6. Brynn
SIX
brYNN
Max was up and out early this morning to head to the rescue with Rosy.
A fact I only know due to already being awake and in the kitchen when he left.
It’s an anniversary today that always feels bittersweet, grief and gratitude intermingling together, so sleep had eluded me.
Plus, after Max coerced me…well, it was probably not coercion, per se.
As much as I can pretend to be put out at the last-minute idea, I thrive in the kitchen, so I needed to be up to start getting things sorted.
Having someone new to plan a meal for is always exhilarating.
Whilst I know the others all appreciate and love my cooking, there’s something fulfilling about having someone new to cook for.
Growing up had been difficult until Noah’s parents had adopted me; it had just been me and my mum.
She’d had me at seventeen, and with no support, it was a struggle for her.
My biological dad wasn’t in the picture, and my maternal grandparents had turned their backs on us.
As an adult, it’s easier now to look back and see that my mum just couldn’t cope.
But as a child, it was hard having a detached parent.
Whatever money was left over from paying the rent was usually spent on alcohol, so there wasn’t always enough food to feed me, let alone cook.
On the days she was passed out and unable to take me to school, I’d sit for hours with the TV on for company, watching the cooking shows and loving how food would bring everyone together.
I’d craved that: the feeling of creating something for someone, of spending hours pouring my heart into something for another person to enjoy.
Now I’m making the dream happen. I live with people I can cook for, run a small online business selling baked goods made in our kitchen, and blog my recipes for subscribers who love to make the food I cook.
Granted, I’m not rolling in money, but I’m content.
Would it be nice to have a partner to share my life with?
Yes. However, that seems more difficult to attain than it was to build my dream career.
Being a natural caretaker and the person who likes to cook has made women look past me, dismissing me as too “submissive” or too “soft” and instead preferring a bad boy.
But would a bad boy greet you when you get home with a home-cooked meal?
Know the comfort foods you need based on your cycle?
Ask you about your day? Do the housework and not wait for approval?
Well, I’m sure there might be the odd unicorn out there, but instead I’ve been stuck at first dates and one-night stands. Nothing more.
A tinge of bitterness slithers through me; it’s thick and dark.
No, I need to be grateful. My life is good.
The right person will come along, and she will love all of me. I just need to be patient. Hope sizzles, smothering the bitter emotion as I think of Rosy. If she loves and looks after unwanted rescue animals, then maybe she’d give me a chance too.
Glancing at the time, I feel a little panic set in ahead of tonight. Does she like spicy food? Perhaps Asian or even Italian?
If Max doesn’t send me her dislikes and dietary needs soon, then I might have to wing it and just cook up a variety of dishes. Throwing on my coat and shoes, I check that the grocery list is in my pocket, then head out to pick up the items we need for tonight.
With the shopping all put away, I pluck my apron off the hook and make a start on the focaccia, so it has time to proof before baking.
Grabbing the ingredients, I add them into the bowl and mix with a spatula until it combines into a nice, sticky, wet dough.
Once I’ve covered the bowl, I place it in the oven with a bowl of hot water and set my timer.
Letting my brain tune out all my other thoughts, I go through the familiar motions of prepping and cooking, following the rough menu plan I’d put together along with the notes I’d written out earlier this morning.
Fortunately, Max messaged me when I was in the supermarket to let me know Rosy’s a vegetarian, so I only needed to make a few tweaks to ensure there are plenty of options for her.
Cooking does help to de-stress and is usually the place that centres me.
But as the time slowly gets closer to when they are due to arrive, I can’t help the nerves that creep in.
I might not have spoken to Rosy before, but I’ve seen her on the odd occasion in the building and been confined in the lift with her. Which has felt suffocating in the best way.
She shines with beauty and vibrancy. I’ve been wanting to start up a conversation with her, though I’ve been too nervous to so far. But she’s never even looked my way or acknowledged me, yet Max has managed to get her into a conversation a few times and even spent today with her.
I’m hoping that cooking a feast and having her here in our space will create the perfect setting for me to get to know her more.
Feeling a bit more confident, I shake off the remaining doubt, finish getting everything ready, and ensure the flat looks immaculate and not like a group of messy single men live here.
The front door opens, followed by the sounds of someone jostling their shoes and belongings. Noah walks in through the entryway, brushing his hand through his wavy brown hair that’s been tousled by the windy weather outside.
“Hey, I didn’t see you up this morning. How are you doing?” he asks, concern and grief lacing his tone as he makes his way over to the kettle.
We both carry that shadow of grief, yet at the same time it’s different.
His loss is a heavy burden, yet mine feels sticky, tainted by anger over the life I could’ve had—should have had.
Today’s the anniversary of when his parents adopted me into their home.
It was the start of being a part of a family for me.
A family that has been fractured since the day those unconditionally kind people died in a hit-and-run accident.
Throat feeling thick as my thoughts attempt to travel too deep into memories, I drag myself back to the present, to my brother.
“Just had to go out and get ingredients for dinner tonight, so I went early this morning,” I shrug, doing my best to keep my hands and mind busy by chopping up some potatoes.
Drink poured, he walks around to the other side of the island counter and perches onto a stool. He doesn’t say anything, his features smooth and relaxed as he watches me.
It’s been years since they passed, and I keep waiting for it to feel easier, to be able to move on and forget.
Perhaps it’s easier in the sense that I don’t feel like I’m drowning each and every day anymore, but it hits me with so much pain some days that it feels like I can’t breathe.
Like each shallow breath is agony as the air whistles through my bruised lungs.
“How are you?” I ask, guilt pricking me for failing to ask him already, too consumed in myself.
Selfish boy. That’s what my birth mother used to say whilst bitterly mourning the life I’d taken from her by entering this world. She’d apologise in the rare sober moments, but most of the time, she was inebriated.
“I know it was an overwhelming day for you when you came to live with us, but I remember all the times I’d creep down the stairs and hear them talking.
Mum was always worried that you wouldn’t feel loved enough by us, that you would struggle to adjust and not be happy.
Whether you’d get annoyed if she hugged you too much or hate her for trying to be a mother figure for you.
Dad would try to appease her, telling her that she was the best person to show you love, that there wasn’t another family in this world that could love you as much as we would.
” His voice is laced with emotion, but a small smile tugs at the side of his mouth.
“I…you didn’t tell me that before.” My shoulders had tensed up as he retold his memory, and it had played out so easily in my mind…
because that was Mum. She’d had so much love to give and had bathed me in warmth all those years.
That’s part of the problem; the first twelve years of my life, I’d been starved of having loving parents.
Then I finally had it…only for it to be taken away ten years later.
It wasn’t enough time.
Because I am selfish.
I’ve learnt to live less in the swirling hatred of loss. It’s easier now to do all the little things I once struggled to do when smothered in grief. It was back then that Noah had decided I was moving in with him and his flatmate from university.
So now we’re just a quad of trauma-bonded, codependent men. A great catch for any woman, I’m sure…
“I know. To be honest, I’d forgotten and just thought about it today,” he admits, taking a long pull from his mug.
Nodding, I can’t help but ask, “Do you think they’d laugh at us still living together at thirty?”
“No, they’d love that we’re still in each other's lives, and the fact that we’ve made a bigger family with Nate and Max. Mum would have mothered and loved them both too.” He laughs.
I chuckle along.
“Plus loads of people have complete strangers as flat- or housemates. I’d rather live with people I know.
Remember Felix from school? He bought a place with the friend he was living with, and they work together too.
I guess it’s not the ideal life goal for most people, but why live alone when you can share with friends? ”
“I’m not sure it boosts our chances of finding anyone who’d want to settle down with each of us, though,” I confide.
Downing the last of his drink, he laughs. “We’ll find the one.”
“Ones, you mean. Not one,” I point out, sliding the tomato-spiced potatoes into the bottom oven.
The timer goes off, and I spin back around, pulling the bread dough out to check on the proofing. By the time I turn back around, Noah's disappeared.