“Right,” Liam says skeptically.
Just having a crisis of faith and questioning everything I thought I knew about everything, ah yes, the Socratic Stirring Method.
Missed the opportunity to make an obscure philosophical joke, to be honest.
My hot water bottle slips, and he tightens the strings, letting his hand rest on the small of my back. Sunkissed shivers shoot from his fingertips up my spine. “Am I too close? I can step back.”
The words tickle the hairs on the nape of my neck. I’m never going to get any of this under control.
Doomed. I am doomed.
“Oh, no, you’re fine.” I manage a calm, even tone as his warmth envelops my back, inviting me to lean and use his body for support for a moment. I give in, burrowing myself in the familiar scent that has become more of a comfort than my wildest dreams could have imagined. Whisking the yolks for the bavarois in a separate bowl, his hand lightly strokes the top of my arm, fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake.
If I’m not careful, I could get used to baking like this.
Butterflies fill my lower abdomen, mixing with the pokes and prods, slowly creeping in a band across the area.
I’ll worry about those later.
Images of Liam and I baking and kissing in technicolor take center stage.
The timer for the sponge blinks me back to reality. Sensing my growing hope, a sharp tendril seizes everything inside and bends me in half.
A tiny whimper I try to bite back escapes my lips.
“What do you need?”
“I’m fine,” I manage through another spasm.
He sighs, grabbing my elbow and turning me. “Peaches, come on, we don’t have to do this now.”
I wince at the exasperation in his voice. I get it. I’m not exactly pleased with my situation either. But this is why I don’t start new relationships anymore, platonic or romantic, and why my social circle is minuscule and embarrassingly lacks anyone I didn’t meet in my dorm room my first year here. Endo is exhausting. But it’s a part of my reality. We’re a package deal.
And as far as modern medicine is concerned, it always will be in some capacity, or at least until they’ve solved every minute cis male ailment first.
Here’s looking at you, pill for bent penis. Didn’t see you there past the rapid tears collecting because of hormones.
“Evie.” This time Liam’s voice meets me in a softer register. “Please sit and rest.”
“No, I can do this—” I wipe at my tears.
“I’m not doubting—”
“I need to get the sponge out of the oven.”
“I’ve got it, Peaches. Please, for me.”
“We should make the buttercream while the sponge settles.” I sniffle, dancing around Liam and getting two sticks of room-softened butter into the stainless-steel mixer bowl.
The butter needs a good five minutes on low to grow soft and fluffy, so I busy myself finding the powdered sugar and ignoring the fact that I randomly started crying about—what I don’t even know. Bent penis, maybe?
Well, no use crying over bent penis, I always say. Carry on then.
Liam regards me like I’m the porcelain doll everyone in my family treated me like, and it stings my pride. The hurt must be washed all over my face because he furrows his brow, rubbing the back of his head. “Look, Peaches.”
“Want to add the sugar?” I nervously laugh, shoving the canister into his hand. I can’t handle Liam feeling sorry for me. Because that means recognizing that I have something that some people pity, and I don’t open that door. We don’t think about that. We muscle through. Conceal.
Sighing, he nods while his lips remain curled in a defeated frown.
