Chapter 24 #2
“Absolutely.” He sets it down on his side of the counter and starts gathering tools — a scale, glass bowls, and a weird-looking mixing thing I don’t recognize.
“That’s hilarious,” I say, zesting another lemon. “How did you come up with it?”
“I learned sourdough from this woman online,” he says. “She encouraged everyone to name their starters. Hers was Marilyn Mon-dough.”
“Wow,” I laugh. “Clever.”
I think for a second.
“I wonder what I’d name mine…”
He glances up at me, waiting.
“Bready Mercury.”
He freezes, then laughs so hard he has to lean on the counter.
“Clint Yeastwood,” he shoots back between laughs.
“Vol-dough-mort,” I say, widening my eyes dramatically.
We both lose it again, laughing loud enough that one of the dogs lifts its head briefly before settling back down.
“That’s it,” he says, between giggles. “You’re taking some of Danny Doughvito home today and making your own Vol-dough-mort.”
“For he should rise again,” I say solemnly.
That sends us into another round of laughter.
When we finally calm down, I stir the pot again, watching the blueberries start to soften.
“Wait,” I say after a moment. “I thought your mom taught you sourdough.”
He shakes his head, measuring flour onto the scale.
“No. That’s something I picked up after she passed.”
I pause, glancing at him.
“Why sourdough?”
He thinks about it while he mixes.
“Well… I like to eat it,” he says with a small smile. “But it also takes patience, and that was something I was struggling with.”
I look at him, surprised.
“You’re telling me you haven’t always been this patient?”
He laughs softly. “Absolutely not. It’s a learned habit. Practiced too.”
I stir slowly, watching the jam thicken.
“Well,” I say, a little more serious now, “I hope it’s contagious.”
He smiles, but this time the conversation doesn’t stop there. We keep working side by side, with me stirring slowly as the blueberries soften into something glossy and sweet, him folding dough with steady, practiced movements. The kitchen hums quietly around us.
The words keep coming, easy and unplanned, and I realize I haven’t talked like this with anyone in a long time—not like this.
I haven’t opened up like this with anyone besides my sisters in…
I don’t even know how long. Past relationships float through my mind — dates that felt fine but never deep, conversations that stayed on the surface.
Ever since Mom died, everything has felt a little thinner, like I was just going through the motions.
And now I’m standing here talking about things I usually avoid, feeling completely at ease.
“So tell me,” he says after a minute, glancing over. “Was Depoe Bay always the plan? Or did it just happen?”
I stir slowly, thinking about it.
“It wasn’t a concrete plan,” I admit. “I always knew what I wanted to do. Marine biology was never the question.” I shrug lightly. “I just didn’t know where.”
He nods, listening.
“I started applying everywhere—California, Washington, Oregon.” I smile faintly. “I wanted a fresh start. Somewhere different. Somewhere new. Somewhere far away from home.”
The words settle between us for a moment.
“How long has it been since your mom passed?” he asks softly.
I take a slow breath before answering.
“Two years.”
My throat tightens slightly just saying it out loud. I keep stirring, focusing on the way the berries break down under the wooden spoon.
He gives me a second, not rushing to fill the silence.
“I’m sorry you’ve had to go through that,” he says, eyes still on the dough.
I nod.
“I’ve had my sisters,” I say. “We’ve all kind of… crumbled at different times. But we always pull each other back up.”
He looks at me thoughtfully, making me feel heard without needing to explain more.
“Do you feel comfortable talking about your mom?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “It’s easier now than it used to be.”
He folds the dough again, then covers the bowl with a shower cap.
“She passed shortly after I turned eighteen. Car accident.”
My chest tightens.
“Oh, Aiden… I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He reaches for the next bowl and slowly stretches the dough before letting it fall back onto itself. “It was a long time ago.”
I watch him for a second.
“It must’ve been hard,” I say. “Being on your own.”
“It was.” He pauses, pressing his palms lightly against the counter before starting another fold. “I didn’t really know what to do with myself.”
“Uncle Mike was my biggest support, though. He’s always been like a dad to me.”
The jam bubbles beside me. I give it another slow stir, watching the fruit collapse into syrup.
“Have you always lived with him?”
He shakes his head.
“No. We moved here when I was ten. I was born in Colorado.”
I glance up, surprised.
“My dad wasn’t a good man.” His hands slow, fingers dusted white with flour. “He drank a lot. Was verbally abusive.”
He pauses.
“My mom stayed for years, trying to keep things together.”
Outside, the dogs look up watching the seagulls flying low.
“One night he drank too much and put his hands on me.”
His hands stop on the dough for a moment.
“That was it for her. Same night, we packed up and left. We made our way here in my mom’s beat-up Beetle.”
I blink, imagining it — ten-year-old Aiden starting over in the middle of the night.
“Uncle Mike took us in,” he says. “Helped us when we needed it most. My mom got a job caregiving at the senior home, and we started over.”
“Did you ever see your dad again?” I ask carefully.
He shakes his head.
“No. He passed away a few years ago. I only found out because I got a letter from his sister.”
“I had a very hard time forgiving him.”
The words hang there, quiet and honest, while the kitchen hums around us.
“Tell me about your sisters,” he says after a moment.
I smile automatically.
“April’s the oldest,” I say. “She’s only two years older than me, but she’s wiser than I’ll ever be. Don’t tell her I said that, though, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
He grins, listening.
“She’s always taken care of us,” I continue, watching the jam as I talk.
“Even when we were little. Walking us to school, keeping an eye out for us, standing up for us when we needed it.” I shake my head softly.
“When my mom got diagnosed with cancer, she dropped everything. Took her to every appointment, every treatment. She was… the light Mom needed.”
My throat tightens a little, but it feels easier to talk about it now.
“June and I were still in school,” I add. “The only reason I was able to keep going to school is that I knew Mom was okay with April there.”
He nods, paying full attention.
“She lives in Los Angeles now,” I say. “She’s a photographer for Verve.”
“The magazine?” he asks.
I can’t help smiling wider. “Yeah. She does their main shoots.”
“That’s really cool.”
He moves closer, checking the jam. He dips a cool spoon into it, then lifts it out. The syrup slides slowly, leaving only a thin coating.
“It’s perfect,” he says, looking at me.
His gaze lingers a second longer than it should. I look away first, suddenly aware of how little space there is between us.
“I’m gonna grab mason jars from the garage.”
He’s back a minute later, carrying a crate full of clean jars, setting it on the counter between us.
“How about June?” he asks. “Tell me about her.”
He starts filling the jars, steady and careful, and I watch his hands work.
“June…” I think for a moment. “She’s mature beyond her years.” I laugh. “Also, don’t tell her I said that, or I’ll never hear the end of it either.”
He makes a quick lips-sealed gesture, making me smile.
“Always knows what to say,” I go on. “She’s the kind of friend I wish I were sometimes—thoughtful, caring, always available even when she’s busy.”
“What does she do?”
“She works for the Great Lakes Strikers as part of the social media team.”
“The soccer team?” he asks, surprised.
“Yeah. Are you a soccer fan?”
“Oh yeah.” He nods toward the stairs. “Uncle Mike and I are big fans.”
“Well,” I say, “if you follow them online, you’ve probably seen June. She’s usually the one convincing players to do ridiculous videos.”
He laughs. “I’m sure I have.”
I smile at the image of him younger, watching games with Uncle Mike, probably yelling at the TV.
He finishes filling another jar and sets it aside.
“Would you rather fill these,” he asks, “or start the next sourdough batch?”
I blink. “I would have no idea what I’m doing.”
“I can guide you through it,” he says. “It’s easy. I promise.”
“I’d love to learn.”
He grins. “Okay. But we’re starting your lessons with my red velvet sourdough… and I need to swear you to secrecy.”
I laugh. “Why?”
“Because this one’s our most popular,” he says, already pulling ingredients closer. “Super secret recipe. Took me years to perfect.”
“And you’re going to share it with me?” I ask, eyes widening.
He pauses, looking at me.
“May…” He pauses, meeting my eyes. “There’s not much I wouldn’t share with you.”