Sweet (11 page)

I’ve also spent a lot of my time apologizing for things that weren’t my fault: for loving boys who could not love me back, who felt my affection as a cut against their own importance and safety; for being the kid who couldn’t keep his mother interested enough to stick around past his infancy, or keep his grandmother alive, no matter how many prayers I said or wishes I sent out into the universe, whispering over my grandmother’s cold hands in time to the beep of hospital machinery; again, later, for being the man who couldn’t save his beloved, who lay sleeping in a hospital bed which might have been the same hospital bed, though it was almost twenty years later and several states away from Indiana
,
the same rhythmic blips on the same gray plastic machines in the background, the same ache in my bones for what I was unable, being only human, being only me, to do for him.

Lately, I’ve been regretting the forgetting, as if this little and inevitable easing of my memory were an indication of the hollowness of my previous regrets. I’ve been regretting, too, thoughts of moving on, of loving someone else. The prospect is terrifying; it seems as much like betrayal as it does like possibility. I find myself feeling sorry for that, too.

I’ve always imagined myself as fierce, free of the self-loathing tether of regret, honest in the world and true to myself, raw and laid bare by my own hand, because keeping myself safe in the bind of my own secrecy always seemed to me much worse. I realize now, despite that, that I’ve spent a lot of time harboring regret, and mostly for things I could not undo about myself
—
most especially, regretting my own fallible humanity. I’ve spent too much time feeling trapped in that particularly cramped and airless cage. I’m here today, in part, to tell you I am letting all of that go.

The “I’m Sorry Cookies” I’m offering here are Linzer tarts, cut into
pretty shapes and dusted with powdered sugar to cover any bumps and imperfectio
ns, filled, in your case, with any mushy and sweet thing you choose,
and, in my case, with a homemade jam of strawberry,
rhubarb and mint. I think these cookies do a good job accompanying an apology
—
they’re mild and friendly, a bit sweet, a bit tart and
completely unassuming.

I’ve already made and delivered a batch of these this week to accompany yet another well-deserved apology, though I decline to provide you with the details of my trespass, and for that, again, I apologize
.
I expect to make many more before my life is over. Today, however, I’d like to imagine that I’ve baked myself a batch, too. For all the regret I’ve carried, for all the battering I’ve given my poor heart (it is enough, my father used to tell me, that others will do that quite willingly for me; I should not help them in their cause by punishing myself too), I want to apologize, and to forgive and to open the little locked cage of my heart and set free the creature that’s been beating itself against the bars for far too long.

This is the gift I’m giving to my own self; this is the blessing; this is the benediction.

For loving someone who might never love you back, I forgive you. For letting go what you no longer wanted, I forgive you, and for the failure you thought it was to do so, I also forgive you.
For locking yourself away from the world when you lose what you cannot bear to lose, I forgive you. For remembering, and also for forgetting, I forgive you.
For being too much in the world, I forgive you. For not being enough, I forgive you. For wanting and not wanting, for needing and depending, for changing and for never changing, for missing and longing and hoping and failing, for all of this, I forgive you. For never daring to ask for this forgiveness, I forgive you with my entire aching self. For nearly crushing your beautiful, fragile heart in your own fist, I forgive you.

For all of these things I’ve written here, and for ten thousand more things I will never write down, I offer forgiveness. Let me open my hands, lift up my arms and
toss my heart
—
that little fluttering, bruised bird
—
up and into the sky. Go where you will. I release you.

Nine

You have been very patient.
We have been telling you this tale for a good many chapters now, knowing full well what you expect of this story, knowing full well that from the moment we first introduced the two men about whom this story revolves, from the first glance and the first taste and the first hint of the low-lit magic of the little bakery (clasping around them like a pair of warm hands, pressing them gently together), you have expected them to meet in a hail of sparks, to fall in love against a backdrop of slow fireworks and shimmer and to kiss, to kiss, and to kiss.

You will not, we hope, be disappointed then when we tell you, happily—because this is good news—that in the empty, airless space between chapters, there was such a kiss. There were, in point of fact, many thousands of kisses in that space: soft goodnight kisses on the sweat-sweet foreheads of children; the quick-pecked goodbye kisses of mothers and fathers, of grandmothers, of strange uncles and favorite teachers and best friends; starting-something kisses and dare kisses, curious kisses and ones that were shy, or nervous, or bold, taken ones and given ones and sometimes accidental ones; longer kisses, soul kisses, licking kisses with teeth and tongue and going deeper; first kisses and last kisses; kisses like prayers and kisses like pleas; desperate kisses fumbling their way across newly
bared skin in a thousand backseats of a thousand cars parked in a thousand different dark, wooded places. There were so many kisses in that vacuum of time between chapters; the world was filled up with kissing but, we know, there is only one kiss about which you care, only one kiss about which you want to hear.

We had planned to start this part of the tale with Teddy, combed and pressed and ready, waiting by the window in the early morning for the honk of the cab he’d called the night before, suitcase packed tight and trim, a pair of dark, reasonable suits swinging hollow and loose in a garment bag at the door. He felt wound, like a coiled spring, and full of energy that owed nothing to the paper cup of weak bodega coffee he nursed in his free hand.

I’m sorry,
he typed into his phone with one thumb, and sent the message to Jules. It was a delicate balancing act.

But it is too late, this moment. We must instead rewind the days to tell you what happened before, what led to this moment, why Teddy is apologizing and for what, and why his bags are packed and he is waiting, not so patiently, for a car to take him away in the damp gray of the too-early morning. And we must, we know, give you, who have been so patiently waiting, that longed-for kiss.

***

Two days ago, Jules had sent out the cookies for Teddy and hidden in the kitchen, peering out through the tiny crack between door and wall, not entirely trusting what ‘Trice might do in his absence given her penchant for meddling in his private life. Teddy had sat at the table nearest the kitchen doors and slowly eaten two of the cookies. A peaceful sweet smile had lit his face as he absently chewed and sipped his coffee; his hands had been folded around the warming cup—nails neatly filed, Jules had noted, knuckles slightly red from the chill—and his eyes had been downcast, the lashes dotted, Jules could see, with rainwater; his cheeks and neck were shining with it, his wet white shirt turned pale pink where it clung to his chest, and oh, it was simply
beautiful.
Once, for one brief moment, Teddy had raised his eyes and glanced through those thick, wet eyelashes at the door, and Jules had known without a doubt that Teddy sensed he was there, watching him. It had sent a sharp, electric thrill into the pit of his stomach, that look.

Teddy had eventually left, with one final, quick glance and bright
hint of a smile at the door behind which Jules stood. Jules had forced
himself to wait a full forty-five minutes before sending Teddy a text message:

I hope you liked the cookies. ‘Trice said you picked them up today.

There followed what seemed to Jules like an interminable silence while he waited, though we who were watching might tell you that it was mere seconds before a reply came:
The cookies were amazing. And glorious. And wonderful. Guess who has two thumbs and might be having cookies for dinner tonight?

And not four seconds later, another message:
This guy. (You can’t see me, but I am pointing to myself with my thumbs right now. This joke is better in person, isn’t it?)

Jules felt full of feathers, but he took three long breaths before he dared reply.

If I hadn’t seen you with my own eyes, I would swear that you were five years old.

That’s not nice,
Teddy typed back.
I might require another batch of cookies to make up for that.

No more cookies for you, mister. You’re all hopped up on sugar. You’re going to be up way past your bedtime as it is.

There was a very long pause after Jules sent this message, in the space of which he began to panic, and his stomach began to pull down and away from him in a sickening slide. This pause contained all his past mistakes and stupidity, all the hubris and the stupid chance-taking and inglorious overstepping he’d ever done.

But then a message came from Teddy:
I’m going to be up way past my bedtime tonight anyway.

Oh,
Jules typed.
Busy night tonight, I imagine. I should really let you get to it so you’re not up all night.

Doing whatever it is,
he added.

That’s going to be keeping you up all night, I mean,
he added again.

That sounded pretty suggestive,
he typed, and though he told himself to stop, his hands kept him babbling.
But really, I’m just assuming you have work, or maybe a hot date, or that you’re drying fruit in the oven, or that you teach some sort of late-night aerobics class at the Chelsea Crunch.
Plus maybe you have loads of laundry to do.

Another long pause occurred, in which Jules succeeded in biting two of his nails to the quick.

I’m going to be up way past my bedtime because I’m not going to be able to stop thinking about a certain heart-stoppingly beautiful, gray-eyed and talented pastry chef I met recently
. And “hot date”? What are you, seventy-three?

Seventy-eight, thank you very much. But I follow a very careful grooming and exercise regimen to maintain my youthful glow.

Boyish good looks,
Teddy wrote.
That’s the cliché, anyway… But you really do have boyish good looks… in the classic sense… I’m sure you’ve been told hundreds of times.

After a brief pause, Teddy began typing again:
Aaaaand now I’m blushing furiously. Smooth, Flores, really smooth. You can’t see me, but I’m a tomato right now. Again, this would make more sense in person, wouldn’t it?

I feel like you’re hinting at something here,
Jules wrote.

I might be hinting at something. If I were hinting at something, what would I be hinting at?

At what would you be hinting, do you mean? (Oooh
, my grammar hackles.)

At what would I be hinting, then?
Teddy’s reply came quick as a parry.

You tell me, since you’re doing the hinting. However would I know at what you’re hinting?

It would be easier to tell you in person,
Teddy wrote.

Why, Mr. Flores, you cad! Are you suggesting that you would like to see me in person again?

I might be suggesting that I plan to drop by the bakery tomorrow morning very early before work. And I might be suggesting that it would be very gratifying to be permitted entrance to the kitchen, to see where all the magic happens. And that if you happened to be there in the kitchen, when I was permitted entrance, well, that might be very gratifying, too.

Jules waited too long to respond. He knew that he was taking too long, that the pause had moved well past flirtatious and deeply into weird, or creepy or cruel. His fingers, however, were stiff and shaking and refused to move. This, this conversation in space, was so lovely. They were both so easy without bodies, they
fit
so perfectly and simply and beautifully when they spoke together like this. Jules was clever and quick and bold; he was stone-strong and open and sure. But when they’d finally come face to face, he had been none of those things. He’d been young and shaky and stupid. When they’d finally come face to face, it had been so…
not
lovely. It had been awkward; it had been humiliating, and it had resulted in a days-long silence from Teddy.

For both of us, I mean,
Teddy wrote.
Gratifying for all parties concerned.

I don’t mean that in a dirty way. I’m only thinking of your well-being, you know,
he added.
Because I’m that kind of guy.

There was a long and empty moment, into which Jules couldn’t put his voice. He had no idea how to reply, how to tell Teddy that he was at once so terrified and so excited that his hands were shaking, and that it was a terrible idea; and that despite that, he could not bring himself to say no,
would not let himself say no this time,
no matter how terrible the idea might seem, because the mere thought of seeing Teddy again filled him with… something like joy.

Hello?
Teddy’s text broke into his thoughts.
Did I say something wrong? Because if I did, it was not my fault.
This other guy just stole my phone and started texting you things I would never, ever say to you. I was going to text a very suave, exactly appropriate response, until this other guy, who came out of nowhere, really did just steal my phone. And then he gave it back. This is me now. Are you still there?

Sorry. Multitasking,
Jules lied.
I would be happy to give you a tour of the kitchen. ‘Trice gets there at 8 a.m., so if you don’t want her hovering over your tour, you should come earlier than that. I’m not telling you what to do, exactly. Actually, I am begging you: Please come earlier than that, so that we don’t have to deal with ‘Trice. I will be calmer and happier before she arrives. She makes me into an emotional tornado.

It’s a date,
Teddy wrote.
And I actually read that wrong. I thought you wrote that you would be an emotional tomato. And I couldn’t figure out what that would look like.

Then stay until 8:15 and you’ll have a very good idea.

I will come whenever you tell me to, and I’ll stay as long as you let me. If you put a dog bed on the floor in the corner, I may curl up there and simply bask in the amazingness of you and your baking superpowers.

That sounded less cool than I meant it to sound,
Teddy added.
What I meant to say was: It’s a date.

You’re making me blush. I’m an emotional tomato now,
Jules wrote.
Oh! And you’ll need a hat or a scarf to cover your head. Kitchen rules. A demain?

If that means “it’s a date,” then absolutely.

Jules
did not sleep that night. He spent the hours curled up on the couch with Andy snoring against him, his fingers purling through the silky fur on Andy’s neck, scrolling back and forth through the message exchange with Teddy. He tried warm milk and it did no good. He flipped through several back issues of the black-and-white photography magazines he kept on his coffee table mostly for show and
read another chapter of the novel through which he was slogging. He sharpened his home knives and took inventory of his dry goods. He polished all his shoes and boots. He refolded his sweaters. He took a bath scented with rosemary and lavender oils and buffed his skin to a glow with the loofah. He did everything it was possible to do in his apartment in the middle of the night, but he did not sleep.

*

By six o’clock in the morning, it had become clear to Jules that the sun had no intention of rising or shining, warming or brightening or doing anything it might normally do. The morning seemed determined to stay gray and clankingly noisy with the rumble of delivery trucks. He had already set most of the day’s pastries to bake and had settled at his desk with a cup of coffee, the crossword puzzle and the relative quiet of the day, feeling warm and hidden and peaceful, when his phone chirped with a message.

I’m outside the bakery, but it looks like nobody is home. The gate is down.

Without thinking, Jules’s body moved, as if he were a magnet being pulled or a stone rolling swiftly downhill. He moved with that force, without will, tugging at the apron strings at his waist to tighten them—he felt held that way, comforted, controlled—and then flipping loose the lock on the front door. He
pulled the door open and rattled the gate upward. Teddy stood near the curb, with his charcoal gray suit jacket slung over a black wool vest, black trilby tipped back and dark hair shining and pressed in finger waves. He looked up at Jules, slipped his phone into his suit pocket, pushed the hat forward and smiled winningly.

“I didn’t know if you were in yet,” he said awkwardly. “The gate was down.”

Jules beckoned him into the bakery, stepping aside and holding the door as Teddy passed. He smelled, Jules thought, like juniper and gin, something old-fashioned like that, a clean smell, and simple. He brought the gate back down and locked the door.

“I keep it locked up until we open, or customers would be haranguing me for coffee at all hours. This city and its coffee fetish. They don’t even care if it’s good.” He rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed, as if Teddy would understand his frustration. As if he
didn’t
sound like a pretentious New York wannabe. He bit his lip. “Would you like some coffee?”