Taming Tyler

Chapter Seven

Tyler

I t’s been a little over a week since I started doing my community service at Cal’s bakery. It’s okay, I guess. I mean, it could be a whole lot worse. Cal’s cool enough; his only flaw appears to be that he’s totally besotted with Mitch. It’s still weird as fuck that Mitch is gay and has a husband, but I guess sometimes life just goes in weird directions like that. Theresa, Cal’s younger sister, is fucking hilarious. She’s totally on board with the whole bagnut idea, and we’re at the stage where we’re testing possible fillings. The coconut cream was awesome. It squirted all over the kitchen and it kind of looked like… yeah, you know. Even Callum the Contrite had to admit that it was fucking funny. We’re calling it a happy-ending bagnut for now. Next step is testing the dulce-de-leche filling I found in the back of a cabinet. Yummyyy.

I haven’t seen much of Mitch, and when he does stop by, he keeps his distance. Cal has invited me over for dinner a couple of times and as much as I want to see that huge-ass dog again because she was cuteness overload, I can’t bring myself to accept. I don’t want their easy domestic banter and words dripping with affection. I don’t want their shared, knowing looks and their stupid, cozy kitchen. They can keep that shit to themselves, along with their gross traitor soup.

Besides, I’m wiped out after a shift at Bake My Day. Literally wiped out. The moment I get home to my one-bedroom apartment in South Pasadena, I literally face-plant on my bed. Hours later, I wake up groggy, in the middle of the afternoon, the world humming outside, a strange void in my chest. I’ve stopped going out. I don’t feel like it. I can’t pinpoint why, but the idea of grinding against some stranger on a crowded, sweaty dance floor makes me nauseous.

Instead, I’ve picked up sketching again. I used to do it throughout my time at the preppy high school that Dale the Dipshit sent me to ‘ to get the punk straightened out, Catarina darling.’ Shit, I hated that school. If it weren’t for all the preppy mommies’ boys who were queuing up for hand jobs and blowies, I would’ve died from boredom. You would be surprised how many closeted, horny rich kids you can fit into a prestigious high school. Spoiler alert: it’s a lot. So, when I wasn’t giving out hand jobs left and right, I was sketching. Needless to say, I had chronic carpal tunnel syndrome all the way through high school. But it got me through.

And now I’m back at it. Sketching, not blowies-on-demand. Every afternoon, as soon as I wake up, I drag my ass down to Garfield Park, my sketchbook and Red Bull in my orange Vans backpack. I love people-watching. Always have. People do the weirdest-ass shit when they don’t know that anyone is watching. There’s this little old lady who sneaks pear schnapps into her coffee and then shares it with her purple poodle. I shit you not—and she looks like the happiest soul on earth. The dog, too. And the skater boys checking each other out. The cutest fucking thing. All these girls sitting on the grass drooling over these dudes, and all they want to do is fuck each other. Hilarious.

I even started bringing the sketchbook with me to work. Theresa asked if she could see it and she went batshit crazy over the skater boys, too. Even Cal had to admit that they were fine as fuck with their flowy, shoulder-length hair and low-riding pants. Today, he asked me to bring it with me to the shelter. Said the kids would love to see my stuff, too. So that’s pretty much what I’ve been doing for the past forty minutes or so—drawing with a group of kids between the ages of eight and thirteen, I guess. Cal occasionally throws me fond smiles while he’s talking to Father Reynolds and a younger guy, Dwayne, who’s a volunteer. Fond . It’s been a while since anyone has looked at me the way Cal-Bear does. With a quiet kind of approval. Like, the other day, when I finally nailed the apple pie recipe without burning down the kitchen. Pride . I could’ve sworn that there was pride in his eyes. I haven’t seen that in someone’s eyes since… yeah, don’t go there, Tyler.

“How do you do the hands?” Venus asks, a cute-ass frown between her dark eyebrows. She was one of the first kids who came over when I started drawing. Lingering at the other end of the table, she looked like she was afraid I was going to tell her to fuck off. Then, when I threw her a pack of crayons, she smiled like it was fucking Christmas, her entire face overtaken by the most dazzling smile. She’s been my shadow ever since.

“Hands are tricky,” I agree, bumping my shoulder against hers, causing her to giggle. “Sometimes I cheat, too,” I say with a giggle of my own.

“Cheat?” she pouts. “How?”

“I draw people with their hands behind their backs, or maybe they’re holding something?” I say, showing her on my paper what I mean.

“Maybe he doesn’t have any,” a teen called Leo mumbles around a mouthful of Skittles . “Like my dad’s cousin Marley. He doesn’t have any. Hands, I mean,” he offers as he crunch-crunches, his tongue purple.

“Shut up!” Cherise, Venus’ twin sister, chimes in. “He has no hands?! What happened?”

“He was just born that way, I guess,” Leo shrugs, like he’s answered that question a million times. He grabs another handful of Skittles, picking out the purple ones and leaving the rest on the table.

“You can’t be born without no hands,” Ahmed shakes his head, brown curls bobbing all over the place. He’s the only one who isn’t drawing, reading a comic instead, a green monster with orange horns on the front.

“Sure, you can,” Leo says solemnly. “Marley’s one of those tailomid babies.” I try to swallow my laugh and end up coughing instead.

“Thalidomide,” I wheeze, tears in my eyes. Fuck, these kids are something.

“That’s what I said,” Leo frowns.

“Sure,” I nod, showing Venus how to draw a kid holding a book in his hands.

That’s when Dwayne’s deep voice booms through the common area, and my eyes automatically go to where he has Mitch in a bro hug, slapping his back with his hand.

“Mitch, my man!” Dwayne shakes his head, his entire face overtaken by a wide smile. “Where the hell have you been, man?” Father Reynolds clears his throat at the curse word, and Dwayne mumbles what I assume is an apology, still beaming at Mitch like he invented Pop-Tarts or some shit like that.

“Busy, you know,” Mitch reaches out and ruffles Dwayne’s huge mob of black curls. “Straightenin’ out brats like you,” he winks.

“Shut up,” Dwayne laughs, tilting his chin. “I ain’t a kid no more.” It’s true. Dwayne’s huge, towering over both Mitch and Father Reynolds. Only Cal stands taller. He’s a bear, after all. Mitch nods, glancing around the room. As if he’s read his mind, Cal leans in and speaks something to Mitch while pointing in my direction. My cheeks instantly heat, and as soon as I see Mitch moving toward me, I puff out my bird’s chest and shoot my most defiant chin forward.

Coming to a stop next to the table, Mitch peeks over Cherise’s shoulder, taking in the huge sunflower she’s currently filling in with yellow.

“Love your sunflowers,” Mitch hums, and the sound of his familiar voice goes straight to my gut. While he keeps talking, Mitch looks directly at me. “Once drove past an entire field of them. Just rows and rows of sunflowers. Never-ending. One of the most beautiful things I ever saw.” I know. It was. I was right there in his car with him. I must’ve been around nine or ten. We pulled over and just stood there under the burning afternoon sun, glaring at thousands of flowers, mesmerized. And happy. That was the first time I called him Dad . It just slipped right out of my mouth in front of those sunflowers. I fucking hate them now. Traitor flowers making me think I could have a life that was never intended for me to begin with.

I’m the first one to break our glaring contest, looking back down at my paper where I’m sketching one of the skater boys from the park. He’s flying through the air, clutching the board, curly hair adorning his face.

“You’re drawing?” Mitch says carefully, nodding at the drawing. I’m seconds away from a smart retort but catch myself. I try to tell myself I don’t want to tell him off in front of the kids, but the truth is, over the past week, my animosity has started dissolving. It’s exhausting to stay mad at someone for over a decade. It truly is. Takes real effort, people. And the way Cal, Theresa, and now Dwayne act when Mitch is around, I have to admit that he appears to be just as I remember him. A good guy. Besides leaving Mom and me, Mitch was always one of the good ones. The best.

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” I say, looking back up, my gaze connecting with his. There’s a hint of wistfulness in the light blue that mirrors the heaviness in my chest.

“You used to do it all the time. Those massive fish with huge teeth.” He wipes at his scruff.

“I don’t remember,” I say.

“Yeah, you used to draw them on the blank pages in all your mom’s cookbooks. Drove her crazy,” he chuckles carefully, pausing. He looks unsure, as though he wants me to give him a sign that this isn’t forbidden territory. I nod, the movement of my chin barely there, but Mitch must catch it because relief sweeps across his face. “So, I went out and bought you a sketchpad. You burned through the first one in a weekend, your pencils on fire.” Yeah, I remember now. I swallow behind the lump building in my throat.

“I think I remember that,” I croak. “Sharks, right?” I search his face, seeing his eyes are bright. Shiny.

“Yep. Stacks and stacks of sketchpads with huge sharks, each one scarier than the next.” His voice trails off and I only just catch the last part. “Kept some, actually.”

“You did?” I blurt, my voice ridiculously loud to my own ears. Mitch nods, looking down at the worn linoleum floor.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, throwing me an indecipherable look that looks like it could tilt over into hurt any second. Shifting on his feet, he looks up again. “Look, Tyler, I know that Cal’s been asking you to come over for dinner again.” He hesitates, licking his bottom lip. “The offer still stands, you know. From the both of us.” The air crackles between us, Mitch standing stoic like he’s afraid to breathe. That I’ll come at him full force, stomping his invitation to death on the puke-green linoleum floor.

“What are you making?” I find myself asking, a raspy edge to my voice. Relief sweeps across Mitch’s face, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Burgers?” I ask, attempting nonchalance.

“Sure. Why not?” he says, burying his large hands in his pants pockets. “Cajun?”

“Obviously!” I blurt, the pretend aloofness gone in a split second. “It’s a given,” I grin stupidly. Mom used to make fun of us. That we weren’t in Louisiana and that we couldn’t turn every dish into a Cajun version. Our combined answer was always, ‘ Why not?’

“Great,” Mitch continues to smile. “Come by at six.”

“What’s Cajun?” Leo asks a little too loudly, probably flying high on a cloud of Skittles.

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” I ruffle his hair, my eyes not leaving Mitch’s. “Okay,” I say. “Six it is.”