4. Isaac
Chapter 4
Isaac
Why did I think making dog treats myself would be a good idea? I’m not a skilled baker. I barely know how to bake. Flour might as well be nuclear rods, for all I know about it. The recipe looked easy, but, somehow, the kitchen seems to have exploded around me. Peanut butter anoints every surface I’ve touched.
The knock on the door surprises me enough that I drop the egg in my hand. It shatters on the floor with a dull splat. I sigh as PB swoops in to lick up the fallen soldier in my baking war, shell and all.
“Hello?” I hear a familiar voice call through the screen door. My beautiful neighbor, Brinn.
“Be right there!” I call. I am a mess. I think some of the egg somehow ended up on my jeans. There’s flour on my face, peanut butter on my shirt. I can’t take my shirt off. She has been forced to endure me shirtless enough recently.
When PB’s seagull-chasing obsession forced us together last week, it took everything inside me to keep cool having her pressed up against me. It’s not very neighborly to lust over the woman next door.
But, my god, the way her plush hips and thighs looked in those tiny shorts? The way the leash had pulled that tank top tight over her perfect chest? It’s a genuine miracle she didn’t notice that I was instantly half-hard. I wanted to taste the surprise on her lips.
I was considering it before I thought better of it. I like Brinn. I enjoy spending time with her. I enjoy seeing her smile. I don’t want to make it weird, especially since that might make her uncomfortable in her own home.
We can’t avoid each other. I see her light click on every night from my bedroom window. She waves at me out of her office window when she sees me walking by. My massive, distracting, all-consuming crush on her is not her problem to bear.
I hustle to the door, wiping my hands on a towel and telling PB to stay. Brinn takes one look at me and bursts into laughter.
“Sorry to interrupt whatever it is you were doing, but I got another one of your packages,” she says through the screen door.
Again? This is getting ridiculous. I don’t even remember ordering the last two packages she returned to me. The first was a random assortment of arrowheads; the second was hundreds of candy hearts. I looked at my credit card statements for charges and my emails for receipts, but I couldn’t figure out where they’d come from. If someone is playing a prank, it’s a weird one.
“I’m so sorry this keeps happening,” I say as I open the door and take the package. “Thank you. I’ll call the post office and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
She giggles again at the sight of me, now fully visible in my flour-covered havoc. “What are you doing?”
“Baking,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck and wincing. “Dog treats.”
“And how’s it going?” she asks, bemused. She’s so beautiful when she smiles that I almost forget the question.
“Not my finest hour, honestly.”
“Do you... Do you want some help? I like baking. And I like PB,” she adds. I wish she liked me, too.
“That would be amazing.” I open the door wider and step aside to let her in, but she seems frozen on my welcome mat. A series of emotions flicker across her face, landing on something akin to nervousness. “Well, I’ve seen you in the sunlight,” I say after a moment of watching her stare at the threshold, “so I don’t think you need an explicit invitation like Eddie. But, Brinn, will you come in?”
Her empty gaze breaks away from the floor and looks at me with confusion, but she takes a step inside. “Who is Eddie?”
“The pale guy up the street. There’s a rumor he’s a vampire.”
She doesn’t seem to hear me as she looks around the place, craning her neck and leaning forward from her spot on the rug by the door.
“Kitchen is this way,” I say, leading her towards the east side of the house. The layout of my first floor is similar to hers, which seems to put her at ease once she realizes it.
“I called the post office already, by the way,” she says, her voice a little dazed as she follows me. “I spoke to a Mr. Eros, and he insisted all the packages go exactly where they are supposed to. Even after I pointed out that I’ve gotten your packages three times. It was weird.”
“That is weird. I’ll call too if it happens again.”
“Pork Belly!” Brinn says with delight. PB stays where she’s supposed to but wiggles with excitement.
“Go say hi,” I tell PB, and the dog runs to Brinn faster than I can blink.
“Hello, my sweet girl. Is your dad trying to make you some treats because you’re the best puppy in the entire world?”
“She’s, like, four years old,” I say. My heart warms at the way Brinn is crouched, gleefully scratching the pit bull’s ears.
“All dogs are puppies, Isaac,” she says with a comical eye roll. “We’ll make sure you get the best treats possible. Okay, Miss Belly? It’s Brinn’s turn to save the day.”
Little does she know that every day I see her, she saves my day. Every time, I feel like I’ve seen a shooting star. I picked up my sketchbook for the first time in months after the day in her garden, and all I drew was hands digging in soil, trying to figure out how to make the tactile warmth of working the earth with her into something visual and tangible.
She stands and claps her hands. “Okay, let’s look at that recipe.”
In no time at all, Brinn throws out the disaster I started. She measures ingredients in dishes and bowls, laying them out in a neat row while humming.
“For a, um, simple recipe like this....” She winces at the trash can. “Normally, I would dump everything in the bowl. But this might be a more helpful method for you,” she says brightly.
I smirk. “Brinn, are you saying I’m a bad baker?”
She blanches, but as I take a step forward to steal a couple of carob chips from the bowl she laid out, she catches my expression and laughs. “We all have things to improve on.”
“I have a lot of improving to do,” I say, popping a chip into my mouth. She watches the action closely. “Want one?”
“Sure. They taste like chocolate, right?”
“Yeah, but safe for our furry friends.”
She holds out her hand for me to place one of my stolen treats in it. I want to bypass her hand and bring it to her lips. I want to give her the sweetness directly. Maybe run my thumb over her soft lips. Trace every gentle, rounded curve of her face to memorize each perfect plane and transcribe it to some other material. Immortalize her so everyone can understand my awe when I look at her.
Instead, I drop the last of my chips into her hand, and she pops them in her mouth. She hums in approval. “Not chocolate, but Miss Belly won’t know the difference. Still pretty good, though.”
She hands me the bowl of ingredients, instructing me not to over-mix. While I mix, she cleans off the counter and dusts it with flour before taking the bowl from me. I watch her roll out the dough, and it reminds me of clay.
I imagine teaching her how to work metal or clay the same way she teaches me to work the ingredients. She carefully presses the cookie cutter into the soft dough before lifting away the scraps and re-rolling and doing it all over. The two trays of cookies are immaculate as she puts them in the oven. It’s like I watched magic happen in front of my eyes.
“There’s no way mine would have turned out anywhere near as good,” I tell her.
“I used to bake a lot. You can mix the frosting while they cool. I can lay everything out for you before I go?”
“If you’re not busy, I’d love your help with frosting them. I can show you my studio while they bake.” I say, hoping that her day is as empty as mine.
She hesitates for a moment before saying, “I’d love that.”
I give her a tour of the downstairs, painted in soft greys and blues with navy and green accent walls, telling her my plans to re-tile the kitchen and update the cabinets.
“I shouldn’t be surprised how beautifully this all works together, but your place is gorgeous,” she comments as she follows me up the stairs.
“Yeah, I’ve never owned a home before, so I was excited to update everything to how I wanted. Uncle Rob hadn’t updated anything past the early ‘90s.”
The sun streams out of the open studio door like a mythical portal as we reach the top of the stairs. I give her an “after you” gesture as she takes a tentative step through the doorway.
“This is... wow.” She looks around in open-mouthed awe.
The newly built shelves hold a mixture of supplies, books, and smaller sculptures in clay, wood, and metal. The center of the room currently holds a pedestal that can be moved on casters. There is a workbench pressed against the western wall and a tool chest next to it.
“I had the HVAC system in the house updated so I can vent directly out of here with good airflow.” I open the closet and show her the extra storage for my clean-up equipment. “This is also directly over the garage, so I installed a trash chute to make it a little easier.” I open the raised hatch. “I have a kiln coming next week to go in that shed out back.” I point out the window to the well-maintained structure.
“I’ve definitely heard you working over here,” she says with a tone of wonder as she examines the shelves again. “But I didn’t realize you updated so much.”
“I was hoping the excitement would help get the inspiration flowing again,” I concede.
Watching the way colors in Brinn’s dark amber hair change in the light is doing more for me than the studio ever could. Could I capture that in wood? Could I capture that in a glaze? Would it take glass? How could I possibly hope to replicate that level of magnificence?
“You do mainly metal work, right? Where are you planning to do that?” she asks as she opens and shuts the drawers on my tool chest, examining the contents. There are soldering irons, saws, snips, and all manner of implements.
“I can do smaller works up here and in the garage. I usually do small-scale versions of larger pieces before I start,” I say, gesturing to one of the shelves that hold several miniature versions of larger sculptures, including the one she hates. It warms my heart when I see it now. “When I start on the full-scale versions and larger pieces, the high school has an enormous space for their shop class, and they never use it all. They said I can use it as long as I talk to their art classes a couple of times a year. Which I’ll do regardless of if I am using the space.”
“Smart,” she says. The timer on her phone goes off, and she hesitantly pulls it out of her pocket. “Cookie time!”
We find PB staring at the oven, drooling. The cookie dough has crisped into a crunchy treat, and Brinn sweetly talks her away from the kitchen while I pull out the trays.
She shows me how to make the frosting, and when the treats are cool, we drizzle the peanut butter-flavored glaze over them. Brinn somehow does this without getting a single ingredient on herself, an impressive feat to me.
“Do you want to do the honors of giving PB her first treat?” I ask her. “You did all the work, after all.”
She practically runs to the other room, bone-shaped cookie in hand. She asks the dog to sit and then lie down. “Does she know ‘shake’?” PB’s foot rises automatically. “I guess so,” she laughs. “Good girl,” she says as she gives the dog the treat.
I don’t think PB even tasted it with how fast she wolfed it down. Her tail wags excitedly.
“Seems like you picked a good recipe.”
“I was in some serious trouble before you showed up,” I tell her. I want to invite her to stay for dinner, but I’ve already asked so much of her today. Instead, I thank her again as we slowly make our way toward the door.
“Anytime,” she says. “This was fun.”
“Hey, are you going to Lobster Fest next weekend?” I ask. We could go together. Lobster Fest is the least date-like place to take your stunning neighbor you’re trying to be just friends with.
She makes a pained face. “I’m not... good with crowds.”
“Tell me what you want from Lobster Fest,” I tell her. “And I’ll bring it to you.”
Her face is painted in astonishment. “You would do that?”
I’ve known this woman for weeks, and I want to tell her I would do anything for her. “That’s what neighbors do, right?”
Brinn has laid out a picnic blanket in her front yard, complete with a smaller blanket for PB. There’s a cooler, presumably filled with drinks, and a dog dish filled with water by the smaller blanket.
She’s lying on her back watching the clouds, and I almost don’t want to disturb her by bringing the box of Lobster Fest eats to her. She turns her head and spots me, sitting up with a delighted wave.
“Hey,” I greet her before setting down the nearly overflowing box of food. “I timed all the pickups, so everything should be fresh.” I sit next to her on the blanket.
She lays out the buttery lobster rolls, the double-battered french fries with some delightfully spicy sauce, dishes of lobster mac and cheese from the B it was worth it. I almost bought a couple fresh lobsters from this one-eyed fisherwoman, but she looked like she wanted to stab people more than talk to them, so I figured I wouldn’t bother her.
Lobster Fest had been fun. I hadn’t been since I was a kid. Seeing everyone in Calysto’s Cove put their whole heart into the silly affair was uplifting. My particular favorite events were the cragged fishers showing off their largest catches, the mayor pardoning a lobster, and the ceremonial melting of the butter lobster sculpture. Whoever made it did incredible work.
Bringing Brinn a little slice of that joy eclipses all of it, though.
After polishing off our lunch, I lie back to watch the clouds as Brinn had been doing. They dot the cerulean sky in towering tufts. Their nebulous shapes become images in my eyes. There’s one that looks like a duck swimming. Another reminds me of a Christmas tree. This is soothing. Brinn had the right idea.
The artificial shutter sound of a phone camera pulls my head out of the clouds. I sit up on my elbows as Brinn snaps another picture.
Brinn looks away bashfully. “You looked really peaceful, and the lighting was good.” She turns away to snap one of PB lounging on her blanket. Over her shoulder, I see her fiddle with camera settings I wouldn’t have known existed on a phone.
“Can I see it?”
She hesitates but then hands me the phone when she turns back. “They’re obviously not color-corrected or anything.”
“They’re still great,” I tell her truthfully. “You made me look halfway decent. I didn’t know phones had the ability for adjustments like that.”
“You always look good,” she says as she takes the phone back, and I watch the words register as her blush stains her soft cheeks. I want her to expand on that, but she’s nervously fiddling with the hem of her shorts. “I bought a phone that could....”
I watch as her face gradually lights up as she tells me all about it. She talks about camera settings and abilities I can barely remember from art school, but I am enraptured.
“Sorry, I’m boring you,” she says with a self-deprecating huff.
“I like photography. It just never clicked for me. I always enjoy listening to someone talk about things they’re passionate about.”
Her face splits into a grin. “Well, thank you for indulging me. What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“PB is going to be itching for another wa—” My dog’s head shoots up from her nap, ears alert at the prospect of a walk. “Adventure.” I give Brinn a conspiratorial look, and she giggles. “And nothing after that. Maybe watch a movie.”
“Can I come?” she asks, and it takes everything in me to not say “yes” too quickly.
Brinn tells me she hurt her knee and asks if we can stick closer to home, which is fine by me and Pork Belly since we walked to and from Lobster Fest.
We cross the footbridge near the river where last week’s seagull incident took place and walk in the meadow that borders the ancient woods. Pork Belly leaps through the grass, zooming back and forth, enjoying the off-leash freedom while the seagulls are busy harassing Lobster Fest attendees.
Brinn’s steps slow. Her face seems to fold in on itself until her beautiful features are twisted and pinched into a deep frown. Her knee must be bothering her more than she’s letting on.
“I’m pretty tired,” I tell her, yawning for effect. “Should we turn back?” She agrees quickly and gratefully, stopping dead in her tracks and turning around as I call to Pork Belly.
As we walk back, her shoulders unwind a bit, and her face seems to smooth. As we get to the sloping hill that takes the trail back to the city streets, I hold out my hand for her. “I don’t want you to fall because of your knee.” She hesitates a moment before taking it.
Her hand is soft in my callused palm and holds me firmly as we scale the hill. When we get to the top, neither of us lets go for a beat. “Thank you,” she says before loosening her grip slowly.
“Anytime,” I say.
By the time we reach our block, Brinn seems to have recovered, grinning broadly and nearly skipping. “This was fun,” she says, and her fingers scratch along Pork Belly’s head. The dog looks up at her with excited adoration, clearly in agreement.
“Do you want to come over and watch a movie?” I ask her hopefully. Her face flickers and falters. “It’s okay—”
“No, I—” she starts. “I....” She trails off, her eyes fall out of focus for a moment, but she snaps back quickly. “Yes. Yes, I would like that.”
Pork Belly wiggles in joy, and I understand exactly how she’s feeling.
We settle in for the movie, each on one end of the couch, PB nestled between us. I have to stop myself from looking at her instead of the TV. The way her face transforms when she laughs is more beautiful than any sunset I’ve seen. The TV bathes her in a palette of colors that has me itching to grab my sketchbook to figure out how I can replicate it.
I thought I’d be nervous hanging out with her like this, but it’s calm and comfortable. I think I want to do it every day for the rest of my life.
When it’s dark and she pulls herself off the couch, I can’t stop myself. The question that’s been on my lips since the day in her garden springs free.
“Will you go out with me?” I ask as she crosses the threshold of my house.
She gapes at me from my porch for a moment before donning a brilliant smile.
“Yes.”