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“You’re a pediatric nurse,” Peyton grumbled, then he turned to his brother. “Andyoudrive an ambulance. Neither one of you are qualified to deal with my insides.”
Both of them shrugged and settled in a little closer, and though he had no plans to say it aloud, he appreciated the contact. There were times he felt a bit like a gross little bed goblin that no one would ever want to touch again. And although his brother and his married best friend weren’t the demographic he was shooting for, it was still nice.
“I’m down for Thai,” he finally said.
Taylor let out a small happy noise. “I’ll call that place with the delivery driver that loves you. Then we can feast.”
“And bake,” Peyton said, determined to get at least one batch of something done before the end of the night. He would be goddamnedif he didn’t get his shit together, and soon.
CHAPTER TWO
By nine that night,Peyton was alone. He was full to the brim with noodles and vegetables, freshly showered, bag change done, and standing in his newly rearranged kitchen. Linden had taken off first since working his three-day shift meant he’d be sleeping at the station. And eventually Taylor followed, after his wife had sent him several annoyed texts about the baby forgetting his face.
Peyton wallowed in guilt for that one. The last thing he wanted to do was take Taylor away from his family with the new baby only a few months old. Taylor insisted it was fine, but Peyton could see tension in his eyes he knew his friend was refusing to talk about.
He also knew he should probably press Taylor on the issue and get him to open up, but he was still in recovery, and he just didn’t have the energy to take on anyone else’s burden. He missed his old self. He missed being happy just for the sake of being happy. Even when he was at his sickest, he still felt alive.
And he knew he’d get back there. He just needed to reach out and reclaim what he loved most—and what he did best.
Which was baking.
Cracking his knuckles, Peyton began working on his cinnamon toast crunch muffin recipe. It had been a fan favorite, a Saturday and Sunday bake that always sold out before nine at the shop. He already had several dozen emails asking if he was going to add them to the website, so he figured it was a good place to start.
He’d taken several impossibly long months off baking, but he knew he hadn’t lost his touch. There was no way. He’d been baking since he was tall enough to see over the counter on a step stool. There were days he was sure butter and sugar and flour made up his body instead of bones, and muscle, and blood.
He remembered losing track of taking notes in school and coming to, only to find three brand new recipes scribbled out where his math formulas were supposed to be. The thought made him grin as he dragged his little stool over to the counter where his old, trusty stand-mixer was sitting and waiting for him.
It had been his grandma’s, passed to him when her arthritis had made it impossible for her to use it anymore.
It was a gift he treasured, considering he’d never been particularly close to either side of his family. His grandparents liked to use him to brag about what a wonderful, giving,selflesssoul his dad was.
“Did you hear, Maryanne,” he heard his grandmother saying on the phone once, “Chuck has adopted a littleAsianboy. Probably right off the streets of China. You know how it is there.”
He’d only been five at the time, but for some reason, he remembered those words like it was yesterday. He remembered the way she’d looked at him, like he was some knick-knack sitting on the shelf. Of course, his dad heard too, and had swept Peyton up into his arms and marched out of the room.
“Don’t listen to that old bat,” he’d murmured, holding Peyton tight.
He had no idea what was going on, but he remembered his dad’s reaction more than anything. He remembered the fear in his eyes, like somehow those words were going to infect him.
All they really did was create a stronger bond between Peyton and his dad. And they also didn’t go back to see that side of his grandparents for a long, long time and he was fine with that because their house always smelled like mothballs and lavender, and their food never had any salt in it.
He was seventeen, the day she’d given him the mixer. He remembered the way she smiled at him, with actual affection in her eyes which surprised him. “I’ve seen the way you look at it,” she said with a wink. “I’ve always known it was meant for you.”
He was freshly out of the closet and not sure how many other people knew he was a queer baker with no aspirations for a “real job”. If she did know in that moment, she didn’t seem to mind. She had Peyton’s grandpa dig a box out of the attic. It barely fit in the backseat of the little beater car his dad had given him as a graduation present. And the moment he hauled it through his front door, he felt…something.
Not quite healed, maybe, but close. Like maybe one of the cracks he always felt between him and his family had sealed up.
The first thing he baked in that mixer was a batch of Nutella and banana muffins that his grandpa loved. He delivered them two days later, sat down and had a cup of coffee with him, and felt like a real adult for the first time ever.
His grandpa died three months later, but he remembered that afternoon in detail.
It was strange, he thought as he added a brick of butter into the mixer, how some memories felt like they lived behind an opaque veil, and others felt like a movie replaying in his head. He couldn’t remember what he’d eaten for breakfast last Tuesday, but he could recall the grin on his grandpa’s face over that cup of coffee like it happened two minutes before.
Smiling to himself, Peyton worked his way through the recipe as the oven heated. He tapped his little batter scoop on the counter in a melodic ditty, humming to himself as he watched the paddle whip through the lightly browned muffin dough. The scent of sugar and cinnamon was powerful, coming from the little pot of toasted bread crumbs next to him.
When the batter was almost finished, he used his little flour-in-a-can spray on the muffin tin, then pushed his stool back to work the rest of the tasks on his feet.
His guts were sore—the small incisions on his stomach from the laparoscopy were healed but the scar tissue was strangely tender. He fought an urge to run his hand down his backside and once-again feel around his—as his nurse so elegantly called it—Barbie butt.
