Sugar, Butter, Flour, and Love - Chapter 12: Chapter 12

Whenever I felt like I was unraveling at the seams it started in my hands. There would be a buzzing sensation all along my fingertips before they started shaking and sometimes the only thing I could do to feel like I was in control again was to bake.
As soon as I got home I rushed into my kitchen and started preparing my countertop for baking. Then, I texted Manny to ask if he could come over if he was free, before pulling out my measuring cups, as well as some key ingredients.
Pie. I decided I would make pie. I dug out a couple of apples from the bottom of my fridge. Coincidentally, apple pies were Manny's favourite thing to eat. I tended to use him as my guinea pig when I experimented on different types of desserts.
Something that Manny always liked was my spiced bourbon apple pie, mainly because bourbon was his drink of choice. I wasn't much of a drinker because I had never done the whole 'partying' thing. As someone with severe social anxiety, parties weren't my scene. The most I did was add alcohol to some desserts, like the apple pie.
Usually, I had a crust or two in the freezer that I'd let thaw, but that afternoon my hands would burst if I didn't do something with them. There was something about adding together simple ingredients that was calming.
The most important thing about making a pie crust was to keep the ingredients cold. Keeping them cold would ensure that once combined the ingredients wouldn't prematurely mix together. One problem I'd had in the past was my butter melting into my dough before it even got in the oven. That made for something heavy and dense instead of light, flaky and airy.
After several failures and mess ups I'd developed a certain level of finesse. The comforting feel of cold dough, the sensation of brisk whisking and separating the yokes from the whites came so effortlessly it felt akin to a tactile form of music.
I combined the flour, sugar, butter, and salt together, folding the ingredients until I had a somewhat sandy looking mixture with little chunks of butter bundled together. Slowly, I took a cup of ice cold water from the fridge and started to pour it into the bowl, mixing as I went, until the consistency began to look right. The mixture had become a little soggy and I poured it out of the bowl and onto the counter where I could begin to knead the dough.
I hummed while using the sides and palms of my hands to make the pie go from formless dough into becoming a pie crust. It began to take shape in my hands and I started to push it into a pie tin, stretching it carefully across the silver material.
When I was satisfied with it, I put it in the freezer to cool, along with my extra dough. I wiped down the counter, and washed out the bowls before taking out my apples.
I peeled, cored, and cut the apples into halves and then quarters, before putting them into a bowl. Then, I added some lemon juice, sugar, cinnamon and a somewhat generous helping of bourbon before tossing them together.
By that point, my fingers did the rest of the work without me thinking about it. I decided I would make another pie for Trace, as some sort of apology. That would be way easier than explaining myself to him.
Right after I put my pies in the oven, Manny called.
"Mijo, I'm sorry. I can't come over tonight." Manny's deep voice gravelled into the line, warm and reliable but distant.
"Oh," I said absently, while setting a timer for the pies. "Even if I made your favourite pie?"
Manny laughed. "That is tempting, but Marí and me are going out tonight. You know I can't ditch her for last minute plans. I mean...you could come out with us. We're only—"
"It's okay." I said in a rush. "Maybe another time."
"Did something happen, D?"
I told him the aborted version in short and hurried sentences while Manny made small sounds that he was listening but didn't comment until the very end.
"Damn, I always knew that Jeremy guy was a punk but, damn. He said all that right in front of you and Trace?"
"And I didn't react the right way. I just felt like I was going to start freaking out and Trace doesn't know I—" I swallowed, pacing in my kitchen and clutching my phone against my ear. "I got into that tv show thing, and I have...issues and he doesn't know. I wanted to tell him but the time never feels right. He told me how he lost his leg and it felt like...like because he told me something heavy I was supposed to do that, too? But, l wasn't ready to tell him...And for other people it's so easy. They just tell people they have anx—" I couldn't even say it out loud. "That they have issues. I should just tell him. But, I'm worried. I like him too much already...You know, I made pie. Do you think he'd want a pie? Should I invite him over? Should I tell him I freak out sometimes?" I sighed. "I don't know. And I only have a couple days to get ready before—"
"Mijo," Manny said softly. "You know I can't remember everything you just said. You gotta tell him when you're ready and not a second before. I know how you are, you let people tell you what to do too much, even me. But this is your choice. And did you just say you got into the baking show?! Oh my god! Congrats, D!"
I smiled reluctantly into the phone. "Thanks, Manny. I just thought I'd be more excited is all. But I gotta leave in a couple days and I'm already stressed. And this thing with Trace is just making it worse."
"Can we backtrack a bit...Did you say your guy doesn't have a leg?"
"Huh?" I said, kind of absently. "Oh...yeah. It's like a prosthetic. Anyways, can you come over tomorrow and help me pack? They emailed me a list of things and it's just a lot. It's pathetic that I can't do these things on my own. And I'm always bothering you—"
"Darius, give me a little credit here. You're my best friend. You never bother me. We've been friends since your family moved next door to mine when we were kids. That means something. And I know we don't talk about it but that lady you were seeing a couple years ago...after you left the investment job. She really helped you, mijo. I don't want to see you like that again. If you feel like the show will be bad—"He trailed off.
"I can do it." I said in a hard voice. "I don't need therapists anymore. I just—if I just keep cool I can do it. And I think I'll try to talk to Trace. I don't want to leave with this thing hanging over my head."
"Okay," Manny said and then I heard a big crash. It reminded me that he was at work, probably nearby a construction site, and I was probably disturbing him. "Mierda." He swore harshly before coming back to me. "Those fucking pendejos... Okay, I have to go. Update me and lemme know when I'm coming over tomorrow? Alright, bye."
And then just like that he was gone. Before I lost courage, I started sending Trace a long text to see if he could come over that evening. To my surprise he said yes, and the thought of him coming over  filled me with hope at the same time it filled me with dread.
#
The hours blurred until it was evening and suddenly I was letting Trace into my apartment. He was wearing a Roots getup, complete with the grey hoodie and grey sweatpants. The outfit was snug around his biceps and his thighs and there was a knot of desire unfurling in my belly at the sight of the clinging material. He smelled faintly of cologne and looked like he'd just showered. Why would he need cologne just to see me?
He came in and smiled, inhaling deeply. "It smells amazing in here."
"Oh, uh— I made you pie. I mean, I made pie." I paused for a moment, inhaled slowly through my nose before exhaling from my mouth in an effort to be calm.
"That's nice of you." Trace said before putting down his backpack and walking around my kitchen. The apple pie was cooling on a rack on the countertop but instead of offering him a bite to eat I was fixated on the way his joggers hugged his ass pretty sinfully. Feeling embarrassed, I looked anywhere else.
"Sorry about today." Trace said quietly before turning around. One of his hands dragged alongside the countertop casually but his voice was tight. He pursed his lips before they softened as he looked down. "It's just— I wasn't thinking and I didn't mean to hurt you."
I walked closer to him, trying to understand where this apology was coming from. Then, I was in his space and Trace's hands swept from across the countertop towards me until he was holding my hands. "You don't have to apologize. I overreacted." I murmured, liking the stable anchor of Trace's hands in mine.
"What I said bothered you and I hate that. You were right. I shouldn't have made assumptions about your size. Just because you're big and tall doesn't mean that you won't get hurt when people say terrible things about you."?Trace said quietly, big brown eyes looking up at mine.
"It's okay," I said, unable to resist the softness in his eyes. "I'm just glad you were willing to come over. I wanted to tell you about something."
Trace nodded, and the moment was kind of perfect. Him holding my hands and looking at me like I mattered. It made me want to hug him, kiss him or even both.
I guided us over to the couch and we sat down beside each other.
"I think we have to take a break," I began slowly.
Trace winced, disentangling himself from me and sitting on the other side of the couch. "Huh?" He said like he'd run out of air. The entire time I'd known Trace he always had an easy and confident air about him. It made his movements fluid and his stride purposeful. But, on the couch he was still. Painfully still.
Then, he drew his knees against his chest and wrapped his arms across his shins. His voice sounded as small as he looked. "This isn't Friends, Darius. What do you mean about a break?"
"Just for a couple months—"
Trace's face went pale. "Months?" He echoed.
I swallowed. "I know it's annoying but I got into Baking Beasts. And so I'll have to be gone for a couple months because they're shooting in New York which isn't that far luckily but I'll be away. And I won't really be able to talk with you except once a week. But then they said we don't get a lot of phone calls and I'll want to call my parents sometimes. And Manny. And I'll have to juggle that somehow—"
"Wait, oh my fuck— you got into the show?!" Trace interrupted excitedly. "Darius. That's amazing!"
I blinked. "Yeah, but two months is such a long time."
Trace moved across the couch and embraced me, laughing while holding me tight. His voice was a deep rumble against my side. "God, I'm so happy for you. Why'd you have to scare me like that? Oh my God, when do you leave? Probably soon, right?"
Definitely too many questions and Trace's mouth was against the side of my neck, distracting me. It would be so easy for the brush of his lips to turn into a kiss. And Trace was always so warm, smelling faintly of some kind of lotion or shampoo with a very male musk.
Trace moved back, probably wondering why I wasn't responding. But something about the red stain of his lips and the slight part between them was distracting me.
So, I kissed him, pulling on his shoulders until our lips crashed together. There was a slight surprised groan from him before he kissed me back. The heat, warmth and closeness was making me melt. I didn't want to talk about Baking Beasts or even baking. I just wanted to feel Trace against my mouth, my skin and my body.
He was just so...stable, and confident and grounded. When I felt like my thoughts would fly away he was some sort of anchor. Instead of thinking about something that would make me feel unmoored I wanted to take refuge in Trace.
But there was a small part of my mind that was wondering what the hell I was doing and felt the wrongness of it. I could feel Trace's patience withering away the longer our relationship didn't take its natural progression towards becoming more physical.  Why would he wait two to three months for something he could get anywhere? I still didn't feel ready to sleep with him, but I couldn't help but feel like I needed to keep him.
I wondered what it made me if I was willing to do something I was uncomfortable with just to keep a guy interested in me?
Instead of thinking, I only kissed Trace harder, letting my hands roam across his chest. He arced into my touch and stopped kissing me only to begin nipping at my throat. It was wonderful and terrible at the same time; my body giving in to something only he could give me and my mind recoiling at the whole thing.
Every touch was a spark against my skin, bursting into flashes of fire until I just wanted Trace and me to melt and burn together.
His sandpaper-rough voice had an undercurrent of molten lust. "Are you okay with this?" Trace's hands were teasing at the bottom of my shirt, palming at the flat ridges of my stomach.
I nodded silently, nearly shivering and close to shaking, unable to tell if it was excitement or anxiety.
Slowly, he pulled off my shirt and made a low appreciative note at the back of his throat. His eyes were wide as saucers as he carefully padded his fingers across my shoulders, down my chest and over my stomach. His breath was coming in short, soft pants and then he kissed the inside of my shoulder before raising his eyes to mine.
"Do you know how lovely you are? God, Darius." I thought his eyes would be stuck on my bare chest but instead his eyes were scrutinizing my face. Like he saw something worth admiring there. His dark brows drew together and he frowned. "What's wrong?"
I winced, chewing on my lip and dodging his eyes. "Nothing. Just nervous. But, let's go to my room?" The words came out in a rush and I hated how hard it was for me to speak.
Trace squeezed my cheeks. "Are you sure?"
I nodded.
Trace gave me a frown, even as he circled his thumbs along my cheek bones. "I need you to say it."
Trace brushed his thumb across my lower lip, rolling his finger against the soft swell of my mouth. Without thinking, I pulled his thumb between my lips and sucked softly.
"For fuck's sake, Darius." Trace said in a low, intimate rumble. "You just—"
I gave him a coy look before he pulled his thumb out from between my lips and we scrambled up from the couch.
We walked hand in hand to my bedroom and my heart rattled against my chest until it was a painful drumbeat thrumming under my skin and pounding against my skull.
My bedroom was my haven and my safe space. It felt increasingly wrong to give Trace access to this space when I wasn't ready.
Trace started to kiss along my skin, fingers squeezing and kneading my chest. His compliments were low but nearly constant. It felt like he was worshipping me. I didn't know how to be worshipped but for a beat my nervousness was forgotten as he sucked marks that felt like brands into my skin.
We tumbled onto the bed and Trace started to pull his shirt off. To my delight and surprise, Trace had a nice dark treasure trail but was otherwise hairless. His skin was not quite brown but a fine mix between brown, gold, and cream. Much lighter than my own deep brown skin and I couldn't help but admire the way we looked together.
My fingers were hesitant yet exploratory against his body, and soon they were trailing against the side of his rib cage. "This is pretty." Different from his harsher appearance , there was a tattoo of a hummingbird suspended in flight. It was delicate yet architectural. I rubbed my fingers across the tattoo until Trace sighed. We were sitting in front of one another on the bed, as Trace let me touch his skin.
"Once my leg comes off, it won't be coming back on for a while." He murmured, eyes heavily lidded as he curled into my touch.
Then, all of a sudden, Trace was pulling away and taking off the rest of his clothes, and then his prosthetic.
I put his prosthetic against one side of the bed and I didn't ask him why he didn't take his sleeve off. He was giving me his body which was in its own way, a gift. And it felt like my anxiety was spurning that gift.
Soon, he was naked and he was gorgeous. That bulk that his clothing hinted at was now very apparent. He was shorter than me but by his own right he was a tall man. Tall, made up of long, sinewy muscle, and with endlessly golden hued skin. If he called me lovely then there were no words for what he was.
To my surprise there was a tattoo of a flower on the inside of his hip; a rose half budded with a few petals falling away. I rubbed at the raised skin there until gooseflesh rose up on Trace's skin.
He laughed, but the sound was light and throaty. "I think it's your turn to get naked now, too, Darius."
Then he was insinuating his body between my legs, not as awkward as I thought he'd be without his prosthetic. Trace kissed from my mouth down my jaw and across my chest, his hands roaming appreciatively across my skin.
My brain was so far away and the entire time I was wishing I hadn't invited him into my room. I should have been so much more into it than I was, but it just felt like something I wasn't at all ready for. My breaths started to come short, and I didn't know how to refuse Trace yet again. He was naked and I was terrified. Where was I supposed to go from there? It felt too late to say something and I was stiff.
Stiff everywhere except where I was supposed to be. It didn't take Trace much longer to realize that.
Suddenly, he sat back on his heels, or really, just the one heel and his face told a story all of its own. His lips were red, nearly bruised and parted. Trace's eyes flickered up and down, trying to understand my apparent lack of interest.
My throat felt small and dry. I stared at the small flower tattoo on the inside of Trace's hip. My eye was fixed on the simplicity of something like a flower. It sprouted, bloomed and died. Painfully simple.
But, my feelings surrounding intimacy, my anxiety and my panic attacks were anything but simple. It wasn't something I could plaster on my body and have make sense. And every time I tried to translate my feelings into words it never worked.
"I—" I started softly.
"You're not into this..." Trace finished for me. His voice was harsh. Clipped and hard in a way I hadn't heard it before.
I finally looked up into his eyes and they were narrowed at me, just two flecks of flint.
"I just—I know you've been wanting this for a while and I feel bad asking you to wait. I'm going to be gone for a while and I just thought I would get into it." I shrugged, finding it hard to meet Trace's clearly angry eyes.
His voice was like a whip, the way it cracked at me. "You're not into this, and you didn't say anything? I don't understand any of this, Darius. You can tell me no." He covered his face with his hands, and breathed harshly. "Do I make you so uncomfortable you feel like you can't tell me no?"
"I just don't want you to lose interest in me." The words came out ugly, but true.
Trace peeled his hands off of his face, and his expression went from anger to bewilderment.  "Darius— I—" Everything about him stilled for several seconds. The heavy silence only got heavier until he blinked quickly.
"The only thing that'll make me lose interest in you is if you lie to me and make me think that us having sex is okay when it isn't. You're not ready and that's fine. But it's clearly a big deal to you. And the fact that you're acting like it's okay when it isn't is really fucked. The fact that if I went through with it you wouldn't be okay, is really fucked. Our first time together is supposed to be something we both want."
He took a sharp breath and I felt like my world was crashing down around me.
"I am so into you." He said quietly, looking at me like he was begging to be understood. "I look forward to our dates, having lunch with you. And I'm ecstatic that you got into the baking show. And it infuriates me that you think the first thing I'd be thinking about is the fact I wouldn't be able to have sex with you for a couple months." Trace took a long breath, before slotting his hands through his hair. "I cannot be here right now. Can you pass me my leg? And my clothes."
I raised my hands in some sort of figurative defence. "It's just hard for me. And it's not like I think those things about you—"
Trace rolled his eyes. "Please, do not hold my leg hostage, Darius. I want to leave."
I got up from the bed and gave Trace his leg in silence. His anger felt like an oppressive thing in the room; terrible choking rage that filled the spaces between Trace pushing on his leg and then shoving his clothes on.
I found a T-shirt and put it on in silence, shaking and feeling like I had fucked things up. He hated me.
I followed Trace around my apartment while he collected his things, and generally ignored me. Just before he looked like he was about to leave, he whirled on me.
"You don't have anything to say?"
For a moment, my own anger flared hot and bright. "Y-You won't let me say anything."
Trace frowned. "I don't think you understand that when we're together your comfort is my priority." He paused, and suddenly I saw worry carved into dark brows and high cheekbones. "There's stuff you don't tell me. And that's okay, but when it's about us? I need to know that things are okay." his dark eyes raised to mine and he frowned, words coming out like broken shards of glass.  "Maybe we don't fit?"
I swallowed. All the words were stuck inside of me and I didn't know what to say. It felt like my insecurities were clogging my throat.
"I just—" my voice broke. "I just want you to like me."
Hi eyes widened and pain threaded through his voice. "I already do. God, Darius, I don't know any other way to say it." Trace took a cursory look around my apartment before talking in a thick voice. "I think I should—I'm gonna go. I'm not mad at you, okay? I'm just—" he shook his head like he was looking for the words. "English isn't my first language and when I'm upset the words come out all wrong. And, in case I don't see you until you get back I hope you win the whole thing, I really do."
Then, in long sweeping steps, Trace was gone from my apartment, and I could hear his feet pounding down the steps before he was out the front door.
Fuck.