On Wednesday's, We Kill

by Abaddon Ridle Jester

"But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve. For daws to peck at: I am not what I am." - Iago from William Shakespeare's play, "Othello." A self-loathing, narcissistic loser meets his match with a stuck-up, unlikeable goth.

2. Woe Baked in Every Bite

"Guess I was angry that my dad got humiliated on Outreach Day. Wanted payback. But then after we did it, I kind of felt like crap. I realized I needed to wipe the board, you know? Start over. If that makes any sense."
— Lucas Waker

"At first, I'd wake up naked. Covered in blood. No idea what happened. But over time, I started to remember. Everything. The sound of their screams. The panic in their eyes. A fear so primal I could taste it. And it was delicious."
— Tyler Galpin

"It's so much worse (and more pleasurable) taking the life of someone who has hit his or her prime, who has beginnings of a full history, a spouse, a network of friends, a career, whose death will upset far more people whose capacity for grief is limitless than a child's would, perhaps ruining many more lives than just the meaningless, puny death of this boy."
— Patrick Bateman

"... That's kinda scary."
— Lucas Walker

---

"You can't believe it, you can't conceive it..."

Do you like Michael Jackson's last studio album, Invincible? I personally enjoyed it. I found his early works to be a bit too indulgent for my taste, although I am able to recognize their undeniable impact. Thriller and Bad are undeniably iconic, highly revered by the music industry, and practically untouchable—no one can or is denying that. At least, no one with half a functioning brain would argue otherwise.

"And you can't touch me, 'cause I'm untouchable (you can't touch me)..."

They are commercially groundbreaking, with Thriller selling a million copies in its first week, more so after the "Thriller" music video was released, solidifying its place in history as the best-selling album of all time. And Bad? Bad—that album sold over 2 million copies in its debut week, and later went on to be one of the best-selling albums ever, it was, of course, to be expected, after all, it was bound to be a success due to audience anticipation, with it being primed to be the successor to Thriller.

"And I know you hate it, and you can't take it (yeah)..."

Yet, despite being a commercial success, Bad is viewed as constantly living in Thriller's shadow. Some critics even dismiss it unfairly because it falls short of inflated and near-unattainable expectations set by its predecessor, which many consider to be Jackson's magnum opus. It's as if they wanted Jackson to compete with himself.

"You'll never break me..."

What they fail to even realize is that Bad surpassed Thriller in certain aspects, such as having more number-one hits (five in total, if I recall correctly) compared to Thriller which only had two, those being "Bille Jean" and "Beat It". Yet, despite that, people continue to overlook Bad's accomplishments, brushing them aside in favor of comparing it to the juggernaut that was Thriller.

"You can't let it break, 'cause I'm unbreakable..."

Bad, especially, has suffered undeserved criticism over the years, especially when compared to Thriller. Sure, Bad may have sold 30 million copies less compared to Thriller, but so what? It doesn't diminish the greatness of the latter's. That's like sneering at Michelangelo because he couldn't top his paintings on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It's like criticizing Da Vinci for not painting another Mona Lisa. Some people simply can not separate Bad from the utter monster that is Thriller's overwhelming success.

"You can try to stop me, but it won't do a thing..."

But when Invincible came out in 2001, that's when I thought Jackson really came into his own again, both artistically and commercially. Of course, it's easy to understand why people didn't or even fully appreciate the album—why the reception was lukewarm. It was Jackson peeling back the layers of his public persona, revealing something much more intimate, but that's what makes the album so intriguing.

"No matter what you do, I'm still gonna be here (Be here)"

It possesses such great tracks too. Tracks that have been easily lost compared to the frenzy of his previous hits. For instance, tale the song, "Threatened". I can not help but be enamored by its inclusion of lines borrowed from Rob Sterling's Twilight Zone. Specifically, it's from the episode "It's a Good Life," Season 3, Episode 8, to be exact.

"Through all your lies and silly games..."

But, If I were to give my honest opinion, I would much prefer the opening track of the album, that being "Unbreakable". Sure, while both songs criticize the media and center on themes of isolation, "Unbreakable," in my personal opinion, just takes the lead. There's something about the lyrics that resonates with me on a deeper level, or maybe I can relate to it given its closer relate date compared to Jackson's other albums.

"I'ma still remain the same, I'm (Uh) un—(Uh)—breakable (What? Uh)"

It's different. It provides such a powerful statement, perfectly fitting for the difficult moment in his life when he was anything but invincible.

"A lime to a lemon, my D.C. women..."

My hand reaches for the shower handle, gripping it tightly. There was no real satisfaction from the polished smoothness of its chrome coloring. It is strange, a valve whose appearance looks more like a door handle or maybe a faucet's lever. Either way, it serves its purpose like any other. I turn the handle, stopping the flow of hot water.

The temperature changed from hot to cold for a moment, a jarring contrast I could feel across my skin. I stop there unmoved, letting the water run and drip down my body. A pool formed briefly at my feet before spiraling into the drain, a testament to the impermanence of my presence. It was a process, a mundane process, a habitual act, thoughtless by nature.

If I had to make a critique about the song "Unbreakable," it would be Christopher Wallace's portion. Michael makes an exemplary attempt transitioning into it, and I will give him credit for that—he really does try to make it work within the song's structure, likely forming it around it. But, personally, I don't think rap has a place in the song, let alone the album. Not because I don't like rap—I don't—but because Biggie's verse wasn't even made for the track. It was sampled from an already existing song, "You Can't Stop the Reign" from 1996, by Shaquille O'Neal.

I pulled the white shower curtain, the fabric of it sliding against the rod, making a slight rasp. It served as a barrier to ensure that no water pouring from the fixed shower head escaped the shower. The shower head itself was far more engaging, its brand wasn't identifiable, though judging by the cheap adjustable dial, it must've been something garish—like a Waterpik or Glacier Bay. As for the curtain, I'm far more accustomed to glass panes as shower partitions, but I'm adapting. It's an unfortunate minor adjustment, but not unbearable.

It's a bit inconvenient though. There is no towel bar attached to the shower. There is one, but it is mounted on the far side of the bathroom. Thankfully, there is a wall hook near the curtain, providing a somewhat practical substitute. I assumed such—rightly—when I had placed my towel there earlier. Reaching for it now, I pulled the towel down before wrapping it securely around my waist, ensuring my modest before stepping outside of the shower.

I approached the sink. The mirror is foggy, and my reflection is obscured.

The music continues to play. I listen, idly.

But I am unable to hear a thing.

My hands moved to slick back my hair, each motion deliberate—removing the obstruction my hair posed from my face, even though I could not see it in the mirror. I don't need to. I am aware of every strand, of every misplaced imperfection. I know it. There is no hesitation in my movements as I move on to my routine. I am methodical, swift, and precise.

Once I felt satisfied that my hair would not be a problem, I reached for La Mer's "Essence Foaming Cleanser". I've been told that the bottle was redesigned with sustainability in mind, with it being recyclable. But what truly matters is the formula: Miracle Broth, Tourmaline, The Comforting Ferment. Excellent. According to the manufacturer, it promised to purify the skin and free it from dirt and pollution.

Just earlier, in the shower, I used Agustinus Bader's "The Cream Cleansing Gel". It is a dual cream and gel, non-foaming and non-comedogenic type of texture. There is no fragrance. None of that nonsense. It cleanses impurities without stripping the skin of its natural oils, it hydrates without leaving any residue, it tightens pores, and it maintains skin elasticity. TFC8 (Trigger Factor Complex) supports cellular renewal. These words mean absolutely nothing. These words mean absolutely everything.

The results matter.

Anyway, my hand squeezes the bottle of cleanser, producing a measured amount in my palm, roughly the size of a quarter. I place the bottle down on the porcelain countertop as my hands move toward the faucet. I turned the valve, and water began pouring out in a thin stream. Cold. I splash the cold water onto the cream, and then rub my palms against each other, transforming the cream, emulsifying it, and thinning it into a frothy consistency.

I apply it to my face with a clinical level of meticulousness. My fingertips move in a slow, circular motion, avoiding the tender areas under my eye. Instead, I focus on my face's natural lines. My fingers linger on my temple, pressing lightly, as if I could knead away the tension. I do not push. I do not allow myself to push harder.

I can't see myself. Not clearly—only a vague outline, a blur, a presence without definition—just a smear of colors, a smudge. I lift my hand, dragging the back of it across the glass in an attempt to wipe it clean, but it refuses, resisting. It becomes even more of a blur, and the condensation continues to cling to the mirror, and I grimace.

I opted to rinse my hands under the tap. The cold water, still running from when I applied the cleanser, bites at my skin—sharp, almost painful. I withdrawal. Droplets clung to my fingers. I shake them off, flicking them in a practiced manner. Some splatter against the sink, these tiny blots of moisture dotting the porcelain. Gradually, the warmth returns, albeit delayed and unwelcome. The whole thing felt chaotic. Messy. I regretted not using a towel.

I wipe the mirror again, this time using my palm. Pressing harder. Having it drag against the glass, smearing the moisture that clung to it. Almost aggressively.

A face emerged.

If it could be called that.

There is a feeling that envelopes me. It's not a jolt of shock or an assault of fear—no, something worse. Something slow. It seeps, burrowing deep, and settles. Its tendrils curl around me, coiling around my ribs, like rot settling into the marrow of my bones.

It's unpleasant.

The face I see in the mirror is nothing more than a mockery, a grotesque and wrong approximation of human anatomy. It is not human, not really. It is a perversion, a parody of what should be natural. Its features are where they should be, with it being arranged in a manner that should inspire a sense of familiarity, but they don't. The proportions are correct, the structure vaguely makes sense but there's a disconnect, an undeniable dissonance between what I see in the mirror and what I expect to see. Something is missing.

It was not a mask, it isn't. Though it should be. Despite its uncanny resemblance, at least a mask makes an attempt to conceal or deceive. It's a face, but even calling it that felt dishonest. A face should appear natural, its expressions and emotions appearing in its entirety. A totality that gives an audience an idea of a position. This thing, shaped in the mirror, conveyed nothing. Lacking in both intent, meaning, and emotion. Only displaying a level of abstraction, far removed from what it tries to present itself as.

The skin, if it had any, was smooth. Stretched tight over the rigid structure that was not flesh or bone. The color? Uncertain. Pale, pink, gray. There was no pores to be seen on its complexion that lacked any hair, not a single strand. I could make out only a faint, yet distinct line that ran from the bridge of the nose to the forehead, resembling something like a frontal suture. A detail that means something. Though I can't quite grasp what.

It's familiar. Almost uncomfortably so.

And the eyes.

There aren't any.

Just hollow, empty, gapping sockets. Despite that, it isn't a skull. No, not quite. The nose is there, straight, nothing crooked. Beneath it, the mouth is there—its lips shut and pressed into a thin, yet colorless line. Shut, expressionless, not quite a frown, not quite a smirk. There's a hint of a curve around the corner of the mouth but there's nothing that can be read, nothing substantial. It suggests an expression but contains none. A mockery of an expression.

Red.

Not streaking. Not dripping. Not bleeding into the skin. Just there. Drenched, pouring, smeared. The rest of the face remains untouched—the nose, the mouth, the jaw, the chin.
The contrast is stark. Red against pale. Against pink. Against grey.

And still—

Something is missing.

The upper portion, saturated. The lower, vacant.

I stare. The thing in the mirror, lacking any eyes, stares back. I do not mock it. That would imply that I am, at some level, engaged by it. Instead, I mock the idea that this could have ever belonged to me. That this could be mine. That this could, in any sort of way, be a reflection of myself.

It is not.

I do not recognize it as such.

There would have to be something. A feeling. An understanding. Some profound realization that claws its way into my consciousness. A demand for acknowledgment. A weight. Shaped as an epiphany. A revolution that should, by all accounts, be arriving—for me to even consider this to be myself.

But there is nothing.

The red coloring remains. Still saturated. Still poured. Still smeared. The grotesque "mask", lacking meaning, lacking in context, lacking in consequence, remains. The thing in the mirror does not move. It does not breathe. It does not recognize me any more than it should.

It is separate from me.

It displays a level of individuality that I lack.

It is a horror. Primal. Primitive. Stripped of any pretense, of anything that could make the image more palatable. I should feel disturbed. I should be unraveling. I should be someone else after seeing this monstrosity.

But I don't.

I am not someone else.

There has never been anything.

I tilt my head. The reflection follows.

"I've never looked better."

---

I currently reside in the Sinclair Inn Bed & Breakfast Hotel—a quaint little 4-star establishment.

Now, don't you misunderstand me; it's not terrible. Let's get that clear.

But, let's not kid ourselves, it's no Pierre Hotel.

How could it be? It pales in comparison to the utter grandeur of the Pierre Hotel. The Pierre practically oozes sophistication, its rich and illustrious history—dating back to 1930. Its halls are and were graced by the likes of prestigious residents. Icons like—Jacqueline Kennedy, for God's sake. Jacqueline Kennedy.The history, the prestige, the iconography.

I mean, come on.

Sinclair couldn't possibly compete.

You simply can not replicate that level of prestige. You can try, but you'll fail. Miserably.

By comparison, the Sinclair Inn might as well be a Motel 6.

And yet, here I am.

Lodged at the Sinclair Inn, a four-star hotel. Four stars. A solid rating—until you realize it could've been five, should've been five. If not for some shitty mediocre reviews by losers with poor taste.

By technicality, it's rated 4.9 stars. And I'm supposed to pretend it's the same. Generously, you could round it up to five, but deep down, we all know better. That's pity math. A lie people tell themselves to feel better about their mediocrity.

The situation just gets worse.

I couldn't even secure the room I wanted. Room 1. The Victorian-themed room. A room far beyond the utterly laughable mediocrity offered by the Sinclair. It had a real bathroom. Spacious. Large. Expansive. The kind that had a roll-in shower, practical, with grab bars because apparently, some people require that kind of accommodation.

Not that I needed it, of course. I wanted it because it was larger, and far more refined.

Naturally, it was booked out. Completely.

Instead, I'm assigned to Room 6. A "family-friendly" suite. Multi-bed, the kind with extra beds (What the hell am I supposed to do with an extra bed? Stare at it?).
It's the kind of room that is desperate to cater the lowest common denominator—the type you'd find in an airport motel.

The only solace I could find was that I was depriving a family from spending the night here (though, considering I booked it out for a year, it felt more like a small victory).

And yet, even that solace is fleeting.

It's still offensive, really. In particular, I found it to be an affront to my entire existence. Reduced to admiring utter redundancy? A direct, and personal attack.

I did not want this. I did not choose this. It was forced upon me. Dressed up as a choice, disguised as an option, but it isn't one. A cheap compromise masquerading as an equivalent exchange. A compromise that placed me into a position that was beneath me.

And now I'm stuck in a residence that doesn't suit me.

It is as discomforting as an ill-fitting Zegna suit, tight in all of the wrong places, loose where it matters.

But—no. It doesn't matter. Not really. It shouldn't matter. So it won't.

I will leave. I will remove myself. From this place. From this farce of luxury. From its transient, ridiculous connections. I will discard them all. Like I always do. They are temporary. The room. The walls. The people. All of it.

I sit down on the chair by the window.

It's fairly simple—a parson's chair—ergonomically designed, with four study, dark wooden legs. No armrests. Both the seat and backrest were upholstered and stitched in a manner that gave the illusion the cushion of the chair was separate from the frame.

It possessed a floral-patterned print. An explosion of feverish vivid colors. A monstrosity.

One of the flowers—no. It wasn't a flower. Not really. The shape, the design looks oddly like a peacock.

Unintentional. I'm certain. But the thought lodges itself in my brain, flooding it.

I continued to stare at it.

Studying it. Scrutinizing it. Observing it.

Pink, red, green—no, dark green, light green. The leaves were detailed. To an unnerving degree. I could make out the veins, the midribs, the petioles. Every portion of the blades was transitioning from green to light green. The designer seemed to be obsessed with minute details.

But for what? Why? Why?

It was unnecessary. These shitty flourishes. Pointless in terms of intricacy—it's nothing but a hideous and utterly meaningless embellishment.

My gaze shifts. The extra bed.

It just sits there. Taking up space.

But I suppose that's fine

I imagine, briefly, tearing the sheets—gripping the fabric, feeling as it stretches and strains, before finally giving, the threads snapping, and the floral quilt frays. Watching on as it gave under my hands. I could scatter it apart around the room like what it tries to display. Petals. Pointless.

Maybe I could take the chair—that horrible, awful chair—and throw it. Watch as it skids across the flooring, harshly scraping against the hardwood.

There are only three lamps, all equally hideous. They're situated around the room. One is on the nightstand to the right of the full-size bed, one is in the corner, and one is also on a nightstand by the queen-size bed. Bland. Forgettable. Taunting. I could rip the one from the bedside table, and feel the weight of it in my hand—cold, smooth porcelain with that gaudy floral pattern. I could throw it. Throw it as hard as I can. Watch as it sails across the room, practically feel the split-second moment of tension, the brief, electric anticipation before its impact.

Crash.

The sound would be deafening. Shattering the silence, scattering sharp shards across the floor, like jagged teeth. The porcelain would break, splinter into pieces, uneven bits. The sound—now, that would be something. It would tear through the stillness of the room, just for a moment.

For a second, just for a second, there would be a release—a small, insignificant moment where something is happening. Where something has changed.

But then what?

It's fleeting.

It wouldn't last.

The bed would still be there. The sheets, crumpled, ruined—it would still be there. The chair, the lamp—even in its shattered pieces—it would still be there.

That ugly, cheap, floral-patterned lamp. It mocks me. It always has.

Sean called last night. Or, rather, his phone did. It was a pocket dial. I could hear him in the background—slurring something, laughing, babbling to people I don't know. Music was playing, he was probably at some party. He won't remember the call. I didn't bother hanging up immediately. Just listened for a while. Not sure why.

I've been here for too long.

The novelty is fading. Everything is becoming a routine, a cycle that keeps repeating.

Nothing would change.

It's fine

None of it matters. It's all just noise. Temporary. Another action, another thought, another impulse, another moment that will dissolve into the same quiet, same crushing, same meaningless existence.

It doesn't matter anymore.

It never will.

Maybe I'll break the lamp. Maybe I won't.

But then—a noise filled the room.

My iPhone's ringtone.

"Reflection". The default ringtone. An instantly recognizable and popular tone. Melodic. Distinctive. Familiar. Engineered for clarity. An iconic sound for Apple. I haven't bothered to change it.

I listen.

And for now, that is enough.

I let the first ring pass. If I answered immediately, it would show that I was desperate—eager for whatever minuscule connection the caller offered. If I waited until the last ring, they would give up.

Answering on the second ring was optimal.

I reached for my phone, resting atop the small, wooden table. It sat beside my Michael Jackson's 'This Is It' 10th Anniversary Box Set.

However when I had "invited" Jonah and Carter over—really they intruded into my residence—they ignored the collection of Michael Jackson memorabilia, the most blatant sign of my impeccable taste.

That's four hundred and seventy-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents worth of limited-edition collection. Actual lenticular concert tickets for the July 24, 2009, performance of 'This Is It' at the O2 arena. Limited to 1,000 copies. It even comes with pictures from the 'This Is It' rehearsal.

Incompetent morons.

Anyway. I reach for my phone. My eyes flicker to the screen. Lucas Walker.

I pause. I internally debated my options. Ignore it? Let it go to voicemail? Answer it just to curse him out? Let him know how little I care in the most colorful way possible?

Tempting. All of it was tempting.

But, against my better judgment, I swipe at the screen, answering. The call connects before the third ring.

"Hello?" I say, my voice smooth. And then, with an exaggerated cheerfulness, I add. "Lucas, is that you?" I state the obvious.

There's a pause on his end. Hesitation. It was as if he was suddenly reminded he was on the phone.

"Hey! Um. Patrick, I—I need a favor." Lucas babbles.

Of course, he does.

A favor. Something to hold over him. Accepting wouldn't just be helping—I would be making him indebted to me. This is an investment, a leverage point. A future IOU. Hell, if I played my cards right, I could even make it sound like an act of kindness.

I let the silence stretch. Long enough to make him feel uncomfortable, to squirm.

Then, ever so casually, "Of course, I can," I say as I lean into the hideous chair, crossing my legs. "How can I help you, buddy?" I asked condescendingly, even using a term of endearment to belittle him.

He hesitates, stumbling over his own words.

"I was wondering. Um." He fumbles before taking a deep breath."Do you... Do you want to make cookies?"

Cookies?

Cookies.

That was his big request? That was the favor? I was expecting something serious—blackmail. Walk the dog. Hell, I was even willing to spot him cash.

Let it be cash.

But no.

Cookies.

He barrels on before I can process the sheer absurdity of the situation.

"—um. Thanks to you, Tyler is talking to me again. He's even willing to help me make cookies for my girlfriend! But. I'm kinda nervous? I want to use this chance to hang out with him. But I'm too nervous to go alone. He said you can come to his house too."

His words tumbled out as an anxious, frantic mess. I barely recall whatever insignificant, offhand comment I made to make Tyler acknowledge his existence. Something trivial. A shrug, a passing comment, a sarcastic thumbs-up—who the hell knows?

And this is the result? Cookies?

A long beat of silence.

Then—

"Sure. Why not?" Let him believe, for a fleeting second, that I actually care.

---

I don't know why I even bothered to come.

"I'm glad you guys managed to make it here!" Tyler says, his voice filled with genuine enthusiasm. He looks as if he is trying to keep his expression neutral, but the corners of his mouth betray him. At least purse your lips to better stifle it, bastard.

He wore a men's olive-green corduroy button-down long-sleeve shirt, featuring a rounded patch pocket sewn to the left side. The shirt had seven white buttons, with two more to secure the button-down collar, a design choice that I could begrudgingly accept. Knowing his bland taste and fashion sensibilities, the shirt was most likely purchased from L.L. Bean.

Tyler's outfit was offensive—not particularly because of what he wore. But because of how he wore it.

The front placket of the shirt? Left undone. Exposing the maroon, heavy cotton T-shirt underneath. Cheap. Probably from Michaels.

The olive-green shirt was meant to be worn untucked, an act I don't agree with, but it doesn't excuse the sheer negligence of the careless way he wore it. If you're going to wear a button-down shirt, then button it up properly! The contrast between his neatly fastened collar and his unbuttoned front was maddening, and it only served to further infuriate me.

He wore a dark blue pair of Wrangler jeans. Serviceable. Nothing particularly remarkable, the jeans had a standard five-pocket design, which was nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for the lack of a belt.

If you're going to wear jeans with belt loops, at least have the common decency to use them.

The only item in his outfit that he wore right—baring the maroon T-shirt—was his shoes. A pair of black low-top sneakers. Smooth, clean, and uncreased. The soles were white rubber with a thin black stripe running along the edge. The padded tongue bore a small Nike tag. If I had to make a guess, they were NIKE SB Chron 2 Canvas Mens Shoes. Functional. Simple.

I scoffed, shaking my head as I looked him up and down.

"You absolute asshole."

Tyler raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, though he had the gall to smirk.

"What?"

I couldn't help but gesture at him, my hand waving over his torso, as if I was attempting to swat away an unpleasant smell.

"This..." I began, my voice tinged with barely hidden disdain. "This god-awful excuse of an outfit."

He glanced down at himself, feigning ignorance, but the smile on the bastard's face only grew wider. He probably dressed the way he did solely for the satisfaction of infuriating me.

"What about it?" he asked, his tone practically dripping with amusement.

Fuck you, Tyler.

I let out a dramatic sigh.

"Let's start with the obvious. Your corduroy button-down. Olive green? Fine. Do you button up? No, of course not. You leave the front wide open, like some kind of—some kind of unhinged free spirit. And to make it worse, the collar is neatly fastened, but the rest of your shirt just hangs there. It's like you got halfway dressed before losing the will to continue."

Tyler wore the shirt like how one would wear a cardigan.

A cardigan.

Tyler rolled his eyes.

"It's casual."

"It's lazy." I shot back, before punctuating my words by jabbing a finger at his chest. "Either button it up properly like a functioning adult or take it off and accept your fate as a maroon T-shirt guy."

Lucas, who was standing awkwardly beside me, tried to stifle a laugh.

Lucas was wearing a jacket, either a dark brown or a deep taupe kind of color. A utility-style jacket, with a removable lined interior. That interior being a beige, maybe light tan fleece.

As expected, the jacket had multiple pockets, but two in particular caught my attention. They were slanted hand-warmer pockets on its exterior, with the brand name, Legendary, subtly embroidered into the left pocket patch.
Lucas must be wearing a men's jacket from Legendary Whitetails.

He, unlike Tyler, had enough sense to zip up his interior and exterior zippers.

It was frustrating to see his sensible decision while standing next to Tyler, who clearly had no excuse for his sloppy appearance.

But I ignore him for now. Turning my attention back to Tyler, continuing my tirade.

"And those jeans," I continued. "Wrangler. Plain. Classic. Boring. And your shoes—Nike low-tops. A respectable choice, but even those can't salvage the absolutemesshappening from the waist up."

Tyler, the smug bastard, smirked, clearly reveling in my scathing criticism.

Freak.

He then opened his door wider, gesturing for us to step inside. "You done?"

I sniffed, crossing my arms. "I'm very happy. Thank you for inviting me."

I even offer him a smile, making my voice tinged with excitement.

An award-worthy performance, I know.

My choice of attire was infinitely more better compared to theirs.

I was wearing a black woolen cashmere tailored overcoat, with a Burberry check collar. Beneath it, is a Polo Ralph Lauren Fair Isle wool sweater in the Camel Combo coloring. The sweater possessed an intricate, Fair Isle design, it was a complex tapestry of geometric patterns of deep browns, burgundies, navy, and hints of beige. It's horizontally banded motifs, ribbed cuffs, and a hem that really put it all together to create a stunning ensemble. Very high-quality knitting, great embroidery.

Underneath my sweater, I had on a regular-fit white shirt from Giorgio Armani, featuring nine mother-of-pearl buttons. The shirt possessed a crisp French, semi-spread collar that was buttoned properly. The collar was neatly tucked and pinned beneath the sweater, ensuring that it did not disrupt the sweater's clean, circular neckline.

The shirt's length was neatly tucked into my Charcoal Smoke Calvin Klein structured trousers—pure cotton, tailored. The flat-front trousers had a solid waistband, offering structure to compliment my body's natural shape. The waist possessed a standard fly front, but it was discreetly concealed by a placket. The straight legs were not excessively baggy or tight. They fell neatly to my ankles without cuffs.

At the waist, I was wearing a beige Palmellato-leather La Prima belt from Giorgio Armani. Although I wasn't particularly fond of it, it was the best of what Armani had to offer. The other belts they offered had unnecessary studs or rope-like detailing that I found absolutely tacky.

Lastly, my shoes were black leather-sole longwing brogues from Thom Browne. Polished.

I brushed past Tyler and entered his home. I shuffled to the side to take off my overcoat, placing it on the nearby coat rack. Lucas, instead of doing it himself, handed me his jacket in a display of what I could only assume was helplessness as he and Tyler made their way to the kitchen. The silent expectation of me to hang it.

Dick.

I didn't bother taking off my shoes. Tyler had a dog—either a Belgian Malinois or a Dutch Shepherd, I had no clue. Tyler, who claims to love the dog, named after the artist who made "Hound Dog" back in 1956, yet he doesn't even know the exact breed.

Even with that canine out with Tyler's father, doing God knows what, I refused to take off my shoes—not wanting to risk that rapid hound coming back and eating them.

To my surprise, Lucas didn't even bother to take off his shoes. And, to further my bewilderment, neither did Tyler.

Who the hell wears shoes in their own home?

After I placed Lucas's jacket on the coat rack, a notch level below mine, I made my way toward the kitchen.

The moment I passed the floor's transition strip and stepped in, a sharp, acrid scent of bleach hit me. It wasn't mild. It was pungent. Unlike the normal, lemon-scented variety for casual household cleaning. No, rather this was an industrial-strength type. The kind that would burn the back of your throat if you inhaled it too deeply.

My nose wrinkled at the sterility of it. The harsh bleach stench practically assaults my nostrils. It was a scent that just clung to the air, too fresh and strong, overwhelming whatever was there before.

Tyler, having glanced up from the counter, caught my disgruntled expression.

"Sorry! I was cleaning earlier!" he called out, his voice too casual for being in an overbearingly chemically saturated room.

As he spoke, he pulled an apron over his head, an apron I recognized quickly. Ralph Lauren Home. Coffee Striped Cotton, a full-body bib apron that I had halfheartedly picked up for his birthday.

The fabric possesses an off-white coloring that bore evenly spaced, vertical green stripes. I would say it was, frankly, wasted on him. But given the fact that he used it often due to his job as a barista, at least the gift saw proper use.
With the dark green neck straps looped around his head, he adjusted the metallic slider buckle above the bib to better fit him before moving to tie the long waist straps behind his back. His movements were practiced, his hands going through the motions absentmindedly. A routine ingrained into his muscle memory, having performed it countless times before.

The apron's single, centered pocket had a faint rectangular outline beneath the fabric. Tyler probably had stuffed his phone in there. The pocket was meant for a kitchen towel, maybe even utensils. But Tyler never used it properly, beyond its aesthetic appeal.

Still, I suppose I should be thankful he even bothered to wear it properly. He even is trying to look like a seasoned chef.

A comical sight. Both myself and Lucas know better.

"Hey, Lucas, did you find the measuring cup set?" Tyler asked as he laid out an assortment of ingredients from a nearby cabinet.

A five-pound bag of King Arthur all-purpose flour. A four-pound bag of Great Value granulated sugar—kosher, if I recall correctly. A container of organic coconut palm sugar from BetterBody Foods. A two-fluid-ounce box of McCormick pure vanilla extract—gluten-free. A container of sodium bicarbonate from Nutricost, which I could only assume was baking soda. Lastly, there is a bag of King Arthur chocolate chip wafers. Guittard. It's semi-sweet.

"Yeah? I think so?" Lucas returned, this time holding an assortment of measuring cups. Thankfully, he didn't grab the liquid measuring cups—the one that looks like a jug with handles. Instead, he brought dry measuring cups, the kind meant for scooping powders and solids.

"Yes! Thank you." Tyler smiled genially as he carefully took the cups from Lucas's hands and placed them on the countertop. "Patrick, can you grab the butter and eggs from the fridge? Please?" he asked, already moving toward another cabinet, probably searching for bowls.

"Sure," I replied in an even tone, not wanting to be the odd man out.

I approached the refrigerator. It was one of those models that didn't even have an ice dispenser. Opening the door, I pulled out a carton of Great Value 18-count eggs and a block of Plugrà salted butter.
I closed the fridge door, and I returned to the counter, placing the eggs and butter alongside the other ingredients. Tyler, who had been busy rifling through the cabinets for bowls, nods approvingly at my choice of butter. There was another option available, some extra creamy variation, but I didn't pick that one.

"Good call," Tyler commented, finally pulling out a mixing bowl. "The extra creamy one is a mess to work with—too soft, falls apart too easily." He remarks, setting the bowl down before dusting his hands.

Lucas, eager to keep the conversation going, nods as if Tyler spouted some valuable insight. "Yeah, that makes sense. Texture's probably important. right?" He interjects.

Tyler chuckled. "Oh, definitely. You need the right consistency, or things get out of hand fast." He asserts, his delivery possesses an air of finality.

I leaned casually against the counter, watching as he grabbed one of the measuring cups and scooped the flour. It was almost funny, how much thought he put into this. Like making cookies was some form of high art, some intricate ritual instead of just following basic instructions.

But Lucas was eating it up, nodding along, fidgeting just slightly, testing the waters. Trying to salvage what remains of their friendship. His need was painfully obvious.

"You're really good at this," Lucas ventures, timidly glancing between Tyler and the pile of consumer brands. His tone was uncertain, likely trying to grasp the situation. "I mean, I knew you baked sometimes, but I didn't realize you were, like... actually good at it."

Come on, Lucas. That barely counts as a compliment.

It could even be considered an insult.

Tyler beamed, a wide smile tugging at his lips. Self-satisfied, really. "Really? I practice all the time. Just trying to get a feel for it, do it enough to know exactly what works—what to add, what to leave out." His words attempt to carry some kind of assurance.

Lucas hummed in agreement, and I figured this was a good time to add a word in.

"Baking is an art," I said, my voice injecting enough awe and enthusiasm. "Really, you can't, say, overbake. Patience is crucial." I offered a platitude, attempting to seem interested in the topic. I wasn't. Not at all.

Tyler lets out a short laugh, nodding his head. Confusing my comment for genuine conviction. "Exactly! Rushing justruins everything. You have to know when to stop, when to pull back before it all gets too tough."

Lucas, having seen that Tyler was done measuring the flour, opened the carton of eggs. He hands one over—although there is hesitation, uncertain if he is doing it right.

Tyler took the egg with a flourish, rolling it between his fingers. "See, there's a trick to it. Finding the right amount of pressure," he explains, almost absentmindedly. "Too little, and it slips right through your fingers. Too hard, and—" With a swift and decisive motion, he cracks the egg against the bowl's rim. The shell split, its contents spilling cleanly into the bowl. A controlled cascade. "It gets messy," he adds as if the demonstration didn't speak for itself.

Lucas chuckles softly. "Yeah, I always mess up cracking eggs. Either I press too gently, or I end up picking bits of shell out for minutes."

Tyler smiled as he grabbed another egg. "It's all about control. You have to feel for that perfect breaking point—that spot where the shell just gives way beneath your fingers." He pressed his thumb against the egg, applying pressure, just enough without cracking it. "You don't want to rush it. The moment has to be just right."

I watched the scene, wondering what the point of this was. I knew how to open an egg.

Lucas nodded slowly, unsure how to respond. I decided to echo his uncertainty.

"Uh... yeah. Makes sense."

Tyler then cracked the final egg, splitting it apart with practiced ease—a small piece of shell dropped into the bowl. Proving his advice was shit. He fished it out with his fingers.

Lucas exhales quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. "... Thanks for inviting me, by the way. I... I missed this," he murmured, his eyes fixated on the floor. The kitchen tiles were hardly impressive.

Tyler's smile widens, visibly flattered by Lucas's admission, his words coming out quickly. "Y-Yeah! Of course!" He was more than touched—positively giddy—as he continued. "We don't do this nearly enough anymore—you know, just hang out. Baking. Relaxing." His tone carries a wistful tone, before adding, "You guys are always welcome." His eyes flicker briefly in my direction, extending the invitation.

I glance back at him, then back at the bowl. The eggs just sat there. A task Tyler started but left incomplete in favor of this sappy talk. I wanted this to be done as soon as possible. So, I decided to do something productive. Turning toward a nearby drawer, I open it. Thank God—it's stocked with various kitchen utensils. Quietly relieved, I pull out a whisk before handing it to Tyler.

"I'd like that," I say, feigning amusement. "It's good, you know, having some kind of routine together. Kind of like a... a team-building exercise, right?"

Tyler's shoulders sagged, a quiet release of tension that betrayed his anticipation of my possible refusal. Relief softened his features as he muttered, "Exactly," while whisking the eggs. "A little bit of a bonding moment," he added, giving me a grateful look.

Lucas glanced between us, and I could see the taut tension within him gradually unraveling. "Yeah. Bonding. That sounds nice," he said, his voice shedding its earlier uncertainty. As if he were finally settling into the moment.

A long, thoughtful silence followed, filled only by the rhythmic and steady sound of eggs being whisked. My thoughts, however, were anything but subdued.

I found myself contemplating two vastly different courses of action. One was a simple request, casually broaching the topic of Tyler buttoning up his shirt. The other? Grabbing a knife and living a visceral fantasy.

Fleetingly, I imagined it. Finding it almost appealing.

I would need a knife, of course. And I knew the drawer that I'd just opened for the whisk—while containing an assortment of kitchen utensils—lacked any knives.

I'd have to stroll around the room and go through every drawer in search of one. Doing so would surely cause Lucas and Tyler to question me and my motives. I imagine fabricating some excuse, something frivolous and mundane.

"Oh, you know, just looking for a cookie spatula," I'd say casually.

They'd nod and accept my excuse, not question me further. Why wouldn't they? I'm charming. I'm personable. I positioned myself as friendly and conversational. I'm someone they trust, they had no reason not to trust me. I'm someone they'd never suspect of, say, contemplating an act of unspeakable violence.

Eventually, I'd open a drawer containing the cutlery—knives, forks, and spoons. They were all lined up in that order. I'd grab a knife at random—some chef's knife. Definitely pick up a Santoku. Tyler seemed the type to own one from Faberware.

I lift the blade, scrutinizing it closely. High-Carbon Stainless-Steel. It was supposed to be shiny and reflective, though Tyler's neglect was evident judging by the scratches on the blade. The scuffs ruined its supposed pristine image, it even bled into the evenly spaced indentations on the blade's surface. Those grooves were supposed to prevent food from sticking. Disappointing.

I focused on the tip. It was disappointingly blunt, it lacked that sharp, penetrating point that would make for a clean, effortless stab.

If I were to even attempt stabbing with it, I'd have to drive it in at an awkward angle and force it through Tyler's flesh again and again. Like some deranged butcher hacking away at a particularly stubborn cut of meat. A tedious waste of effort.

The belly of the blade curves upward from a well-defined and sturdy heel to the rounded tip. The bolster is almost imperceptible—discounting the different shades and protruding shape—and seamless, but I find that wildly unremarkable.
The spine was linear. The handle was black and made of something other than a synthetic polymer like high-impact plastic (maybe a steel alloy), and it felt heavy and uncomfortable in my hand. I wouldn't spend long hours holding it. There were these three rivets that secured the tang to the curved handle. The end of the handle is slightly rounded.

I grabbed the knife and slipped it into my left side pocket, careful to push it down just enough to hide it—and more importantly, so that it doesn't puncture my two-hundred and twenty-eight dollar trousers. I close the drawer with a soft click and move toward another. One that is conveniently located near the exit of the kitchen that offers a view to the living room and toward the front door. The windows are positioned adjacent to the door, they have their blinds open, providing an easy, plausible excuse to pull Lucas away.

"Hey, Lucas, isn't that your father outside?" I say, squinting slightly as I peer out.

Lucas looks over, his expression momentarily flickering with unease as he begins to move toward the door. A hesitant shuffle, torn between both curiosity and an unspoken guilt, as if he felt the weight of anticipation come over him. In his mind, perhaps, he was wondering if he was somehow in trouble. If he had done something terribly wrong.

After all, why else would his father—the Mayor, a man with an overflowing schedule—find the time to be standing outside?

Trailing closely behind him, my steps synchronized with his tentative ones. I watch as he takes a shaky breath as he reaches the door, fumbling with the lock before finally unlocking it.

"Hey, Pat, I don't see hi—" his words are cut off as I push him outside, the momentum of it causing him to stumble and sprawl onto the porch.

I shut the door swiftly, securing the doorknob and locking the deadbolt. There is a small moment of silence before heavy, frantic knocks follow.

I could just barely catch his voice calling my name, but it was muffled and indistinct from the other side. I ignore it. It doesn't matter. Turning away from the door, my feet moved briskly and purposefully towards Tyler.

I don't bother screaming or calling him a derogatory remark. There was no need to.

My fingers curl around the handle of the knife in my pocket, clasping it tightly. My heartbeat is slow.

I am in front of him.

Tyler doesn't notice.

He was preoccupied with the mixing bowl, his eyes fixated on it as he stirred. He asks a question, something casual, but I don't hear it. My ears are full of static. My mouth tastes like sand.

I draw the knife free.

No words are spoken. I move without hesitation.

There is intent. I want to swiftly slice his neck.

The blade meets his throat.

For a fraction of a second, the skin clings—its natural elasticity offering a brief, momentary protest, desperate to remain intact. But the steel separates. It bites into him, parting the flesh. The dermis gives way to it, and its tearing sensation vibrates up my arm. The parting muscle reveals a grotesque, yawning wound.

A hot, wet warmth splattered against my wrist.

Tyler's body reacted before his mind could catch up. His eyes widened, his pupils dilating before finally, it washed over him. Pure, unadulterated, all-consuming terror. His mouth opens, lips parting, only to make a wet strangled gurgle. Red was pouring from his throat like a fountain.

The blood surges fast. His fingers flew to his neck, clutching and pressing, trying to do anything to staunch the bleeding. But he couldn't. The blood painted his hands, his trembling fingers becoming slick, slipping uselessly against his gaping wound.

The blood just kept coming. It seeps between his knuckles as he tries to hold himself together. A thick rivulet spills down his apron before spilling onto the kitchen tiles, creating a crimson pool.

Did you know that once the carotid artery is severed, it's nearly impossible to stop the bleeding without help?

And I severed both of them! Not one, but both!

The pressure is too great, the blood loss is catastrophic. Tyler's body, in its panic, in its adrenaline-fueled desperation, cannot muster enough force to counteract the arterial flow. His heart, in its blind, misguided devotion, completely unaware of the breach in his system, just keeps pumping dutifully as it floods the rooms with arterial spray.

He stumbles backward, staggering, his arms flailing. He is drowning in his own blood. He was fighting to breathe through his ruined throat. Making this bubbling, choking, drowning noise. He searches the room for someone—anyone—to help him.

But there was no one. Just me.

And I am not helping.

Why don't you ever fight back?

His knees buckle, his body sways, and he crumples. He hits the floor with a mediocre thud.

I exhale.

He looks ridiculous.

I mean, really—face down in his own pool of blood, his arms sprawled out like some drunken idiot. Like father like son. All he was missing was an empty Amstel Beer Lager can.

I nudge his shoulder with the tip of my shoe.

Nothing.

Jesus.

My gaze shifts—down to my sweater.

And then I realize something.

Blood.

Everywhere.

I sigh. "Tyler, you inconsiderate fuck," I muttered, shaking my head. "Do you haveanyidea of how hard it is to get blood out of Ralph Lauren?"

He doesn't respond.

Rude.

He, of all people, should know. He was wearing a Ralph Lauren apron.

The moment passes.

I blink. The knife is gone.

In my hands, I am holding a white ceramic bowl filled with melted Plugrà butter. The bowl and butter were warm. I couldn't make out any fat. It was melted completely.

My sweater is clean.

Tyler Galpin is still alive.

He is stirring. Humming.

I stand there, gripping the bowl.

I swallow.

The taste of sand lingers in my mouth.

"Hey, Patrick, you can just pour the bowl in," Tyler states as he moves to the side, his tone upbeat despite my bewilderment.

"Right," I murmured, my tone flat. I tilted the bowl forward, letting the butter pour out, into the mixture of eggs, sugars, vanilla extract, and baking soda. The mixture's consistency is thick and gelatinous. I am reminded of custard. The pale yellowish liquid of the butter seeps into the dark brown well-whisked mass.

Lucas was preoccupied with preheating the oven to precisely 140 degrees Celsius.

Tyler misinterprets my stare and silence as eagerness. He plucks the bowl from my hands and replaces it with a whisk. "You can whisk if you like. You'll know when to add the flour when the yellow coloring from the butter is completely gone," he blathers, his tone was light.

Without missing a beat, he moves toward the sink, placing the bowl down before moving to another cabinet, his fingers wrapping around the handle. He opens it and pulls out a box of Reynolds Kitchens cookie baking sheets—the packaging boasting something about its non-stick properties—but I struggle to muster even the faintest interest. The words blur.

Tyler then crosses over to Lucas, retrieving a baking sheet pan from the drawer beside the oven. The brand's GPED, I think. Stainless-steel, rimmed edges. Great weight distribution.

I begin to whisk. Counterclockwise.

I don't whisk hard. By doing so, the melted butter would no doubt spill over the rim and out of the bowl and onto the cuffs of my Fair Isle sweater. I am careful and controlled. My motions are slow and steady. The butter, it's coloring now mingling with the brown mixture, but it's still not smooth. There's this resistance. It's not blended in yet, nothing uniform. I know it won't be for a while but surprisingly, it doesn't irritate me. In fact, it's almost satisfying, to see how the butter moves and shifts into the mixture, building in yet never quite becoming part of the whole.

It's almost therapeutic. I wonder if Tyler took up baking because his shrink told him to. Maybe as some sort of as a distraction.

I kept whisking, the rhythmic motion dulling my irritation. But the silence in the kitchen stretched on as if they were trying to annoy me. Lucas had assured me over the phone that he would use this opportunity to reconnect with Tyler. But they weren't talking. Lucas is not talking. Not at all. Not one single word.

Did I seriously have to carry the entire conversation? While Tyler busied himself with lining a goddamn baking sheet? While Lucas stood there fucking fiddling with the oven? It was absurd.

I inhaled sharply through my nose. "So, Tyler, how is your day?"

"Oh, Patrick, I've actually been having a fantastic day. Like, one of the best I've had in forever." Tyler says as he places a baking sheet over the sheet pan.

That. That's actually sad.

Get a life, Tyler.

"You ever have those days where everything just works? Like, no traffic, no delays, everything just... clicks?" He asks, trying to relate to me.

I blink at him. "No."

Lucas snorts, but Tyler continues, unperturbed. "Well, I do. This morning was fantastic. I wasn't late to school, I actually got up early to eat breakfast for once, and—get this—the snack bar had these, chocolate raspberries... damn it, the name of it just escapes me."

"Ghirardelli?" I guess.

Tyler shakes his head. "No, it's not a candy bar. The chocolate—it was coating the raspberry."

I mull over the potential options based on Tyler's description, but before I can answer with Trü Frü, Lucas, who had finally finished preheating the oven, cuts in.

"Raspberry cordials?" Lucas guesses.

I'm left mildly irritated.

Tyler snaps his fingers at Lucas. "That's the one! And then, the highlight of my week, besides you guys coming over of course, is that I finally got my dad to grill with me," he says excitedly.

Lucas perks up at the mention of Tyler's father, he arches an eyebrow. "Your dad?"

Tyler hums, leaning against the counter. "Yeah! And not just me watching him grill—I actually got todoit. Like, manning the tongs, flipping the steaks, everything." He shakes his head with a grin. "It took, like, an hour of convincing, and he definitely hovered the whole time, but still. Progress."

Lucas's brows furrowed. "Huh. That's surprising."

Tyler just laughs, waving a hand at the remark, playing it off. "Right? I was expecting a whole 'you're gonna screw it up' moment, but nah. He just stood there, beer in hand, giving me a 'make sure the sear is even' speech." He mimics his father's voice, it's a passable impersonation.

I kept whisking. "Sound's thrilling."

Lucas crosses his arms. "Guess he's trying to make an effort."

Tyler places a hand on his chin, reminiscing the moment with Lucas's perspective in mind. "Effort. Sure. That's the way to put it." He closed his eyes before letting out a long sigh. "Probably won't happen again anytime soon, but whatever. It was nice. I had fun." He bemoans.

Lucas obliviously nods. "Sounds like a good time."

I glance at Lucas, then at Tyler, before setting my eyes back at the batter, I continue whisking.

Lucas had an off-base interpretation of Tyler's relationship with his father. Likely basing it off of his own, or trying to be well-meaning.

Tyler grins as if he hadn't just admitted that a single hour of grilling with his father, in who knows how long, was the highlight of his week. Comparable, mind you, to Lucas and I visiting him.

Tyler shakes his head. "Anyway! It's a huge win in my book. And get this—" he leans in slightly in our general direction, his voice dropping to a mock whisper as if he was going to tell some great secret—"I didn't even burn anything."

I roll my eyes. "You want a medal?"

Tyler staggers back while clutching his chest. "Patrick. That is exactly what I want. Preferably gold, with my name engraved."

I laugh. "Alright. And what? Now you think you're a grill master?"

Tyler lets out a dramatic gasp. "Patrick, howdareyou. I've always been a grill master. My dad just refused to see it." He exhales while shaking his head solemnly. "But now? He knows the truth. I've proven myself."

Lucas chuckles. "God help us all."

Tyler cackles.

Looking back at the batter now, the yellow coloring of the butter is gone. The white bowl's contents possesses a thick, smooth, glossy dark brown texture. It's not chunky. Some amount of it clings to the side of the bowl as the whisk goes by, and it's viscous. My movement with the whisk, while a bit difficult compared to before, creates visible swirls and the mixture is able to hold these patterns for a moment before it fades.

Distinctly, I remembered Tyler's advice. The flour comes next.

Before adding it, I remove the metal whisk. I didn't want to obstruct the flour. I grab the measuring cup and carefully pour the flour. It blankets the dark brown surface. But not entirely. I could make out a small corner of the batter where the brown coloring was left exposed.

Tyler peers at the bowl. He goes to open a nearby drawer, before pulling out a grey, silicone spatula from ThermoWorks. "Moment of truth," he says while offering me the spatula in one hand, the other hand splayed, he wanted to take the whisk. "You're gonna wanna fold now, not stir. Unless you like overworked, super tough cookies."

I raise an eyebrow. I'm almost tempted to continue stirring. These cookies were for Lucas's girlfriend. I wasn't going to eat them. But, I take the spatula anyway, giving Tyler the whisk. "Folding it is."

With the spatula in my hand, I gently spread the flour over the exposed areas of the batter until the surface was fully covered. Once I felt satisfied, I scraped the spatula along the edge of the bowl, getting rid of the excess flour. Then, carefully, I attempted to fold the batter.

An up-and-over circular motion. Flicking my wrist as I lift the batter before turning it over itself.

Tyler stares intently at the bowl, before nodding in approval. "There you go. Nice and gentle. Treat it like... I dunno, like you actually care about it," he says before adding, "You're a natural Patrick. You might have a future as a baker."
A baker.

Was... Was Tyler making fun of me? That word just lingers in my mind. Grating my ears as I replayed it.

A baker. Like I'd ever.

A baker. The very occupation, let alone the idea of it, when applied to myself—it's laughable. Which is surprising, given that Tyler's jokes usually fall woefully flat.

I have plans. Six figures before twenty-six. Seven, if I actually put in the effort. Not that it'll take much—just go to the right schools, take the right internships, and maintain the right connections. Really it's all formality. A process. I go where I'm expected to go, do what I'm expected to do, and, in return, I get the life I'm supposed to have. And Tyler—Tyler—thinks I should throw it all away? Settle for less? As if. That's like suggesting I should take a part-time job at Hawte Kewture, folding crocheted snoods or stacking knitwear. (And yes, Lucas, I know your friend works there—do you ever shut up about it?)

I will not settle. I refuse to waste my time catering to the whims of losers whose choice of outfits are entirely out of season—people so tasteless, so utterly devoid of meaning, that I could strangle them under the runway lights, and still, still, still, they wouldn't grasp the severity of their offenses.

I could throw it at him. The bowl. I could watch as the batter just splattered across his smug face. I could watch as his face contorted to shock as his brain short-circuited, unable to process the sheer audacity of my reaction.

But I don't.

I really, really wish I did.

Instead, I flash him a tight-lipped smile. "Really? Gee, thanks." Then, I add, "Hey, I think the batter is ready for the, uh, chocolate wafers?" I shove the bowl towards him.

Let it be his problem.

Tyler takes the bowl in one hand, his other hand reaching into the batter without a second thought. He pinches a small piece between his fingers, and lifts it into his mouth, before popping it in. He lets out a hum as he chews.
"This is great," he states, licking a smudge of batter from his thumb before reaching for the bag of chocolate wafers. Disgusting. Unhygienic. At least wipe your slobber with a handkerchief.

Without so much as a glance at the nearby, and unused, measuring cups, he rips open the bag before unceremoniously pouring a ridiculous amount. The smooth, thin disks plunked into the batter, some sinking in while others remained visible on the surface.

Tyler gives the bowl a few light shakes before a hand moves to grab the spatula. He then slides the spatula through the glossy batter before folding it in itself just to spread the chocolate wafers.

For a few moments, he repeats this motion. There's this audible, soft sound of the spatula. Then, suddenly, he strides over to the refrigerator. Opening the door, he carefully places the bowl, all the while removing the spatula. He then closes the refrigerator, an act punctuated by the soft clink of the door. He then walks to drop the utensil into the sink.

Turning back to us, Tyler grins, it's all teeth, the kind of smile that belongs in a toothpaste commercial. "We're in the home stretch now."

I watch him, noting the way his gaze flickers toward the refrigerator like an addict eyeing his next hit. He wants another bite of the cookie batter. I decided not to call him out on it. I'm feeling generous today.

Lucas nods, and for a moment, there is another brief silence.

Then, Tyler lets out an exhale, almost as if he can't control himself. "I... I have to admit. This is the most fun I've had in a while."

Something flickers in Lucas's eyes before he looks at Tyler and offers him a smile. "... Yeah, I've had fun too."

I place a hand on Tyler's shoulder. The contact is tangible, skin against fabric. I know him well enough to get away with this—vicinity-wise, familiarity, and through routine interaction. "Well, let's make it a habit then." I blatantly lie to his face.

Tyler glances between us. There's something in his voice I don't like, the softness of it. "You guys ever think we'd end up baking together?"

I hate that he asks. I hate that he wants an answer. I wish I had worn gloves.

"Not exactly," I say entertaining Tyler's question. "But hey, not the worst way to spend a day."

It is.

"Not complaining though," Lucas adds.

Tyler beams, his shoulders loosening, like he's satisfied, "Neither am I."

I pivoted before this conversation got any more sappy. "Hey, Lucas, how is your evening so far? Or did you do something notable in the morning?" I asked because Tyler doesn't.

Lucas brightens. He likes the attention I'm giving him. "Yeah, actually—my shift at Pilgrim World was actually kind of fun today."

"Really?" I say, attempting to coax more information out of him.

I need him to keep talking. The longer he talks, the less I have to acknowledge the agonizingly slow passage of time. I do not want to glance at my phone. I do not want to count down the minutes until the cookie batter is ready. I do not want to be aware of how long I have to stand here.

Lucas thankfully elaborates. "Oh yeah, I was helping set up for the Harvest Festival—getting all the decorations out, making sure the booths are ready to go. You guys should come. It'll be a lot of fun." By the end of it, he looks smug.
Now, unlike Tyler's invitation, I can not brush past this one.

"Definitely, sounds like a blast," I accept, nodding my head to reinforce it.

Tyler perks up at the proposition. "Oh, yeah! I've been meaning to check it out. Might as well try going this year."

"Nice! You guys won't regret it." Lucas radiates enthusiasm. It's unsettling.

Regret.

Why did he say that? Am I going to regret saying yes?

"Anyhow! After work, I was hanging out with Carter and Jonah. We were talking about baseball practice, so we figured, why not? I'm gonna meet up later with them to get some practice in." Lucas says while miming a bat swing, as if the visual aid somehow enhances or supplements the statement. It doesn't.

Tyler doesn't react. Or rather, his face doesn't. But my hand is still on his shoulder, and I feel the shift, which is just barely there. A slight straightening of his back. Lucas doesn't notice. He's too caught up in himself, too comfortable.

But I do.

Tyler is nervous. Odd. I would have assumed he'd be eager to talk about them. Wasn't he asking about them just the other day?

"That sounds cool," Tyler says, his tone a bit strained. He claps his hands together and his thumb rolls against the knuckle of his other hand.

Oh, come on, Tyler. Don't you know that by being nervous, it can cause problems with your vocal cords? Tension in the larynx disrupts airflow, making it harder to be articulate. You sound terrible. Take a Communication class.

Lucas, in his infinite unawareness, continues. "Yeah, it'll be nice, just getting back into the swing of things. Literally." He laughs at his own joke. "I haven't practiced in a while, and Carter was saying he's a little rusty too."

Tyler nods. His fingers keep moving, now fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. He tries to be subtle. It would be—if you weren't looking for it.

I am.

Lucas is still riding the high of his own conversation. "You guys should stop by for that too. Just to watch, no pressure."

Tyler hesitates. It's not a purposeful pause, not one of those meaningful ones used for emphasis.

He swallows. "Yeah, maybe."

Lucas grins, taking his hesitance for enthusiasm.

My hand is still on Tyler's shoulder. I press down, then squeeze. Enough to be felt, not enough to be questioned. "Sounds like a solid plan," I say, because it's the response expected of me.

Tyler lets out a small breath. Lucas doesn't catch it.

I do.

And I don't like it.

I don't like being this perceptive of him, of all people.

"I think the cookie dough is ready?" I say, watching Tyler closely.

Tyler looks at me, confused.

"Huh?"

"The cookie dough is ready." I repeat, this time with more certainty, giving him an opportunity to retreat from this conversation before he embarrasses himself further.

He finally catches on, though not without looking at me strangely. "Yeah! Yeah. I'm just going to check." He quickly strides toward the refrigerator.

Lucas glances at me, tilting his head to the side. I shrug, offering a sympathetic expression before mouthing the word loser. Lucas mumbles something about loners and how he wants to hang out with Tyler more.

Tyler returns with the bowl of the now-chilled cookie dough. He sets it down near the baking tray. Lucas heads towards him, and I step to the side, toward the drawer where I had retrieved the whisk earlier. Opening it now, I find an array of cookie cutters—same design, same color, the only difference being the size.

"Hey, Tyler, do you want me to grab a cookie cutter or—?" I ask, attempting to anticipate his answer.

"No, it's fine, we are going to be using this cookie scooper." Tyler says.

I close the drawer before moving to them. I stop halfway. I see the supposed cookie scooper in Tyler's hand.

A kitchen utensil with a grey, rubberized plastic handle, I'm guessing silicone. The scoop itself was a shiny silver color with nothing clinging to its metallic surface. It's slightly concave, the tip being rounded. It was purposefully designed for one thing.

I stare at him.

"Tyler?"

"Hmm?"

"That's an ice cream scoop."

"Huh." Tyler said dumbly. "Aren't they the same?"

"No. No. What you're holding is an ice cream scoop. Look at the handle's coloring—it's a muted grey. Scoops are color-coordinated. Grey handles are for mashed potatoes, jumbo cupcakes, and ice cream. What you're looking for is a plum-colored handle." I pause before amending, "Unless you're making large cookies, then it's pink." I nod slightly, "I think."

Lucas interjects. "... I think I saw an ad saying a scoop like that could be used for cookie dough?"

"There are dishers and then there are ice cream scoops. Dishers are used for cookie dough and fruit. You could use it for ice cream, but it is not recommended. Ice cream scoops—" I glance at Tyler's hand, at the object that derailed what should have been a simple task "—are used for ice cream."

They stare at me blankly.

Something is wrong.

A realization settles in—I haven't answered Lucas's question. A mistake. A misstep. A failure. My throat tightens. Panic rises. I need to fix my mistake.

"You could use the ice cream scoop for cookie dough," I say hurriedly. "But not a disher to scoop ice cream. Unless explicitly stated by the manufacturer."

There.

The world steadies itself.

"That's... That's actually an interesting tidbit! I'll keep that in mind the next time I buy a scoop." Tyler claps—well, it's more like he presses his wrists together because he's still holding the scoop. It's such a strange gesture, just put down the scoop if you want to clap. But I let it pass because he used the correct terminology for scoop.

He places his left hand on the rim of the bowl, grasping it, before scooping with his right. Once. Twice. It's excessive.

"So, Lucas, how many cookies do you want? Two? Four? Six? A dozen?"

The scoop hovers over the baking pan, and he shakes it slightly until the dough drops.

"I think... four is fine? Wouldn't want it to be a chore to eat." Lucas responds as Tyler scoops again.

Tyler huffs in mock disappointment. "Lucas, really? Believing that cookies are a chore to eat? Patrick, tell him he's wrong."

"You're wrong," I say, flatly.

"Thank you." Tyler nods, using my words as credibility.

Lucas rolls his eyes. "Chrissy doesn't have a sweet tooth."

"A shame. Truly. A tragedy." Tyler says sadly.

"Anyway—can I use your restroom, Tyler?" Lucas asks, shifting on his feet, his expression flickering between discomfort and urgency. Or pain.

"Hm? Oh! Yeah. Use the one upstairs, the other one doesn't have any toiletry." Tyler said as he scooped another heap of the cookie dough. That's what, eight times now?

"Thanks!" Lucas hurriedly made his way out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

"... So, how is your day, Patrick?" Tyler grabs the baking tray and waltzes over to the preheated oven.

The question catches me off guard. He's asking? Me?

"Great," I say automatically. And then—silence.

Think of something. Anything. I'm thinking.

"I've been eating..." I dragged the word out, my brain was scraping for topics. "Uh. A continental breakfast." The sentence feels foreign in my mouth. "A plate of blueberry pancakes. Powdered sugar. Alongside a small bowl of sliced strawberries and blackberries." A pause. "There was also a pat of butter on that plate." I-want-to-cave-in-your-skull.

"The plates had these floral patterns of cream, green, and pink." The words kept coming, and I barely registered them. "Kyle—the owner—is great. Recommended that I try eating at the Jericho Café & Tavern. Did you know they have the best food in the immediate area?"

I smile, politely. Was he even listening?

"Pancakes are always great. I've eaten at the Jericho Café before. If you do go, you should try the steak or Reuben," Tyler suggests as he sets down the baking tray for a moment, slipping on a red oven mitt onto his right hand.

Grudgingly, I made a mental note to do so—just to get it over with in case Tyler decided to pester me about it.

"Is there any trouble making reservations there?" I ask, my stomach curling with trepidation. There aren't a lot of people living in Jericho, and even fewer restaurants. Jericho Café, to my knowledge, is the only restaurant in Jericho. Hell, I have to take an Uber out of Jericho to eat at a McDonald's or a Dunkin' Donuts.

Tyler clears his throat. "I... don't know?" He opens the oven, grabs the baking tray, and slides it inside.

"You... don't know?" I repeat. This is ridiculous.

"I do walk-ins," Tyler says as he closes the oven door.

I blink. "Don't you have to wait around twenty minutes for a table?"

"Yeah. Why?"

I am appalled.

Make a goddamn reservation next time, Tyler.

"Never mind. Yesterday, I went to Frocks with Lucas, after his shift," I say, deliberately omitting Carter and Jonah. They didn't even go inside, instead, they wandered off to some antique shop, aptly named ANTIQUE SHOP. I continued. "We were looking at their display case, trying to find something for Chrissy. Eventually, he got her an Aether ribbed cashmere scarf in the bitter orange coloring."

I had to force him to get it. It paired well with her skin tone—she'd gotten it tanned recently, she has a warm undertone, for Christ's sake! And Lucas, in all his infinite wisdom, wanted to buy her a white polka-dot blue pullover sailor dress (I'm positive it's a bouffant) by Laura Ashley because she likes vintage clothing. Because she likes the color blue. Stupid. If it were me, I'd have gotten her a Hermès Nepali cashmere stole, also in orange. A better choice.

"After that, we went to the Farmer's market. Then I went to the Weathervane," I say. And for some reason, a nameless dread starts to creep in.

"Oh? Did you do something interesting there?" Tyler asks, suddenly amused.

"No? I ordered baked goods—you know this." I answer, frowning.

"Are you sure?" He asked in this teasing tone. "Didn't you meet someone there?"

A beat. Something shifts.

A cold sweat breaks over me.

He knew.

He knew.

He knew.

Tyler knew.

He probably served her—Wednesday—her expresso. He probably knows her name. He probably watched me, saw me leaning in, saw me talk to her, saw me write my number on that goddamn napkin—with that terrible pen.

He saw everything.

And now, he could talk.

He could tell Lucas. He could ruin me.

"Hey, Patrick, relax," Tyler says, his voice edged with a concern that I couldn't tell was real or fake. "It's fine, okay? I mean, I think it's great, actually." He lets out a breathless laugh like he's actually happy about this. "You, uh—so you like her?"

I should stand up straighter.

Good posture oozes confidence. Chin up, shoulders back, and chest forward. That's what I should be doing. Right now. Right this second. I am in control. That's how it works. That's always how it works. I should not be slumping.

But my hands are spasming.

"I mean, seriously, Patrick—it's cool," Tyler continues his earnest tirade, completely oblivious to the fact my lungs are collapsing in on themselves. "I think she's—y'know, she's kinda weird, but in, like, a good way? She's, uh, definitely a step up from, like, half the girls around here. Kooky?"

I should have worn a tie.

An Armani. Burgundy, maybe? Or a deep navy. A Windsor knot—no, a half-Windsor. Or Pratt. Anything but an Eldredge. Eldredge knots are for men who try too hard.

"I promise, I'm not gonna say anything," Tyler says, trying to be sincere. But I don't believe him.

I can't.

He will blather to Lucas.

I can see it.

Lucas would look at me with a distant expression. Something I can not fix. Carter would raise an eyebrow, his lips curling into a knowing, self-satisfied smirk. Jonah would scoff, shaking his head like he always knew I was off.

He would destroy everything.

Every single careful step I've taken, every deliberate word of flattery, every subtle move I've ever made since the beginning of the school year. Torn down in an instant.

I would be a deviant.

Tyler has a way back in.

Jonah and Carter would let him slip back into their good graces, they would gleefully welcome him back with open arms, if only for the sheer delight of watching me fall.

"Patrick, you look like you're gonna pass out," Tyler's voice cuts in again, genuinely worried. "Breathe, okay? Just—Just sit down or something? Do you need water?"

I should kill him.

Decapitate him. Hollow out his skull. Turn his skin into a lampshade—leather treatment. Bone bleach his skull, just polish the edges. Set it in my room at the Sinclair. Make it a conversational piece.

"My God, Patrick, where did you get such a cool lampshade?"

"Oh, that? Etsy. By, uh, Tyler Galpin. You should see my bedposts."

Tyler is looking at me now, his brows are furrowed, his voice quieting, I think.

"Patrick. You're shaking." A pause. "Hey, c'mon, man. I mean it—I won't say anything. I'm happy for you, okay?"

My throat tightens, my stomach twists, and nausea rolls over me in a choking wave. I'm dry-heaving. Dry-heaving. My vision begins to blur. I blink rapidly, willing myself to get a grip, to stop shaking, to—

God.

God, I wish I had my overcoat on.

Not because it's cold. Not because it makes my shoulders broader.

But because in its left—no, right—pocket was Valium.

But it's fine.

It's fine.

I force a slow breath.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

I don't bother counting to five, I won't make it past three.

"You're happy for me?" I say, leveling Tyler with a look, my voice was smooth and steady.

Tyler doesn't respond, he studies me like he's waiting for me to keel over. But then he nods. "Yeah, dude. I mean, Wednesday, huh? Never thought you'd go for the, uh—" he waves a hand vaguely. "Goth, stab-you-in-your-sleep type, but, hey, I respect it."

I'm irritated at that last comment.

I tilt my head, pretending to consider it. "You think so?"

Some of the tension eases from his shoulders. "Yeah, man. And look, you don't need to freak out—I'm not gonna say anything, I promise."

I laugh, the idea of me freaking out is absurd. "Tyler, please. I wasn't freaking out."

He raises an eyebrow. "Dude, you looked like you were about to collapse. You're still kinda pale, again—do you wanna sit down? Get some water?"

I wave dismissively at him while shaking my head. "Honestly, Tyler, you worry too much." I flash a smile. "But I appreciate the concern."

He didn't look entirely convinced, but he let out a sigh, nodding. "Alright, if you say so..."

I pull out my phone and glance at the time.

I want to get out of here.

"Speaking of concerns," I say, as if a thought just occurred to me, "I have to make an appointment with my dentist. Nearly forgot. Very Important." I glance at him with a serious expression. "You know how much care I put into my teeth."

It works—Tyler snorts before rolling his eyes. "Yeah, Patrick, we know. The whole school knows. The, uh, fluoride monologue really made its rounds."

I let out a good-natured hum. "And rightfully so. Teeth that aren't properly taken care of, can and will, be a deal-breaker."

"Alright. But, like... seriously, are you good?" He asks.

I exhale, stepping out to the kitchen, Tyler follows me. I move toward the coat rack by the door. My hands are steady as I grab my overcoat from the notch and slip it on. The familiar weight settles over my shoulders. It helps. Somewhat.

My fingers find the right pocket.

The Valium is there. A small comfort.

I smooth out the cashmere fabric, exhaling through my nose. I glance at Tyler. "Tyler. I am excellent."

It's a lie.

But I say it so smoothly, so easily, that even I almost believe it.

Then, before he can scrutinize me, I unlock the door and step outside.

---

It's cold. I shut the door behind me; it makes a clicking noise.

Immediately, I reached into my pocket, my fingers curling around the familiar bottle. Prescription (I had no clue whose, I stole it). CVS. My palm presses against the cap, a quick twist, the soft rattle of pills against the plastic. Then, once open, I pop two into my mouth. Five milligrams each.

A necessity.

No water.

I should've planned better. Should've grabbed a bottle of water before stepping outside, but there was no way in hell I was taking it in front of Tyler. His father's a deputy. And while Tyler himself is a harmless wimp, he still has that grating sense of morality. That persistent, bleeding heart of decency.

He would've asked about it.

He would've thought about it.

And I would've been an idiot to let him see me do drugs.

So now, I have to do it raw.

I work my tongue, gathering spit in my mouth (really, the correct term is saliva), tilting my head back as I force the pills down. The chalkiness of it clings to the back of my throat, but I managed to swallow anyway. It burns.

I tuck the bottle back into my overcoat's pocket, my fingers pressing against the fabric for reassurance that it's still there.

I sit on the white patio steps. Tyler's house should be blue. Not brown.

I remember it being blue.

Blue is a better color anyway.

I close my eyes. The Valium will kick in soon.

Any second now.

Maybe I should've just taken the whole bottle.

Not for any dramatic, self-destructive reason. I'm not stupid. I know what would happen. But if I did, I wouldn't have any left. And that's far worse.

I hear the door creek open behind me. I hear footsteps crunching against the patio. Lucas.

He steps beside me, his hands shoved into his pockets, his posture loose. Casual. It's cold, and Lucas agrees with me. He was wearing his Legendary Whitetails jacket.

"You good?" he asks.

"Hmmm." I offer vaguely.

Lucas hums, rocking back on his heels.

Then, adding casually, "Hey... Thanks, man."

"For what?" I say, confused.

"For—y'know." He gestures vaguely with his hands. "Helping me with Chrissy's gift yesterday. And for today. Hanging out with Tyler." He pauses, then adds, "You being here helped. I got to reconnect with him."

I process this. It isn't an unfamiliar feeling, receiving gratitude—I get it often enough—but something about Lucas's sincerity makes me pause.

I am flattered.

Tilting my head slightly. "You were going to buy her that polka-dot disaster. I saved you from ruining your relationship."

Lucas groans. "I knew you were gonna say that."

"It's true."

"Yeah, yeah, fine." He mutters, shaking his head. "Still—thanks."

I nod. "You're welcome."

Lucas watches me, expecting something, then sighs. He pulls something from his right jacket pocket—a ziplock bag—and he holds it out.

"Here," he says. "Take 'em."

I glance down. Cookies. The ones we made.

I don't reach for them. My fingers feel detached and heavy.

"Why?"

Lucas shrugs. "Dunno. Maybe I'll just get Chrissy something else. Or ask Tyler to bake more." He shifts on his feet, looking uncertain. "I guess I just... wanted to."

It's a flimsy explanation, to the point it's bordering gratuitous.

Slowly, I take them.

Lucas nods to himself, then mutters something about cleaning up before stepping back inside.

The bag of cookies sits in my hand.

I stare down at them, frowning.

I still don't know why he gave them to me.

Maybe he did it out of generosity.

Maybe he did it to get out of owing me a favor.

Maybe he read the new issue of STAND in the Changi magazine. I think there's an article in one of its pages (Page 6 or Page 14) covering the rise of gifting culture, male friendship, and the importance of tangible gestures.

I made a mental note to ask him later.

---

Author Comments: GAH! I spent too much time on this—much more than needed! SORRY! Anyway, I was listening to a lot of Michael Jackson while writing this, so it definitely influenced the music monologue in the beginning. Though my favorite song from the Invincible album has to be "Heaven Can Wait", and my favorite from all his albums has to be "In the Closet"—but I definitely can't see Patrick listening to either.

I had like, three choices for the hotel/inn/place that Patrick would stay at: Sinclair Inn (cause I really loved it), the Ellis Inn (cause of the name), and Apple Blossom Inn (actual inn from Wednesday). I really wanted to make this chapter about baking! I remember Tyler making a cake for Wednesday on her birthday, and I remember that sausage scene where Patrick was crying because he didn't know if he was cooking it right.

THANK YOU!