CHAPTER 5
A/N: This chapter's a little bit of a shift in the story, and character developments. Also, there are lyrics near the middle, so if you are the person who hates reading song lyrics in stories ( I understand), then feel free to skip over it. I put linebreaks to label (see how nice I am!). But still, I'd recommend reading them, because they're sweet lyrics, and kind of give you a better view on what's going on here. And you should also listen to the song, because the artist has great music, and you might know them anyway.
The end gets pretty poetic, lemme warn you! Hopefully it's a good shift for our stressed little Kev-Kev here.
Personal notes!
To il: Thanks for the kind, informative review! I'm glad that the plot has been suspenseful so far, and that you are enjoying the story. And I like to add cute parts, so there could be some more later. Who knows? And I'm afraid it'll be a couple more thousand words until you find out what really happens next...!
To Soapy Tucker: I'm glad that you are also enjoying this! And I think you will find Clyde also being very cute in this chapter~~
The evening spent with Clyde was not nearly as disastrous as I had expected.
All in all, it actually went okay.
For a while, we just studied normally, using different websites to research. When it was a little after six, I went to the bathroom, and when I came back, he had a bunch of quiz websites opened up, and was doing one after the other. He would've probably went on . . . other sites, but he knew that I would kick his ass if he ever got into that stuff on my computer.
"Oh, looks like my starter Pokemon would be Bulbasaur," he said at the precise moment when I came back into my room. He spun around in my chair and looked at me. "You try!"
"Clyde, we're doing work," I told him, walking over to my screen. I looked at all the tabs he had opened up. "Did you close our research tab?"
"No, it's right here, you silly," he said, positioning the lightsaber cursor over one of the tabs.
"Oh, good, so let's-" I began. He barely twitched his finger, and then the tab disappeared. "Gah, Clyde!"
"Oops, my finger slipped," he said obtrusively with a trollish grin. "Now you'll be forced to take-" he started to add, but was cut off as I put my hand in his face and shoved him out of my chair.
"Oh my god Clyde you're a total fuckass," I sighed, as he slowly got up.
"Sheesh, all this studying was just getting boring, that's all," he replied, his tone distraught. He stood up, rubbing his butt. "Ow."
I sighed as I tried to find the same website we were on. There was a moment of awkward silence as Clyde stood next to me, watching what I did on my computer. I could see in the screen's reflection that he was shifting his gaze from my hands at the keyboard, the screen, and my vexed expression.
Without warning, he swiftly leaned in and pressed the power button on my monitor. At first I flinched, but then regained my calm when I remembered that it only shut off the monitor. I gritted my teeth, and reached out to press it again, but he slapped my hand away. I quickly spun my head and glared at him.
He stood there with his hands stiffly at his side, blinking nonchalantly.
I sighed and rolled my head back towards the screen, and reached for the button again. I pressed it, and the monitor lit up again, but then he turned it off again faster than I could blink.
"Would you stop it?" I barked angrily.
He blinked. "I want to bake."
I stared at him. "You want to bake?"
He hesitated before answering. "I think we should. You and me. We should bake something."
I smirked. "Do you want to bake something that has to do with medieval Europe?"
He glanced sideways for a moment, then back at me. "Did they have chocolate-chip pancakes in medieval Europe?"
I shook my head. "No Clyde. They did not."
"Then no."
I peered at him. "Do you know how to make pancakes?"
He stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned forward and back, with his eyes looking up in thought. "Mmm, no," he said after a moment's pause. "But I'm sure we can figure it out."
He spun me around in my chair and grabbed my wrists, and tugged on them. "Up up up, get up, Kevin!" he prompted.
After a moment's consideration, I stood up. I mean, what harm could it do? Just a break from all this researching. And, I didn't say it to him, but baking pancakes actually sounded like a lot of fun.
"Fine, we can try it," I said, surrendering to his pleading.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, jerking me up so that I was standing shakily and vulnerably on my feet. He went behind me and put his palms on my back and propelled my forward. "This is gonna be sweet!"
We tripped a few times going down the stairs, partly because I would go slow and make him push harder, and then take the pressure off, and he would fall forward. It was funny. Too bad my stairs weren't any longer.
In the kitchen, his hands dropped, we stopped laughing and I turned around. We looked at each other.
I cocked my head. " . . . Do you know what ingredients we need?"
"No idea."
I put my hands on my waist, and then blew out full cheeks of air. "Welp. Let's get started then!"
We strode over to the pantry and looked inside for various ingredients that we might need. I grabbed a container full of flour. He grabbed the sugar and the chocolate chips. We placed them on the counter, and then went to the fridge.
We stared at the chilled contents for a moment.
"What should we use?" he asked.
"I'm pretty sure we need milk," I said slowly, still thinking. "And eggs." I reached into the fridge and grabbed the jug of milk, and swiped a couple eggs from the carton.
"Do we need anything else?" Clyde asked, still standing at the fridge.
"Uh, I dunno; do we?" I called back, placing the things gently on the counter with the rest of our gathered ingredients.
He shrugged. "I guess not," he said simply. He grabbed the fridge handle. Right before he shut it, he exclaimed, "Oh, the butter! Can't forget the butter!" He quickly turned around and grabbed a full box of butter from its spot next to the eggs.
When he came to place them on the counter, I told him, "Get the measuring stuff from that drawer," I pointed to the drawer in question. "I'll get spoons."
I searched a few drawers before finding the baking spoons, and I heard him messing around with the measuring utensils.
As I stood there, a strange and sudden thought struck me: what am I doing?
I pushed it away immediately. This was fun.
I grabbed three large spoons-one for me, him, and dropping the batter into the pan-and closed the drawer, and then again placed them on the counter. He noisily put the metal measuring cups right next to them, and we stood back, admiring our progress so far.
"Now," I began, looking everything over. "Now we need to find how much we use."
There was a pause, and briefly, no one spoke.
Then, probably in a burst of inspiration, Clyde clapped his hands and announced, "To the mixer!"
We idiotically sauntered over to the Cuisinart mixer and plugged it in, and spent a few empty-headed minutes trying to figure out how it works. I think if we were concentrating and taking things seriously, then we would've figured it out in under a minute. But we weren't.
Clyde and I had to move all the ingredients so that they were closer to the mixer, so that's what we did next. We opened up the flour, and I scooped up a cup of it and held it over the metal mixer bowl.
"How much do you think we should put?" I asked him.
He shrugged. "Two cups, maybe?"
I peered into the bowl. "That seems like a lot."
He grinned. "Well, we want a lot of pancakes, don't we?"
I grinned too, and dumped the cup of flour into the bowl, and then another. He cracked the eggs and they fell in, and I dumped a generous amount of sugar. He began to unwrap the butter, and I dumped a half-cup of milk into the mix. When I was done, he dropped one stick, two sticks, three sticks of butter into the mix.
He was about to add the fourth when I interrupted, "Isn't that a lot of butter?"
He dropped the last stick in and charismatically licked his lips. "I like butter."
So, with all the needed ingredients in the bowl, I switched it on to level one.
We watched the ingredients slowly churning, and Clyde said, "That's too slow. It's not mixing."
I brought it to level two, but it still wouldn't mix.
"It's that butter, man," I told him. "We need to melt it, I think. Or soften it."
"Okay, let's stop it then," Clyde said. I put the mixer to a stop, and got a bowl from a cupboard. Clyde delicately picked the butter sticks from the mix, and placed them, coated with flour and all, into the bowl. We moved them to the microwave, and Clyde punched in one minute.
"That'll burn it or something," I warned before he hit START.
"You can't burn stuff in microwaves," he retorted.
"Yes you can."
"Well, not butter."
Thirty seconds in, the microwave was starting to crackle, and the kitchen was filled with the warming scent of butter.
"Heh, I think it's past melted," Clyde commented. I quickly hit stop, and buttery steam wafted above our heads when I opened the microwave. I tried to grab the dish, but it burned my fingertips instead.
"Ow, damn," I hissed, pulling my fingers away. I grabbed an oven mitt from above the stove and proceeded to handle the butter with that.
Clyde was right. The bowl was filled with liquefied butter. I poured it into the mix anyway.
Clyde waited for me to put the bowl and oven mitt down and stand next to him in front of the mixer, with his hand on the lever. On my nod, he turned it on, but he pushed it too far, and small globs of it went flying.
I shut my eyes instinctively and flinched away, and Clyde shut it off. He was laughing, which made me laugh too, and I opened my eyes.
"Oh god, I'm sorry!" he said, laughing.
"It's fine," I reassured him, also laughing. I cautiously peered over the rim of the bowl, and saw that the contents had already been mixed pretty well from the outburst.
Clyde quickly but gently swiped his thumb across my cheek, and I glanced up in surprise.
"You had some batter," he explained sheepishly. He quickly licked it off his thumb.
"Oh." I didn't say anything else. I just turned the mixer on to level three.
We both watched it mix, neither of us saying a word. I think we both started to lose ourselves in our thoughts, because my eyes went blank, and I don't think Clyde was really keeping an eye on the mix, either.
Ohhh, boy was there a lot on my mind. It's not like I've been hunkering down on all my thoughts all day, but I know they're there. In fact, it's probably the exact opposite of that. I know they're there, and I'm really trying to avoid going over them.
I'm the kind of person that likes to start with the small, avertable things. So, um, where should I start . . .
Welp. Nothing going on right now is small and avertable, to my displeasure.
So then, I guess we can start on what's bugging me the least.
Oh, wait. That won't work, either. Everything's bugging me equally.
So let's start with what's currently on my mind. Right this very moment.
It might be hard to guess. I'll give you a hint: it starts with a C.
God, everything about him. The way he carries on conversation, the way you know when he's studying you from the corner of his eye, the way his laugh is so contagious. The way he's so willing to let you into his life. The way he annoys the living shits out of me. Just everything about him and how he turns my days upside down.
And don't get the wrong riff-I never said any of this was a bad thing. I'm not complaining here. Just reflecting.
I probably would've been complaining, maybe a week ago. But spending more time with him has made me realize how much I'm forgetting to do in my life. I'm even glad that he gets me angry, because I've been forgetting to do that, too. I don't care if he makes me mad anymore. All I care about is that he makes me feel. I haven't been doing that lately. He makes me feel peaceful, like the sunrise. He makes me aware, makes me remember. He's why I started using those sticky notes, despite what they might say about him. He's building bridges from me to society.
But that's another thing entirely. Heidi, for instance. He kind of structured the bridge that now links us. And I know something's up, I know it, and I know there's no way around it. Something is up. And I know Clyde and Bebe are involved, and I can only hope that nothing wrong is happening.
"I think that's done," he said heartily, snapping me out of my trance. I blinked multiple times as he reached to turn the mixer off and lift the bowl out of its place. I followed him rather numbly as he moved the mix to the stove to start cooking.
I blankly handed him his spoon and the larger one, and he whipped the batter a little more before lifting the pan off the hook above the stove and placing it on the smaller heating surface. He was half-smiling, and I heard him humming a tune to something. The song sounded rather slow and hearty, contrary to one of those stupid radio songs he's usually humming.
I could only wonder about what he was thinking. Was he thinking thoughts similar to mine? About how I'm changing his life? . . . Probably not. I'm not even sure if I AM changing his life or not. And if I am, I don't think he's taken the time to notice it.
That's a shame, really.
"What do I turn it to?" he asked. I blinked and tried to focus on the cooking. He was patiently waiting for my suggestion, his fingers on the dial.
"Uhm, I dunno, try medium," I told him.
"Okay," he replied, turning the knob so that it pointed at medium. He started humming that nice song again.
As his hand hovered above the pan, feeling for heat, I tried to think without spacing out. He looked oddly cheerful, his head cocked to the side, slightly grinning, tapping his right foot along to the tune of whatever song he was humming. Do I ever look like that? Seemingly happy for no reason? I doubt it . . . I'm probably always looking the opposite. Seemingly angry for no reason.
Maybe he realized that he has a mission? To make Kevin be part of the world again? Or something bigger? Or something he wants to do for himself, to be a good person or something. Maybe he's just trying to get on my good side so I can give him more homework and stuff. If that's it, it's already working. He got me to be his partner on this, and we're not even working!
I'm over analyzing him.
He's not plotting to ruin my academic life, is he? I must be goin insane.
He's not doing anything wrong. He's just being Clyde.
And to think I thought he was scheming. Ludicrous ideas.
"D'you want me to pour some batter in now?" he asked. I realized that I had spaced out little this time, but only a little. I was aware enought to immediately realize when he started to speak to me.
I almost said yes, but then I glanced at the mix. Smooth and creamy. "No, wait," I told him. I turned around and went to the counter and grabbed the bag of chocolate chips. "We can't forget these!"
I tore the bag open and poured half of it into the batter, and then mixed it some more with my own spoon. When the chips were evenly distributed, I grinned.
"Okay, you should do it now."
"Alright, let's hope they come out good," he said readily, dipping the deep spoon into the mix and pouring two spoonfuls into the pan.
We watched for about a minute, and it began to sizzle and bubble, and the chocolate had softened and became a little melty. But the pancake had not risen yet.
"Why's it still flat?" Clyde asked, reading my mind.
"Maybe it just hasn't cooked long enough," I suggested, although doubtfully. He frowned a little at our flat pancake, but then picked up that melody and began humming again.
"I think it's going to burn if we leave it in there much longer," I said, opening a drawer to my right and pulling out a spatula. I handed it to him, and he handed me his two spoons, which I laid on the counter next to the mixing bowl.
He shrugged, taking my word for it, even though the batter had not risen. I went to retrieve a plate from the cupboard, and he slid the spatula under the flat pancake and then dropped it onto the plate. He stopped humming.
The thing looked more like a chocolate chip crepe. It was flat and pretty thin, and the chips had melted into liquid, just like the rest of the batter.
"What . . . what happened?" he asked as we stared, dumbfounded, at our sad attempt at a pancake.
"We forgot something," I said, trying to figure out what it could be. I had never really made pancakes without the help of my mom before, and I couldn't identify what had gone wrong.
"Well, the real test is taste," he said optimistically, ripping off a hunk of the crepe. With a wish-me-luck kind of look, he popped it into his mouth and chewed. He furrowed his brow thoughtfully as he tasted it, and finally swallowed. "It's good," he said.
"It is?" I asked, utterly surprised. But, who knows; our two definitions of good could be worlds apart.
He nodded. "Yeah, it's really flat, but it still tastes like a good pancake." He tore off another piece, and I thought he was going to eat more, but then he held it up to me. "Try it!"
Since I was using both hands to hold the plate, he neatly rolled up the piece and popped it into my mouth. And he was right: it was good.
"Myeah, that's yummy," I said happily.
He smiled. "Yummy enough to make more!"
We quickly got to work, whipping out more crepe-things, as I had gotten my own pan and we could make them twice as fast. The whole time we were cooking, he was humming that song. The tune sounded so farmiliar, yet I knew I had never heard it before.
When the batter was all gone, it was almost six-thirty, and we had a stack of flat pancakes that sat about half a foot tall. I brought them, along with two napkins, to the small table in the corner of the kitchen, under the window. It was already quite dark outside, but I could see the thick snowflakes softly falling outside.
As we sat down to eat, he stopped humming to grab a flat pancake-a flatcake-and roll it up like a tortilla. He took a bite and munched hungrily, while I studied mine for a second. I was trying to analyze what ingredient we had left out.
"You know what it was?" I asked rhetorically. "I bet it was baking powder."
"Baking powder?" Clyde repeated, puzzled.
I nodded. "Yeah. I'm no cook, but I'm pretty sure that's what fluffs 'em up. Baking powder."
He nodded thoughtfully, as if it was the most interesting thing he'd ever heard. "We need to remember that next time, then."
I nodded shallowly in agreement. My attention had been drawn to the window, where I was watching the snow fall gently outside. It made me wonder if the roads we be clear enough to go shopping with Heidi tomorrow. It would be different if I had some 4-wheel drive like Clyde, but my little Buick can't handle slick roads. I don't even want to go shopping tomorrow. Whatever. I guess I do need something decent to wear anyhow.
I heard him pick up that tune yet again. I turned to him.
"What song is that?" I finally asked, seeing that nothing else was going to be said.
He swallowed. "Ha, I assumed that you knew the song because you never asked," he said, grinning. "It's um, by this band called Foster the People. It's called I Would Do Anything For You."
"Oh, no. I've never heard it." I answered sincerely. I took a bite from my flatcake. It sounded like a nice song, but one of those corny romance songs at the same time. If Clyde was humming it, it was probably the latter.
"Here, you wanna listen to it?" he asked, reaching under the table and into his pocket. He pulled out his iPod a second later and unwound the earbuds and offered one to me.
I took one. I was curious to hear the song he had been humming the whole time we had been cooking. When the song started playing, he looked down at his flatcake and started tapping his fingers to the words.
Never wanna stand up for myself
Never wanna get in the way, I said it
I don't know what the plan it,
But you can share with me,
'Cause I'll be listening here,
To everything you say, I won't turn away
And I will listen, open up my heart and
I must say that I love you, so
Ooh la love, I've fallen in love, and it's better this time
Than ever before
Ooh la love, I've fallen in love, and it's better this time
Than I've ever known
Every day is a battle I face
Strange life I live but it's what you've decided
I'll give it all into your hands
Do what you will
With me, and oh
I'll smile when you speak
Remember all those times I was hoping for something
And shaking my head
From all I have done
But you never left me
Ooh la love, I've fallen in love, and it's better this time
Than ever before
Ooh la love, I've fallen in love, and it's better this time
Than I've ever known
Ooh la love, I've fallen in love, and it's better this time
Than ever before
Ooh la love, I've fallen in love, and it's better this time
Than I've ever known
Give it up for you,
I would give it up for you
I would give it up for you,
I would do anything for you
Ooh la love, I've fallen in love, and it's better this time
Than ever before
Ooh la love, I've fallen in love, and it's better this time
Than I've ever known
Ooh la love, I've fallen in love, and it's better this time
Than ever before
Ooh la love, I've fallen in love, and it's better this time
Than I've ever known
I've fallen
In love
I've fallen
In love
I've fallen
In love
As the song faded to an end, I took out the earbud and handed it back to him.
"Good song, right?" he asked, taking out his own earbud and wrapping them around his iPod. He looked a little embarassed, although I haven't a clue as to why.
I nodded. It was. I'm usually picky with songs with titles like that, and songs that say the word love more than three times. But it was good. The lyrics were really different and specific, for a love song, I mean. And I was surprised that Clyde knew and liked it.
"Yeah, I really like it right now." he told me. A shy grin that he couldn't hide spread across his face. "It kinda describes how I feel with . . ." he began to add, then trailing off. His grin faded as he looked away. It sounded like he started to say something, but then held back. He turned a light shade of pink. ". . . with Bebe."
I tried not to roll my eyes or let out a disrespectful snort. Of course he would say that. It's always about Bebe with him, isn't it? Does he know that she probably doesn't even like him? That she'll most likely dump him on Monday, when we get back to school? What he needs is someone who'll appreciate him forever, no matter what he does. Someone who genuinely cares about his feelings, and can pick him up when he's down. Someone he can always have a good time with, someone who isn't fake, someone who, someone who . . .
Someone who doesn't know what he's going on about.
I bit my lip, and flicked a flatcake crumb off the edge of the table. "That's nice," trying not to sound bitter. I think he heard it in my tone nonetheless, because his eyes flickered up and he glanced at me. But there wasn't anger in his eyes, or anything hateful, for that matter. I saw something more like hope and recognition reflecting in his hazel eyes. What was he thinking . . ?
"You like Heidi, right?" he asked with that same look in his eyes.
Whoa. This conversation might not end well, Kevin. I could feel it; my Stoley-senses were tingling.
" . . . Yeah?" I replied cautiously.
There was a nervous pause.
"Do you . . . love her?"
I stared at him, puzzled. Why was he asking these things? What was it to him? Why is he so interested in me and Heidi?
"Not . . . not like you love Bebe," I said. I was actually trying to get him to talk about Bebe. I was desperate to get off this topic.
Instead of smiling and going off about Bebe, he looked away, the hopeful gleam gone from his eyes, replaced with a sad and lost haze.
"Not like me and Bebe, huh." he said quietly. His eyes drifted up to the window, and he absentmindedly took another flatcake off the stack. I did the same.
We were both silent after that. I guess he had nothing else to say, and even though I did, I didn't want to bring it up.
The snow had stopped falling outside. Clyde didn't start humming again, and we sat there in silence, eating flatcake after flatcake, until they were about halfway gone.
It stayed totally silent, except for the clock ticking in the family room above the fireplace. Finally Clyde's phone vibrated, breaking the odd silence.
"My mom says I have to start heading home," he said without expression. He pulled his eyes away from his phone and looked at me, and started to get up.
"Uh, do you want me to walk you or something?" I offered awkwardly.
"No, it's just a few blocks down, and you should probably wrap up the research that I made you quit." he told me, walking out of the kitchen. I stood up and followed him. "Thanks anyway."
"Whatever you say," I told him lightly, trying to air out the thickness of the conversation a little. It didn't really work. True, he didn't sound like he was mad about anything, only oddly put down, it seemed.
He grabbed his heavier coat off of its rack and pushed his arms through the sleeves. He smiled kindly but weakly at me as he slipped on his shoes and put his hand on the doorknob. "See you tomorrow, Kev," he said, opening the door and letting the cold air come in.
"See ya." I saw him give a brisk wave of his hand as he stepped out, and I managed to shoot him a quick wave myself before he was out the door and walking down the sidewalk. I went into the kitchen to check on him from the window to make sure he didn't slip or something stupid like that, but it was too dark to see anything. Instead, I went over to the cupboard and rummaged through my mom's cooking magazines, until I found one with a title-I think it was French-that I couldn't bring myself to say out loud and pulled it out. I tossed it onto the table, leaving it to reveal a random page. I closed the cupboard and made my way to the magazine and began to read the text.
I've always wanted to try it. Just the idea of it seems so cool. And I think I'd feel pretty sophisticated if I did manage to get it done.
Making creme brûlée, I mean.
I think creme brulee is so insanely delicious and out of this world. I really wish I could make it, or at least knew someone who could.
The skill it takes to make one little serving of creme brulee is probably more than you think. Everything must be precise. The consistency of the mix, the flavor, and especially the way it is burnt. I'd ruin creme brulee if someone handed me the cooking torch that caramelizes the sweet stuff. I'd love to be able to do it professionally, to create that golden-brown, glossy, sugary coating that crackles like a puddle frozen over with a thin layer of ice. But I think I'd do it way wrong.
I don't know what you're thinking right now. You're probably judging me inside your head. Thinking things like, why does Kevin want to make creme brulee? Or, isn't baking for girls?
Whatever you may be thinking, I just want to ask you this: have you ever tried creme brulee?
I swear, it is the most amazing dessert food you will ever eat. It is insanely good stuff, and anyone who is talented enough to make it right has been given a gift from god.
And, I'm not a food critic or anything fancy-smancy like that, so I don't ever think of food in philosophical ways. Creme brulee is an exception, however. Whenever I think hard about creme brulee . . . I can actually really get into it. It's a strange thing, I know, but it all really makes sense. And I know this is going to sound totally corny and stuff, but just hear me out. I usually compare creme brulee to my life. My life is like . . . creme brulee.
Here, let me explain.
First off, there are the ingredients. Everything is needed to make the cream, and everything must be mixed right to get the perfect consistency. And you absolutely must have the right measurements of each ingredient as well. Kind of like your life, too, probably. All the little things that have been introduced to you in your life have led up to where you are now. No matter how terrible your life may be, those are your ingredients, and they have made the perfect consistency. And no, I'm definitely not saying that if your life sucks, that's how it's gonna be, and you can't do shit about it. No. I'm not done explaining yet.
All the ingredients of your life make your life what it is. The perfect consistency.
And here's where it gets really poetic. You know the perfect glazed layer that makes creme brulee, well, creme brulee? That's what changes in your life. When things get better, great, or perfect.
Nobody is born with a perfect life. We all have to live a little before we can be blessed with that wonderful coating. And, depending on your consistency, your glaze can come sooner, or later. If your life isn't so great, maybe you glaze later. Maybe you live in a bad neighborhood, or you don't have much money, or there's bad family situations . . . whatever it is, you'll get your glaze in time. You'll know when it comes. It will be a great, wonderful day, when you notice this change.
You'll have your glaze. But the best part . . . the best part is when you finally crack that glaze with your spoon and come to all the goodness inside. That day when you're at your happiest, and you know there will never be a day like it, ever again. You know you'll be different from that day on.
I'm nowhere near cracking that delicious golden coating yet . . . I doubt that my creme brulee is even coated yet. My life is starting to change for the better, I think. Heidi's my friend, and me and Clyde have gotten a little close.
I looked up from the book and stared out the window, looking at nothing but darkness. My only thought was if Clyde had made it home okay. I'm sure he did, but with that kid . . . well, you never know. Today had been fun. He's starting to become less irritating. Either that, or I'm just starting to accept him. The reason for me being always stingy around him is probably my own fault, not his. Clyde's an okay guy. And I realize that . . .
I had actually been sad to see him go.
My mind lingered on that thought for a few seconds longer, and then I shut the cookbook in front of me. My perfect dessert is far from complete. And I don't know when it will be. I just hope it's not too long from now.