Chapter Seven
Nic
My apartment is full of fire, both intentional and unintentional, and I can’t help but see it as a metaphor for my life. The
air is thick with the competing scents of too many candles burning at once—at least two per surface—along with the charred
smell of completely torched pie crust. The pie stares judgmentally back at me from the oven rack, its top blackened and misshapen,
with thick, burned filling oozing from every burst seam. My phone yammers on in the background with a video on-screen: “Troubleshooting
Your Pie Crust.”
Bit late for that, honestly.
“Fuck you, internet baking princess,” I growl, slamming the oven door closed and sending the pie sliding back inside.
“Now, if it doesn’t come out right the first time, don’t get frustrated, y’all,” she says, gesturing with pink floral oven
mitts. I stab the pause button and throw my phone in the freezer, then backtrack and take it out again, the plastic case cold
to the touch. I don’t know why I did that. I’m not thinking straight. My brain is more of a disaster than usual, and now I
have a blackened, oozing cherry pie. If I throw it away, I’m throwing away all the money I spent on ingredients and all the
time I put into mixing, chilling, rolling, filling, crimping, and swearing. But if I eat it, it’ll be nothing but ash on my
tongue. I’m about ready to flop down on the tile floor and cry.
“Please tell me you own a fire extinguisher,” Ian says from behind me, and I nearly jump out of my own skin.
“FUCK,” I shout. One of my oven mitts flies off my hand and right into Ian’s face as I whirl around with my hands up in defense.
He catches it and lays it on the kitchen island, totally unruffled.
“Guess you didn’t hear us come in,” he says, deliberately breathing only through his mouth.
Willow leans on the countertop with an apologetic smile. “We did knock, but between your cursing and YouTube girl’s lecturing,
I’m not surprised you didn’t notice. Why do you do this if it frustrates you so much?”
I rip the other oven mitt off and slam it down on the counter, breathing through the urge to scream.
“Because I’m a fucking chemist. Baking should be the easiest thing in the world for me, but all I can ever make are ash pies
and cookie rocks.”
“Maybe because you only ever bake when you’re upset?” Willow offers gently, shaggy hair flopping into their eyes.
I puff up with irritation and start to protest, but... well. That’s an entirely valid point, actually.
“I just got off the phone with my dad,” I say, and Willow nods with a knowing “Ahh, I see.”
“What was he on about this time?” Ian asks as he opens all the windows, then flaps one of my kitchen towels at the smoke detector.
Much appreciated. Having the entire apartment complex irritated at me for setting off the alarms would be the absolute perfect
scorched cherry on top of this turd pie of a day.
I collapse onto one of the stools at the island and sigh. “All the usual bullshit. When he stops talking about his latest
girlfriend of the year and how awesome whatever state he’s living in this month is, all he does is ask about when I’m going
to get a real job and find a husband.”
“A real job ?” Willow sputters, their cheeks flushing red with outrage. “You’re a goddamn scientist.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, but nothing is ever going to come of my ‘little experiments,’ and no man wants to marry a woman in science,
didn’t you know?”
“He did not say that,” Willow says, snarling more ferociously than their dog ever would.
“Oh, he did. And he always will. Couldn’t he at least say that no woman will ever want to marry a scientist? Can he not give me even that much dignity?”
“You could just not answer the phone, you know,” Ian says. “You’re not obligated to speak to him if he always makes you feel like garbage.”
I’m silent for a long moment. Willow gives a quiet tsk .
“You called him , didn’t you?” they ask.
I nod, drowning in my total patheticness.
“Oh, honey, I wish you’d stop. You know you’re chasing something he’s never going to give you.”
Well, I learned from the best, didn’t I? Not like he can ever stop doing the same thing, looking for some woman, some place,
some thing to make him feel whole again after Mom. It shouldn’t hurt anymore—I haven’t seen him in eight years— but it’s like a blade
in my chest all the same. Fact is, though, if I don’t call him, I will never hear from him ever again. And he’s the only person
in my life who ever knew my mom. Every memory I have of her involves him, too. If I forget him...
I used to think it was my fault, that there was something wrong with me that made people not want to stay. But when I was
away at grad school, I ended up with the opposite problem—I had a hard time making new friends because I spent all my time
up late chatting or gaming with my Seattle group. Willow, Grace, and I had so many late nights playing video games and chatting
on Discord, and we even managed to occasionally pull in Ian, though he’s awful at video games. Skylar was always texting and
video-chatting me at random times. Marco and I fell out of touch as predicted. That’s just how he is. He has his own issues.
Besides, he’s working as a nurse while going to school to be a nurse practitioner, both full time, so his social time is limited.
From the day I met Skylar, she’s actively worked to make sure I was always included. She was the one to introduce herself
to me in bio, then invite me out with her other friends, over to study, and everywhere else. She chose me. She loved me—as
a friend, at least. My own father couldn’t do that (and wow, it took a lot of years of therapy to admit that). Skylar’s the
one who taught me that it shouldn’t be like that. That I had a choice.
And now she’s leaving.
Willow must sense the spiral, because they take up the oven mitts and pull the destroyed pie out of the oven, then grab three
spoons from my silverware drawer.
“You know, I suspect that under this slightly overcooked crust, there is probably some delicious filling. Ian, the evening’s
entertainment, please?”
Ian flops down on my couch and brings up Netflix on my Xbox, selecting Queer Eye from the Continue Watching list. Willow follows, the pie and spoons in hand, blowing out my excessive candles on their way
over. Our weekly Queer Eye and Cry session is officially underway, thankfully no longer virtual. It’s so much better in person. Willow takes the lead,
plunging their spoon into the charred pie and pulling out a spoonful of untainted gooey filling.
“Oooh, cherry is my favorite,” they say, and take a bite. Their eyes fall closed, and they keep the spoon in their mouth for
a long moment with a pornographic moan.
My text alert goes off, and I snatch my phone off the counter, wiping the flour thumbprint off the screen as I walk over to
the couch to join them. A message from Kira glows on the screen.
Kira: This is my day:
Kira: You busy? Wanna save me?
I smile at the screen as I drop down next to Ian. “Hey, Kira’s having a bad day, apparently. Do you mind if she joins us?”
“Of course not,” Ian says around the spoon in his mouth. Willow grunts their agreement, totally focused on the TV.
Nic: Oh no, did your interview not go well?
Nic: We’re doing Queer Eye and Cry if you wanna join us
Kira: Can I bring whiskey?
Kira: I’m bringing whiskey
Nic: Bring it. I have ginger ale.
Kira: On my way.
Kira: And thanks. ??
I smile to myself and grab a fourth spoon from the kitchen. When I return, Willow and Ian pin me with identical raised eyebrows.
“You and Kira have been spending a lot of time together lately. Anything you want to tell us?” Ian asks with a sweet, hopeful
smile. I blush and shove my phone into my hoodie pocket, focusing intently on ripping the burned top crust apart with my spoon.
“No, stop,” I say, forcing the grin off my face. “She’s part of our group now, so I’m trying to get to know her. She’s just
a friend.”
And I realize... yeah, actually. She is a friend. We haven’t known each other long or anything, but we’re not just partners in crime anymore, I think. I like her.
And I’m looking forward to her coming over.
I scoop out a big spoonful of cherry filling, and what do you know? It’s actually delicious.
By the time Kira arrives, the pie is half-destroyed and Willow, Ian, and I are already weeping messes. I open the door to
greet her and find her standing on my welcome mat in an oversized, long-sleeved Seattle Sounders shirt, hair still wet from
the shower and a bottle of whiskey sticking out of her purse. She summons a weak smile and wipes a tear off my cheek, then
hands me the whiskey.
“Fix us some drinks?” she asks softly.
I study the label for a second, then look back to Kira, taking in her tired, red-rimmed eyes, the little downturn at the corner
of her mouth. Wordlessly, I throw my arms around her neck and pull her in for a hug, which she returns instantly, clinging
like it’s just what she needed. The last bit of my own tension unwinds too, and when she breaks away, I beckon her inside,
clicking the door quietly shut behind us.
In the kitchen, I clear away enough of the baking wreckage to set down the bottle of whiskey and two science-themed mugs (“I
make horrible science puns... periodically ” and “GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUNding for scientific research”). What? It’s all I have. I live alone; why do I need tea mugs
and water glasses and wineglasses and tumblers and whatever else supposed adults have in their cabinets?
Kira and I prepare our drinks in silence, letting the heaviness of the day melt while Karamo’s soothing voice instructs us
through the TV, telling us to lay down our burdens and accept help from the people who care about us. I want so badly to ask
for details about what happened, what’s got her looking so painfully sad, but that’s not what she needs now. She’s looking
for comfort. I can help with that.
Drinks in hand, we join Willow and Ian, who scoot to the far side so Kira can squeeze onto the couch next to me, until all
four of us are basically in each other’s laps. A puppy pile of tears, whiskey, and sticky-sweet goodness. My leg is warm where
Kira’s thigh is draped over mine, and I can’t help but grin as she shovels terrible pie into her mouth, burned crust and all,
and the first Queer Eye –induced tears well in her eyes.
My heart aches pleasantly in my chest.
I’m really glad she’s here. I’m glad we’re friends. I haven’t made a real, genuine friend that’s stuck around since college.
Since Skylar formed our group, really. But Kira seems like she might be the real thing. She actually reaches out to me, wants
to talk to me, and trusts me with her bad-day bruised heart. It’s such a novel feeling, after years of utterly failing to
connect with anyone, to finally have someone who matters to me, and who I matter to.
I smile to myself and slouch deeper into the couch, into Kira’s side.
Look how this day turned around after all.