Chapter 7 #2
“Ah, I see. It’s the demeanor, right? The whole ‘guy who wants a hook for a hand’ thing. Reads like late-onset Peter Pan complex, or a tragic case of man-child syndrome?”
“No! That’s not what I meant.” His voice cranked up half a note. “You just . . . um . . . you don’t look thirty-four. You look younger. And you act . . . I mean, not in a bad way . . . your energy, it’s like . . . yeah, I mean, it just doesn’t radiate thirty-four.”
As he spoke, a warm blush painted the tips of his ears a vivid, heated pink, betraying his fluster more than his rushed and stammered words.
I chuckled. “I’ll take that as another compliment. Graciously accepted and noted in the archives of my fragile ego, preserved for future mid-life crises.”
Oliver gave a quiet huff, glancing down at the blanket pooled around his lap. His fingers curled and tugged at the fabric, methodically straightening an invisible wrinkle, then doing it again. “I . . . I don’t know what to make of you.”
“Fair. I do tend to come in high doses. Fortunately, I’m also water soluble and compatible with most antihistamines, so in the event of an allergic reaction to my personality, we do have treatment options.”
Oliver met my eyes with a teasing smirk. “I think I’ll get used to it through exposure. And lucky for you, I don’t seem to be breaking out in hives thus far.”
Yeah, he had wit. If he really let himself go, I could tell, it would keep me on my toes. I couldn’t wait.
“Excellent. To be safe, I’ll keep some Benadryl on hand, in case your system develops a delayed response.”
“I think I’m more inclined to need collagen pills than Benadryl.”
“For what?”
“Anti-aging. I already feel closer to your age than my actual age,” he said.
“Are you implying I’m old? I fear now I should be gravely offended.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that some mornings I wake up and the number twenty-four doesn’t feel like mine. Like it doesn’t belong to me at all.”
Ah, okay. Not the moment for easy banter anymore.
“Numbers don’t tell the whole story. Some stuff we go through ages us faster than birthdays, leaves marks inside us long before they show up on our face.
And you’ve survived things most people couldn’t even picture, let alone get through.
So if the number doesn’t feel like it matches who you are inside, that tracks. ”
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Shift the conversational tone like that. One moment you’re joking, and the next you’re saying something that cuts right to the bone.”
“Humor’s kind of my go-to shield. It helps me deal with the heavy stuff I see all the time at work.
But I’ve figured out you can’t joke your way through every situation, some moments are too real.
It’s all about balance, y’know? I try to keep it light enough to stay sane, while also making sure the people I’m helping don’t think I’m nothing but a joker who can’t take anything seriously. ”
“Do you ever tire of it? Of dealing with people like me?”
“Never. I get tired of the reasons. Tired of the violence and abuse people have to go through before they end up needing someone like me, but not the people themselves.”
“You probably help so many. So many who actually deserve it. And here I am, eating your food, sleeping on your couch, stealing your time when you could be helping someone else. I’m grateful, but I think I should go. I’ve interfered with your life enough.”
“Look, if leaving’s what you need, I won’t stop you. But if you’re bolting because you think you’re a burden or that I’m secretly annoyed, don’t. Please don’t. You matter, Ollie.”
“I . . . I don’t want to impose. I appreciate that you let me stay the night. That’s more than I could have asked for.”
“You’re not. I have the next few days off work anyway.” He didn’t need to know I’d requested them off to be around for him. “Why don’t you take that time to think about it? But just know, I’m in no hurry to kick you out.”
“You’re sure?”
“A thousand percent. If it helps at all, I want you to stay. This place isn’t like the fancy schmancy digs where you were living, but I got the room and you’re welcome here. I mean it.”
“Your place is a bit more my style. Vincent is the one for flashy and showy displays.”
“Well then, that already means this is a better place for you, don’t you think?”
“Right,” he replied, fidgeting, looking increasingly uncomfortable. I didn’t know if it was the mention of Vincent, the talk about sharing this place, or that he was just overwhelmed by the entire situation.
“Tell ya what. I want you to rest and take the time you need, but I also know how rest can flip into getting stuck. So, when the world becomes heavy and everything feels like too much, what’s one thing you do that helps?”
“Well, I do yoga, but I think that’s off the table for the time being.”
“Yeah, can’t imagine that body contortion and mindful breathing would feel too hot right now. Is there anything that isn’t quite so physical we could do?”
“I umm . . . I guess, something else I like to do is bake. It’s meditative.
It gives my hands something to do, my brain something to be distracted by.
It’s creative in a way. I don’t always follow the recipe.
I improvise a lot. I decide the rules, or break them without punishment. When I’m baking, I’m . . . free.”
“Baking. Fantastic! Well within our current situation limitations. What’s your go-to comfort food?”
“Soft pretzels. They’ve always been one of my favorites.”
“A top-tier comfort carb. Hugs in edible form. What’s not to love? How ’bout it? You up for our first joint task as housemate best buds?”
“You’re serious?”
“Hell yeah. Why not? You can show me the ways of pretzel perfection. I promise I’m coachable, and if all else fails, I’m an excellent taste-tester.”
“Yeah, alright.”
He followed me into the kitchen.
“Alright,” I said, opening the cupboard doors. “Let’s see what we’ve got. What mystical ingredients does the art of pretzel making require?”
“Nothing mystical. We’re going to need yeast, flour, sugar, salt, baking soda, and oil.”
“I’m reasonably sure I’ve got most of that,” I said, squinting at the shelf. “Baking soda might be a toss up. Yeast too, unless past me had the foresight of a prophet. If I don’t have those, though, I can make a quick run to the store.”
Shuffling aside half-used spice jars, a tin of cocoa powder, and a canister of breadcrumbs, I reached into the far corner and came up victorious.
“Ah-ha! Yeast! Unopened too. Behold its unexpired majesty! And wait for it . . . yes! Baking soda. We are in business.”
Oliver walked me through the other items we needed and the first steps to getting the dough started.
“Next we’ll stir in a tablespoon of sugar,” he said after we’d added warm water and yeast to the mixing bowl, reaching for the canister and measuring it out.
“The yeast feeds on the sugar. It helps it activate.”
“Feeding the yeast,” I said. “Got it. The little guys need breakfast too. I respect that. Awaken, noble microorganisms. Your moment has come. How do I know it’s working?”
“You’ll see bubbles. Foam. That means it’s alive.”
“I see, we’re looking for a party in a bowl. Good. I prefer my yeast lively and spirited. I’m a fun-gi like that, get it?”
“You sure are something,” Oliver teased. “Do you have kids?”
“Nope, no kids, no romantic partner either. I’m a one-man rodeo.”
“You could have fooled me with all your dad jokes.”
“Listen here, my dad jokes are awesome. I happen to have learned from the best, my dad himself, so you know they’re certified.”
“Certifiably awful.”
“Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much. I see your mouth twitching, just itching to burst into a smile over my antics. It’s best not to fight it.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Oliver quipped. This is exactly what I’d wanted, to have Oliver cut loose and be himself.
We worked through the steps until we got to the part I’d been looking forward to most—kneading. I threw my weight into the dough with enthusiasm. Press, fold, turn, repeat.
Oliver leaned against the counter, his eyes widening and eyebrows flying to his hairline. “You’re kneading the dough like you’re interrogating it,” he said.
I looked up, finger poised in mock-accusation toward the shapeless mass. “This dough knows what it did. I will make it talk. It can’t hide from the truth.”
“Okay, Detective Dough, relax. Time for the good cop.” Oliver nudged me aside with the gentlest hip-check known to mankind and took over.
“You don’t need to overzealously manhandle it like it’s a hardened criminal.
Overwork it and the gluten goes berserk—it gets tough, won’t rise, flavors tank.
Basically, it becomes the culinary version of emotional damage. ”
“Wow. Look at you, Professor Bake-It-All. Knowing all the science and everything. Consider me dazzled.”
“You’re dazzled now?” He smirked, folding and turning the dough with admittedly far less force than I’d used. “I’ll show you how an actual baker kneads.”
With calm and sure hands, Oliver shaped the dough, his movements smooth. It was kinda mesmerizing. Then we set the dough aside to chill under a tea towel.
“Now for the real finesse, twisting the dough into the right shape,” Oliver said once the dough had reached an appropriate size. He rolled out a piece, looped it, twisted, folded, and bam, perfect pretzel. “Judging by how you knead, I have some concerns about your skill.”
“Wow. That’s just rude. I possess ample finesse.”
“Ample,” he repeated. “Alright then, show us what you’ve got, Master Walker.”
“Challenge accepted. Prepare to be amazed.”
I grabbed a chunk of dough and went for it—stretch, loop, twist, fold—except somewhere along the way I goofed the process, and what I ended up with looked like a melted ampersand, or maybe a swan mid-fall.
Oliver leaned in to examine my creation. “What is that?”
“It’s art,” I declared. “A bold contribution to the movement I call Snack Surrealism.”