Page 51 of When Lemons Give You Life

“Is everything okay in there?” It’s a rhetorical question—my nose already knows it’s not.

Bitter smoke wafts into the bathroom. The smoke alarm springs to life as the haze reaches the ceiling. I wave it away to see Frank, his oven-mittened hands holding something black in front of him. My mouth goes dry.

Oh. My. God. It’s the garbage bag! And Frank is looking right into it, like it’s a portal to my soul. I might as well be naked. My legs spring to life, and I grab the half-melted plastic from his hands, ignoring how hot it is.

He stands there like a stunned mullet. “I’m, ah . . . so sorry. I turned on the oven to heat up the apple crumble I brought. Didn’t realize there was something in there!”

A fork and a pair of old beige high-waisted undies from Kmart choose that precise moment to fall from the melted hole at the bottom of the bag with the last of my dignity.

He stares at them. I’m not sure what’s wider, his eyes or the big rips in their elastic waistband.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. And for a split second, I hope that the pink wee is the sign of a terrible disease that could take me in an instant. Preferably this instant.

He’s going to leave for sure, says Ursula.

But instead, he turns off the smoke alarm (no stepladder needed), picks up the fallen items, and smiles. “Hmmm. I bet there’s an entertaining story here.” The twinkle trapped in his eyes soon turns into a glorious laugh. It’s like an eraser, rubbing out all of my embarrassment. He opens a window, and my horror dissipates with the smoke. “Why don’t we have dessert now, and you can tell me? Perhaps I’ll heat it in the microwave—unless it’s . . . otherwise occupied?” he asks with a wink.

“Yep, all good. I already nuked the bag with my socks and hairbrush yesterday!” I wink back and open the door, relieved to find there isn’t so much as a cold cup of coffee in there.

He grins, and I flush with fresh heat but not the embarrassed kind this time.

His apple crumble doesn’t disappoint; the cinnamon even helps mask some of the burnt-plastic smell.

“So, the oven bag . . . what’s the story?” He scrapes the last bit of cream from his plate.

I fiddle with my serviette, searching my mind for a sane excuse for why anyone would have a garbage bag full of crap in their oven. Ursula tells me to lie. But you know what? I’m exhausted, and I’ve run out of excuses, so I tell her where to stick it.

“The short version is, I have ADHD,” I say, picking a stray crumb from my lip.

He pauses.

“I know what you’re thinking—that it’s just for hyperactive boys . . . ?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I was only thinking how much courage it took to tell me.” That throws me. “Tell me more about what it means.”

I give him the quick rundown of my neuro-sparkly brain and how it affects my life. My ability to hyperfocus, my impulsivity, my sensitivity to rejection, my chaos. “I’ve had people walk away,” I admit. “Or say it’s an excuse. That I’m lazy.”

“Well,” he says gently, “they must’ve been absolute bumfaces.”

I snort.

“Everyone’s got their own mess,” he adds. “It’s just shaped differently. The trick is finding someone who doesn’t mind sweeping up beside you.”

“So, what’s your mess?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

He leans back, thoughtful. “I’ve always been better with older people, never really clicked with my own age group.”

“Why’s that?”

He shrugs. “I was the youngest of three and the tall kid who hated basketball and beer—not a winning combo in high school. Most people assumed I was boring or stuck-up. I just didn’t know how to join in.” He gives a small self-deprecating laugh and looks down, tracing a line on the table with his finger.

“And now?”

“Now I play to octogenarians, and I’m in heaven!”

I laugh. “Sounds like you found your tribe.”

“I totally have! God, I love it there. Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong decade.” He stares wistfully out the window then looks back at me. “So I have to ask . . . what was in the bag?”