Chapter 8
Cameron
"Does Marlon like Italian food?" I know we have a bag of penne somewhere. Where is it? I put Trevor on speakerphone so I have both hands free while scouting through every drawer and cupboard in the kitchen.
"He likes to eat," Trevor jokes with a chuckle. "Don't worry about it, Cam. I'll handle dinner. You can focus on uh, you know, preparing yourself."
He would have said that a lot ruder if he weren't at work. Even the implication behind Trevor's tactful words makes me blush.
"No," I argue, ignoring my flushed face and focusing on my frazzled search. "I want to cook for us. I'm going to cook tonight for me and you, to test it out and make sure I have this recipe figured out, and then I'll cook it again for all of us tomorrow."
Me.
Trevor.
And Marlon.
I'll be helpful and make a good dinner for them…then they'll be downright wicked while helping themselves to me.
"Fine, if that's really what you want to do, have at it. I'll be late tonight though so don't cook too early. Got this M915 being a real pain in my ass."
"What's that?" I finally find the penne hiding between a few bags of potato chips. Next time we go to the store, Trevor and I need to stock up on more food and less snacks. I might not be much of a chef, but I'll have plenty of time to learn. I can start cooking for us. With Trevor working, it's only fair I take over the bulk of household things, right?
So long as I keep taking my meds as directed, it won't be such a struggle to juggle taking care of myself and keeping up the house. Or at least that's what I tell myself. I know it'll be easier said than done, but I have to stay positive.
And keep myself distracted.
If I worry too much about the upcoming threesome then I might chicken out. Better to worry about dinner instead of worrying about what a real cock in my ass is going to feel like.
"It's a type of truck," Trevor explains, but that's not the type of horsepower rolling around in my head. Then he explains what exactly is wrong with it, but to be honest, it all sounds like gibberish to me.
I've never been much of a car guy. I don't even have my driver's license.
While Trevor talks about the whatcha-call-it being shot but that means a different thing-a-ma-jing needs to be replaced, I space out trying to find out where the marina sauce has gone.
"Did you eat breakfast?" The question takes me by surprise. I was only half-heartedly listening to Trevor's work talk while trying to figure out if marinara sauce and tomato paste are the same thing. No, it turns out.
"Er, no." I forgot. I saw Trevor off in the early hours of the morning and then went back to sleep. Slept-in. Showered and dressed, took my meds, and then got distracted by…something. I forgot that too. By the time Trevor called to check in on me, morning had given way to afternoon.
"Well, you won't skip lunch. Will you?" Trevor asks it like an order instead of like a question. Shit, when he gets like this…
"No. I'll eat something now."
"I gotta drive into town and pick something up before I head home. Do you need me to grab anything from the store?" he asks.
"No, we're good." At least, I think we are. I'll need to check again.
"Do you want anything from the store?"
I can hear Trevor's stupid sexy smirk in his voice. All I can do is imagine him leaning back in his office chair with a cocky look on his big dumb handsome face. Damn it, he's only been gone for a few hours and I already miss him. He's right though. There is something I want from the store. I don't need it, but I do want it.
"More soda," I tell him.
"Can I get a please in there somewhere?"
He's so bossy. It's crazy how much I let him get away with. And even crazier how much I enjoy it.
"Soda. Pretty please," I ask with a smile.
"You got it, Cam."
"Wait, really though, is Italian okay? I was thinking maybe baked ziti." I look over at everything I've put together. I should have all I need to make that.
"It's fine, Cam. You can make whatever you want." Trevor chuckles. "Dinner really isn't the point. Tomorrow is all about the dessert."
I start to freak out. "I didn't think about dessert."
"Cam…you're the dessert."
Oh. Right.
◆◆◆
With my head full of ideas for dinner, it's hard to decide what to feed myself for lunch. I end up grazing on cereal and chips while I double-check to make sure I have all the ingredients. The cheese is the only thing I have doubts about. It calls for ricotta, mozzarella cheese, and parmesan.
We don't have any of that in the fridge, but I do find a block of cheddar.
And a hunk of easy-melt cheese.
Trevor must have gotten these for nachos or chip dip, but I figure it'll work for baked ziti too. Cheese is cheese, right?
If this substitution doesn't work out tonight I can ask Trevor to pick up those other cheeses tomorrow.
Since Trevor won't be home until late, I spend the rest of the day puttering around the house, finding things to do while scrolling on my phone for the very best recipe. I get a load of laundry started and then unpack a few boxes.
I'm proud of myself when I get the bathroom fully sorted out and stocked up. Slowly, but surely and sweetly, this place is starting to feel like a home.
When it's time to get started on dinner, I find myself overwhelmed by all the different recipes I've saved. That gets me nowhere fast, so I look up videos. I find one with a grandma and follow along. Pausing and rewatching as needed.
By the time I get it into the oven, I've narrowly avoided grating off my thumb once.
Okay. Twice.
But it barely hurts at all.
I set an alarm on my phone and find something to do while waiting for the baked ziti to bake itself. I wander up the stairs and go into the extra bedroom that's still acting as our computer room. There's a particular box I haven't been able to look at since I packed it away.
Today is as good as any to confront what's inside: my art supplies and sketchbooks.
I tear open the big cardboard box and look inside. It's a mess. I just dumped everything in there without thinking about it. Neat and safe packing had been the least of my worries. I'm not so sure my charcoal sticks survived the move. Fuck, what about my paintbrushes?
I paw through the box for damage assessment.
Oh, my colored pencils. They've always been my favorite. One by one, I admire all the different colors I've collected over the years. There's a brand new set, sharpened to perfection but they've never touched paper.
Last year, all my dreams came true when I started college. I was so excited. So hopeful. I finally felt like I made it. That I was a real artist. And yet it fell apart fast. I barely made it through fall semester and then once spring kicked off, well, I burned out.
Everything just became too much for me to handle.
And then when I got my ADHD diagnosis…I still don't understand why finally having the answers to what's been wrong with me my whole life made it worse.
The box is such a mess. I know I don't have the energy to sort through it all and get it organized. But looking at the colored pencils makes me feel better. I take them out and snatch one of my sketchbooks.
I last used it in a drawing class. Pages and pages of anatomy studies. Looking at it after a long break and fresh perspective makes me see it with new eyes. I remember I hated doing this at the moment and thought I was horrible, but they're actually…good?
Yeah, I think with a smile, I'm a pretty good artist.
I sit down at my desk with my sketches and my colored pencils. It doesn't look so empty now. That's nice. I smile as I admire all the loving details on the bodies I drew.
Fat and thin. White and brown. Men and women.
Though I'll admit my sketches of guys are far better. The only time I've ever drawn women is for school assignments. Everything I've drawn on my own has been guys.
Huh.
The alarm on my phone goes off. What was that for? Oh, right, dinner. I silence the alarm and turn to the next page in my sketchbook. No need to rush off to check the dish in the oven. Trevor loves everything well done anyway.
Looking over my art reminds me there was a reason I got accepted into art school in the first place. It wasn't just a fluke or a once-in-a-lifetime chance. Trevor's right. Like he usually is. All I need is a break to recover and get myself into a new routine. Then I'll be ready to go back to college.
And get back into my art.
I'm still flipping through pages, wondering about online classes, when a horrid smell tickles the inside of my nose. What's that?
Oh, shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I rush down the stairs and dart into the kitchen. How could I forget? I set an alarm so I wouldn't forget. By the time I get there, the fire alarm is going off. I grab a dish towel, wrapping it twice around my hand to protect myself, instead of wasting time to find an oven mitt.
What I pull out doesn't even count as food anymore. It's some sort of crispy brunt monstrosity. I abandon it on top of the oven and cough as I kill the heat. The fire alarm is still shrieking. My shoulders shoot up in a feeble attempt to try and shield my ears.
Too damn loud. I stand on my tippy-toes at first, fanning the towel in the air to clear away the smoky stench. Once silence returns to the house, I survey the damage. It's hopeless.
Rest in peace, baked ziti.
I take it out of the house and dump it, dish and all, directly into the garbage can.
"Hey, new neighbor."
I look over the white picket fence and come face to face with one-half of the couple who live next door to us. Shit, I've been caught. Judging by the smirk on the man's face, he knows it too.
"Um, hi."
The urge to bolt back into the house and hide makes my toes itchy. My face must be as red as the neighbor's hair. He looks like a natural ginger with a light spray of brown freckles across his nose and dusted over his cheeks.
"Nice to finally meet you. I'm Julian Flores," he greets while extending his hand for a handshake.
I reach over the fence to accept his gesture. Julian's hands are silky smooth and blissfully dry compared to my clammy nightmare. And his grip is surprisingly strong. He's as skinny as I am, but I'm just realizing he's much shorter than me.
Why's everyone fun-sized around here?
"Uh, yeah. Same. I'm Cameron Green. Moore. I meant Moore. I'm Cameron Moore, sorry. I just got married so it's still all new."
I fucked that up big time. I'm going to have to start practicing introducing myself in the mirror or something. I'm Cameron Moore, husband of Corporal Trevor Moore. Married and gay and happy and that's all anybody else ever needs to know about us.
"Newlyweds?" Julian smiles at me like a cat who got some cream. "Congratulations. And welcome to the neighborhood. Crazy that we're just meeting now, right? I popped over the other day, but nobody was home."
"Yeah? Sorry, we must have been out."
That's a lie. I heard the knock at the door, but I ignored it. Pretended I wasn't there. I wish I could pretend I was invisible right now, but Julian's got me pinched between his perfectly manicured fingers.
"Understandable. You and your husband must be so busy getting settled in. How lucky we've run into each other now and have plenty of time to chat." And to snoop, apparently. Julian peers curiously at my trash can. "So. What happened here?"
I wipe my bangs away from my forehead. Despite the blistering heat, Julian's in a polo shirt and white jeans. I don't know how he can stand the heat like that. I'm in shorts and a tank top but I'm still overheating. "That's dinner. Or it was supposed to be dinner. I messed up real bad and the cheese got all burned."
Julian wiggles his nose. "What was it supposed to be?"
"Baked ziti."
"I see," he says with wide eyes. "Well. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again."
"Maybe another time." I shrug my shoulders. I consider the ziti a lost cause for today and I'm already thinking about what else I can serve for dinner tonight. Something that doesn't require the oven. Maybe we'll do cereal or sandwiches. "I used up most of the cheddar."
"What about your mozzarella?"
"We didn't have any so I didn't use it."
"You-you only used cheddar cheese for baked ziti?" Julian blinks at me in rapid succession.
I wilt underneath the sun…and Julian's barely concealed judgment. "Yeah?"
"Well, that won't do. I'll help you figure out a new dinner menu for tonight."
I start to protest, but Julian's already rounding the fence. He's a red-haired flurry of rapid-fire suggestions and advice. "Take me to the scene of your culinary crimes," he declares, linking arms with me and marching us both through the doorway and into the kitchen.