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CHAPTER ONE
Peyton was doinghis best to convince himself that the sheer and vast amount of sweat pouring from his body was from the humidity and heat, and totally—not at all—from the fact that he was desperately out of shape and still currently unable to lift anything.
Though, to be fair, he’d had surgery and was still three weeks away from being medically cleared to do any sort of manual labor. His disease—the one that appeared out of nowhere and started ravaging his life—had laid him down and out for the last two years.
He was only just now starting to feel human since he’d gone under the knife, and to accomplish that feeling, the price had been the use of his asshole.
Literally.
Not exactly what a gay man wanted to hear from his doctor when he’d been rushed into the ER, but he supposed it was a worthy sacrifice if it meant being able to move around, and eat, and shit, and goddamnlivewithout excruciating pain. Now, everything collected neatly in a bag attached to his stomach, covered by an adorable little flower-patterned cloth one of the nurses had made and sold on Etsy.
He probably should mind that she was a GI nurse and making a sudden mint on stoma bag covers of all things, but his own business was thriving again so he couldn’t find it in him to complain. In fact, he wished her well and made sure to buy at least one a month to support her endeavor.
Unfortunately, the cute little bags didn’t make dealing with the rest of having a newly rerouted colon easier. Like how his colon could still get all blocked up and he still ended up in the ER from time to time to get it flushed. Or, even worse, the bags leaked alotmore than the doctor and his nurses had warned him. He was told there was a learning curve. He was told it just took time.
He was told to expect heavy grief with the adjustment period of his body changing permanently.
He wasnottold he’d wake up in the middle of the night like a newborn baby who had blown-out a diaper.
But it did. It was happening to him, and it was yet another reason he decided to write off the idea of dating because that was just…
Well, it wasgross.
And Peyton didn’t want to hunt down someone with a scat fetish just to feel loved. If that was the case, he’d rather die single and alone with maybe a cat or two. Or a fish, since a fish wouldn’t eat him when he expired.
It didn’t sound so bad, really. He was still young and attractive. Once he was cleared by his doctor, he could do what he always did and hit up the clubs for quick one-night stands and weekend flings. No strings, no last names, just fun.
Of course, that meant he’d have to figure out the fucking part because he had no intention of living like a monk. It was just more complicated now because Peyton had always been a very enthusiastic bottom and that wasn’t possible, like, ever again.
Logically, he knew there was more than just one way to get off, but he wasn’t sure how to feel sexy yet. Not with that bag hanging off his stomach and his ass all sewed up like a damn Ken doll. Not to mention he hadn’t been able to get hard since his surgery. He’d been too mortified to bring that up during his last exam, so he chalked it up to the stress of what his body had just gone through, and he’d panic in a few months if his dick still wouldn’t get on board.
For now, he’d set that aside, because he had a lot going on that had nothing to do with where strangers might want to stick their cocks.
His brick-and-mortar bakery had closed after his longest flare which kept him stuck in bed for weeks on end. He’d spent the weeks leading up to his surgery mourning the loss because he’d worked so hard on building his brand and becoming a fixture with the neighborhood locals.
Peyton had gone to culinary school, to the extreme disappointment of his parents, but it had paid off. He was a damn genius when it came to baking and if it wasn’t for his Crohn’s, he would have swept the city by storm.
But it all fell apart, and aside from his brother and his best friend comforting him daily and promising it would get better, he had nothing.
Then Taylor, his sometimes-helpful best friend, suggested that he start baking at home as part of his recovery. He insisted Peyton’s Instagram followers were missing him and they worried since he’d vanished off the face of social media. Peyton hadn’t really considered that nameless, faceless strangers would give a shit about him, but apparently, they did.
There were floods of comments on his old posts asking where he was and if he was okay, and the moment he started answering them, the damn account lit up like a firecracker.
So, he took Taylor’s advice. For his first return post, he baked a batch of oatmeal cream pies, and in the caption, he sort of…unloaded. He hadn’t really meant to, but the reality of losing everything he’d built and the exhaustion of his recovery had gotten to him.
TheBakerByTheSea: I never know what to say in these captions, as you can see from my old posts. I’m not really a talker. I’m a baker. This post was harder than most though, because everything has felt like an incredible loss. Three years ago, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease. At the time, my doctor promised that as long as I was careful with myself, I could manage it. But he was wrong—and that’s not on him. Sometimes doctors don’t have all the answers. A year ago, things took a turn for the worst. And seven months after that, I was told that my life was going to change. While the surgery would make me feel better, great loss came with it, including my bakery. Closing those doors for the last time was one of the hardest days of my life, and that hasn’t changed. I miss waking up early every day and standing in that kitchen for sunrise while I set out pastries for the day. I miss giving free cookies to little kids. I miss that look on people’s faces when they try stuff like these oatmeal cream pies because not to toot my own horn, but they’re amazing. More than that, I miss what baking was to me. But I’m working on loving it again, and the fact that you’re all still looking at this account means something. So thank you. I don’t know what my future will look like, but I feel like this might be the start to getting back one of the things I loved most and thought I had lost.
The likes started pouring in, and the comments. Then the DMs from people asking if he was willing to ship baked goods, which wasn’t something he’d considered at the time. It was a simple yes, but that yes turned into a literal forest-fire which spread across the online baking community and suddenly he was flooded with requests from across the country for delivery.
He and Taylor—when he could take time from his diaper duties—sat down together, and Peyton realized, after making a rather detailed graph, he actually could make an at-home bakery work.
He could get certified, bake from his own kitchen, and ship things. It would save him on the rent of brick and mortar, and his equipment fit in his dining room.
Mostly.
Kind of.
So long as he did some rearranging and traded in his nice kitchen table that his mom bought him as a housewarming gift. But it was a worthy gift to the baking gods if it meant that he could have this back.
