn and scowl at his laughing face. Put out by how much my failure to whisk a simple mixture has amused him, I reach out with the finger I just used to remove the splatter from my face and paint it along his cheek, and he squeals, ducking away, and his childish, carefree, beautiful giggles sweep me up and hug me and squeeze me and make me start giggling too as he wipes his cheek with the back of his hand. "Hey!"
"That's what you get for being cheeky," I say snootily, cocking my head, smirking and raising my eyebrows - but that's not the end of it, and he picks up the other whisk he used to combine the dry ingredients and blows, and the powder flies off the metal and drifts into my face. I'd be indignant; but I'm laughing too much to care as I waft my hand against the air, trying to clear it of particles that smell a bit like flour and a bit like cinnamon. As I brush the dust off my shoulders, he chuckles and looks down.
"That's what you get for being cocky," he counters, almost to himself, and then he looks back at me with those gorgeous, glittering eyes that have suddenly been injected with giddiness and mischief. He wears mischief well. It looks good on him.
Eventually we simmer down, and he helps me whisk it so I don't completely wreck his kitchen; steadies my hands with his own like it's no big deal, and really, I suppose it isn't. He's only guiding me to beat some ingredients in a bowl - but damn am I liking the domesticity and the closeness, and the way he's become suddenly confident. I like the way he smells; he smells of warmth and comfort, of wheat and honey and ginger, this strange, mysterious bird man with his bubble of intrigue that I have been well and truly sucked into. It baffles me at the same time it sends me over the moon; after what happened in the park, I thought I'd make him more anxious and worried and awkward around me - why has he suddenly grown in confidence?
Maybe he's realised he's not the only awkward one. Maybe he's noticed fear in me he recognises in himself, and it's come as a peculiar reassurance.
Maybe, in a way, the Almost Kissing incident was something of a...blessing.
"Now what?" I ask once the mixture has been blended to form a pale brown, slightly nutty smelling batter, which I have to stop myself from licking off the spoon. Jaime reaches over the counter and pulls the bowl of dry ingredients over.
"Beat the dry ingredients in, a little at a time," he instructs. "I'll shake, you whisk. Yep?"
"I apologise in advance," I huff, amused, and he raises an eyebrow.
"Hey, I'm teaching you well. You're a master whisker now. I believe in you. Ready?"
But before he can start adding the flour mix, there's the sound of keys jangling in a lock and the front door opening and closing with a subtle clunk. "Himes?" A woman's voice sounds. "You in, love?"
"In the kitchen!" Jaime calls, and sets the bowl back down as footsteps trot along the floor in the corridor. A few moments later, a woman appears in the doorway, and the sight of her takes me by surprise.
About the same height as Jaime, I recognise her as the woman in the photo I saw on the way in; but what didn't show up in the photo, because it was in black and white, was the woman's bright ginger hair and dazzling blue eyes and smattering of freckles skipping across her nose and cheeks. She is sweet-faced and stocky, and her form is draped in a knitted woollen cardigan and black leggings to match her black flats. "Jaime Preciado," she starts, putting a hand on her hip. "Are you baking snickerdoodles without me?"
"Maybe," Jaime grins, and the woman laughs gently and approaches the counter. "Sarah, this is my friend Vic. Vic, this is my mom, Sarah."
"Nice to meet you," I offer politely, stretching out my hand across the counter for her to shake, trying to conceal my surprise. I've never seen two people so completely different.
But if she sees my confusion, she doesn't acknowledge it, and she accepts my hand and shakes it. "Very nice to meet you too, Vic. Can I take your hat, dear?"
"No, no," I say quickly, one hand instinctively going to my head and readjusting my beanie. "No, that's quite alright."
"Vic keeps questions under his hat," Jaime explains. "Without it, the questions would go spilling everywhere and it would be a right mess."
"Quite so," Sarah nods, as if understanding completely. I like her. "You two look like you're having fun in here."
She casts her eye over the powdered, splattered work surface, and Jaime pulls a face. "Yeah. We'll clean up."
"Don't worry about it, love," she shakes her head. "Although you do seem to have flour in your hair. But I'll leave you two to it...ugh, that mix smells so good. Make sure to leave me some," she sing-songs on her way out.
"We will."
"Good good. Oh, has the cat been fed?"
"Yes, but he's still hungry," Jaime shrugs. "I gave him a treat. For being cute."
"Nothing new."
"What time is Andrew getting home?"
The corners of her mouth curl and she flicks her wrist, checking the rose gold watch that hangs delicately on it. "About half three."
"I'll save him a biscuit too. Oh, and Tony's coming over."
"Righty."
"And he's bringing his friend. Who happens to be Vic's brother."
Sarah blinks twice, slightly baffled, and then laughs. "Okay then. These snickerdoodles aren't going to last very long."
At that, she swans out of the kitchen, bobbing slightly as she walks, and disappears down the hallway. As I watch her go, my confusion only grows - so he refers to both of his parents by their forenames, his mother looks nothing like him and there doesn't seem to be any sign or mention of his brother.
This family seems lovely; but undeniably odd, and I can't help but wonder their situation - and as I contemplate it, I start to wonder if Sarah and Andrew are, perhaps, not Jaime's blood.
I let it go as we continue with the mixture, and Jaime carefully adds portions of the dry ingredients at a time, and I manage to bind it in without it flying everywhere. Once it's all mixed it resembles a thick cookie dough, and Jaime bounces slightly on his tiptoes, nudging the empty flour bowl aside. "Yes! It looks perfect. See, I told you I'd make you a baker!"
"I think you did most of the hard work," I counter, and he shakes his head.
"Nah. You did all the mixing. The mixing is the important bit. I just weighed the stuff and stopped you destroying the appliances. Oh my God it smells so good."
He quickly bows his head to the bowl and breathes in, humming in pleasure, and when he pulls away I do the same. Admittedly, it smells amazing, and if it didn't have raw egg in it I'd probably eat it out of the bowl; it smells faintly of nuts from the browned butter with a strong hint of cinnamon, and it smells like a warm Christmas. "Agreed. So now what?"
"It has to go in the fridge for about half an hour," he says as he takes a roll of cellophane from above the sink and tears off a length, stretching it over the top of the bowl and carrying it over to the fridge. "So there's some waiting involved."
"Okay," I nod, hopping up and sitting on the counter.
"Would you like anything else to drink?"
"I'll take another apple juice, thanks."
He takes another two cartons from the fridge and tosses me one before he closes it and sighs, looking around himself. I pierce the foil with the straw and take a drink as he walks over to the window and looks at the outside world for a moment, tilting the blinds up, and then smiles. "It's a nice day. Let's go outside."
He sets a timer for thirty minutes on his phone as he leads me out via the back door into his garden, which is small but quiet and peaceful, thoroughly overgrown, bright green grass and a tree at the top left corner. It has a small patio with some wooden deck furniture, upon which Rolly sits licking a paw. We bypass him and Jaime leads me down the garden path to the back of the garden, where there is a low wooden fence upon which Jaime hops, feet resting on the lower crossbeam, and I copy his actions. Not too far away from us, the tree's leaves rustle gently.
"Hey," he says, dipping into his pocket and producing a packet of seeds. "Watch this."
"Do you just carry them around in your pocket for emergencies?" I laugh, and Jaime smiles as he tears open the packet and pours some seeds onto the nearest fence post. His eyes flit back and forth from the tree to the seeds, and there is absolute stillness in the garden.
"Give it a moment," he says softly.
All is quiet - and then, a little while later, there is a flutter of feathers from the tree which swoop down and take the form of a sparrow, landing happily on the post and pecking at the seeds just a few feet away from me, and I gasp and break out in a massive smile. The bird is shortly followed by another, which stands opposite as they feed. I'm close enough to be able to see the different dapples of brown and speckles on their bellies and feathers, and their small, beady eyes, wide set on either side of their skulls. "Wow," I say softly.
"I do this often," Jaime explains, watching the birds feed with some degree of fascination. "They know me, so they come to me pretty easily."
"That's amazing," I shake my head. Tentative, careful not to scare them away, he reaches back out and pours a line of seed down the beam upon which we sit towards us.
"You've worked it out, I guess," he says softly, and it takes me a moment to wake up and register he's talking to me, and then I tilt my head.
"Worked out what?"
"Sarah and Andrew," he clarifies. "Not my real parents."
I freeze, stunned slightly for a moment - but then I relax and take a breath in. I was right. "I was thinking about it. But I didn't want to say."
"I suppose that's not quite right," he continues. "They are my real parents. Legally, I'm their kid, but they aren't biologically my parents. They're my adoptive parents. I think you've probably worked that out. I think you've also worked out my brother doesn't live here. Right?"
Too dumbstruck to say anything more, I just nod. Oh yes, there is a story here - his family is a step beyond complicated. I know before he's even said a word. One of the birds breaks away from the pile of seeds and starts hopping along the beam, pecking at the line Jaime laid out.
"My family story is messy," he says, voice quiet and melancholy. "I thought introducing you to my parents would be an easier way to start telling you about it."
Finally, he looks over at me, eyes worried and sincere. "I can't tell you all of it yet. It would take me too long, quite frankly, and it takes too much out of me to talk about it, but I suppose I've started with the outline now. I live with my adoptive family and their cat, and my brother lives in another adoptive family. It's simple to explain now but...the circumstances by which we came to be in this situation are like the circuit board of a computer; wires in all the wrong places and too complex to actually start to straighten out. I will tell you about my family sometime, but...not yet."
"Your family seem lovely," I try, processing what he's told me. I should have figured it out from the first-name basis, I suppose. "I know I've only met Sarah, but if Andrew is as nice as she is..."
"He is," he smiles, looking down at the birds. "A lovely guy. I'm happy now, the way things have worked out, although they aren't perfect. I'm still trying to make sense of it all. It doesn't make much sense..." he trails off for a moment, and the bird hops ever closer, tweeting softly, pecking at the seeds. All of a sudden, Jaime reaches over and carefully takes my left hand, sending electric currents throughout my body, making me twitch on contact, but he doesn't care as he pours some seeds into my open palm and moves my hand over so it's resting face up on his lap. He encourages the bird more, tipping some more seeds into the beam, and they are quickly hoovered up before the bird tentatively, nervously, hops up onto his lap and starts feeding straight from my hand, and I gasp, taken aback, tickled by the feeling of the beak tapping in sharp rhythms against my skin. "Birds make sense," he finishes.
* * * * *
The recipe ends up making about three dozen cookies. True to Jaime's word, they taste amazing; the browned butter makes them slightly nutty and a hidden caramel square in the centre turns gooey whilst baking, and eaten warm, they're even better.
The biscuits have cooled by the time Jaime's dad, Andrew, gets home. He is as Jaime described him; lovely. Taller and lanky with blond curly hair and thick, black framed glasses for his blue eyes to match his wife, he is full to the brim with greetings and compliments and good nature. He treats me as if I'm an old friend of Jaime's he's met a hundred times before, which is more than welcome.
Tony and Mike turn up fifteen minutes after that, and they look pink and giddy, some unknown conversation they had on the bus having tickled them silly and made them laugh ridiculously. They tuck into their own biscuits happily and the living room becomes somewhat crowded, with the four of us and Jaime's parents cluttering the space - but it's a good kind of clutter. I pretend to be normal, because I can. The only person in the room who knows about my alopecia is Mike, and although his epilepsy is no secret, because it's never been seen by these people, that can be overlooked too. It's nice to be in a space where everything truly is fine.
I head home with Mike and our share of the snickerdoodles at about four o'clock. Before Mom and Dad have even begun to think about dinner they're tucking into the biscuits and gushing over them, and I bow, pleased with my work. We aim to save four for after dinner to have as dessert; but Mike can't resist and eats his before Mom has plated up our meal, so I end up sharing mine with him afterwards.
As I lie in bed, sorting the final pictures from my shoot with Jaime on my laptop, I tick over what I learned today. I learned about Jaime's cat, Rolly, and I learned how to mix ingredients without destroying a kitchen, and I learned to bake salted caramel snickerdoodles, and I learned that Jaime is an adoptee living in a different house and different family than his brother. It sounds confusing, alright - and I have no doubt the story is not by any means simple. But he opened up about that. He hid it from the moment we met, and something, God knows what, pushed him and gave him the courage to confess to a life he does not consider to be at all perfect and, for some, may be totally off-putting.
He trusted me. He came out from the mask he hides behind - so next time we meet, I shall do the same.
Once I've finished sorting the photos (not all I wanted to accomplish today, but something at least), I resolve to get him to the OC Halloween evening if it kills me.
At the OC Halloween party, I will kiss him. God dammit, I will.
* * * * *