Sugar, Butter, Flour, and Love - Chapter 14: Chapter 14

My phone started to ring in my hand and it shocked me so badly I dropped the device. When I picked it up off the floor I saw Trace calling.
"Are you going to come out of there anytime soon, Darius?" There was an attempt at humour, but it felt strained.
"I don't know," I said softly, "how can I— How can I come out of here?" My heart beat felt like it was going to burst out of my head, and I knew the other side of the door was completely uncharted territory.
"You have your show," Trace replied, "a plane to catch, and what if someone in a wheelchair rolls along and needs to use the accessible washroom?"
"But—"
"You're gonna be gone for months. I don't want to waste another minute not being able to be with you. Having a panic disorder doesn't change how I feel, Darius. Or, actually? I feel like I understand some things better. So, please come out, this isn't something I want to say on the phone." The calm, firm tone of his voice was slowly coaxing me out of the bathroom.
I opened the door and walked out while staring at the ground on the way over to my seat. I felt as if I wasn't really in my body, but in some kind of ghostly apparition. All the things I hated; feeling publicly humiliated, feeling like a freak, losing control. The worst case scenario had happened: a panic attack in front of the one person I never wanted to see me in that state.  He knew how fucked up I was. He knew. He knew. He knew.
"Darius," Trace said quietly. He was still sitting in the same seat, but his expression was different. He opened his mouth and then closed it. Then he said, "How do you feel?"
"Embarrassed," I mumbled. And on edge, after a panic attack I needed to decompress, not go into another stressful situation.
"Why?" He said it like like I wasn't such an obvious mess.
Finally, I looked at him. "I didn't want you to know..."
Trace's soft brown eyes fell on mine and he exhaled slowly. "Can I touch you?"
"You don't have to ask."
He shook his head. "I think I do. And, can I?"
I nodded and in seconds Trace was up off of his feet and standing in front of me. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around me and nestled his body against mine. There it was again; equal parts granite and soft squishiness. Our height and body size difference was such that Trace's head fit snugly against the crook of my neck and I could smell the shampoo Trace's hair. He wasn't a small person but he fit against me like one puzzle piece to another I don't think it would be right to call it a hug. It was too long, too intimate and too meaningful.
I could smell the shampoo in Trace's hair, feel the slow consistent thud of his heart beat, and his long fingers pressing into my back. The solid weight of him was more comforting than I thought it would be. Several seconds later, he was the one to let go. He sat down and patted the seat next to him.
I sat down.
Trace wouldn't stop looking at me. His expression seemed so open and non-judgmental that I didn't know how to take it.
"Are you sure about this?" I said.
"I'm sure, Darius. I know what it's like to have things that are hard to talk about. So, it's okay if you don't want to talk about it." He sounded like my anxiety wasn't the insanely huge deal I knew it was and I felt like I was going to burst into tears.
There was a massive disconnect between the reaction I had expected and the one I was receiving. I'd expected him to ignore it altogether and pretend like it hadn't happened, or for him to ask me about it angry that I hadn't told him. But, he was just sitting there, radiating silent support.
"I hate that I have anxiety," I said so quietly Trace had to lean in to hear me. "I find it completely and utterly humiliating that I can't just be fucking normal. Talking to you about my anxiety shouldn't even be that hard. Plenty of people with anxiety manage it. But, for me it's torture. I want things between us to be easy, because most of the time it is and I like how you make me feel almost comfortable. I know that doesn't sound good, but that's the best it ever gets for me. Something is always, constantly stressing me out. I don't talk about it with anyone, except sometimes Manny, but that's different."
Trace's voice was quiet, "You trust him and you don't trust me?"
I turned to look at him even though I felt like my heart was at the top of my throat. "I don't care if I fuck up in front of him. For you, I want to seem normal. I want you to like me. I want you to...fall in love with me."
Trace's got impossibly wide and he exhaled like he'd run out of air. "Oh."
Then, he gently took my hand and folded our fingers together. "I've noticed some things," he said while rubbing soothing circles against the back of my hand. "I thought you were a little nervous around me because our relationship is new. When you seem nervous, you swallow a lot, sometimes you sweat, you stop looking at me, and you don't let me touch you. You'd mentioned that you hadn't been in a lot of relationships, so I just thought it was all related to that... Obviously, I was wrong. Are there things that—" he paused, and his voice got quieter, "What would the word be...trigger you?"
I winced. "I hate that word. People use it like it's some kind of joke. Things that really bother me I think of as...stressors." The word trigger no longer had any sense of dignity to it, and thinking of the things that stressed me out as triggers had never felt right.
"Stressors," Trace repeated like he was doing a math problem.
"Well..." I slipped my hand out of Trace's grasp. He'd clearly been paying a lot of attention to me if he recognized all the things I did due to my anxiety. I felt strangely exposed and vulnerable. "I've been like this my whole life basically. I went to see someone about it a couple years ago. She was understanding and I learned more management techniques, but it hasn't gone away. I need mental preparation before I have to do prolonged socializing. It's why I hate last minute plans, and crowded places. I don't know if that makes any sense."
Trace's frown deepened. "I'm sorry for not realizing sooner. It's so much more obvious now."
"It's not your fault. I've never..." I leaned back in my seat and took a deep breath. "I've never told anyone. People have realized, like my first real boyfriend, Carter. We never talked about it, and neither of us ever said the word anxiety, but he knew. I hid it from others until Jeremy. Jeremy was always pushing me out of my comfort zone and eventually I freaked out in front of him. He was nice at the time and it only happened once when we were together and then..." again when we broke up. "My parents and my brother grew up with me so they know. And Manny, he's actually a couple years older than me, and when I didn't have a lot of friends in middle school and high school he always looked out for me, even though he was just my next door neighbour. You're the first person I've told, face to face." As I was saying it I was realizing it was true. Wow, he really was the first person.
Before I knew it Trace was hugging me again. It was awkward since we were sitting down but his words were what hit me. "Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me."
I moved back in surprise, and for the first time in days I felt relaxed. It was a foreign sensation; some knot of worry in my stomach loosening, my shoulders unlocking, and my mind feeling less preoccupied by things that didn't matter. "Oh," I mumbled, "you're welcome?" I wasn't sure what to say.
Trace smiled, and gave me a soft look. "Can I kiss you?"
Before I'd even finished nodding Trace was kissing me. Slow, soft, sweet. His tongue sought and found entrance into my mouth and it had only been days since the last time we'd kissed but it felt like forever. His other hand was in my hair, stroking my curls. The kiss got deeper until we were just making out.
I pulled back mid-kiss as I realized something. "Wait— if you do that you have to stroke in the direction of the wave. I don't want you to mess them up." I'd finally gotten the quality of waves I wanted in my hair after weeks and weeks of brushing and wearing my durag to sleep. Trace stroking my hair was nice but I didn't want it to ruin my process either.
#
So waves are most commonly seen as a hairstyle for black guys. It's really short hair that gets this circuitous (wave-like) pattern because the hair is routinely brushed in a certain direction. Due to the nature of kinky-curly hair, it can usually maintain this hairstyle with minimal maintenance like wearing a protective cap (in this case a durag to sleep).
Here's a 2 minute video for how people maintain and get waves in case you guys are curious.
[There should be a GIF or video here. Update the app now to see it.]
#
He gingerly moved his hand away from my hair before letting out a loud laugh, then giving me a kiss on the cheek. "Have I ever told you you're adorable?"
His eyes were just about sparkling and I wasn't sure why. I frowned. "I mean, I'm like two-hundred and thirty pounds and I'm six foot five, I don't exactly expect to be called adorable."
"You are. There are a lot of things that you do and I think 'oh that was cute.' Like, how you send me pictures of things you bake that you're proud of, or how you lean down a bit when we're walking somewhere so you can be closer to me. When we hang out and I take off my leg you don't act weird about it. I like it."
"Oh," I said slowly. Me? Cute? Wow.
"But that's just the kinda guy you are, and I know it's only a couple months but I'll miss you." His voice got a little softer, "so you won't be able to check your phone or anything?"
"Maybe once a week, but our messages have to be pre recorded and monitored. I could probably send you videos."
Trace nodded. "Okay, I'm looking forward to that."
It got quiet, and I genuinely considered blowing everything off and just being with Trace. But, I had responsibilities. Slowly, I got up. Trace looked sad but he got up, too.
"I guess—"
"I still can't believe—"
We spoke over one another for a second and then laughed. Trace threaded a hand through his hair. It was growing long, a few wavy strands getting into his eyes. He huffed. "I'll walk you to the gate."
It was only a few minutes until we were there and the once isolated section of the airport became bustling and busy. Families, couples and individuals were all proceeding into the line for the gate.
Trace was nudging my side for me to go in line but I turned towards him and gave him a tight hug. When I let him go we said a somewhat awkward goodbye and I entered the line up towards the gate.
As I progressed through the line, I kept looking back. He was there and waving at me with a big smile. He blew me a kiss and I laughed. Something about the few hours I'd spent with Trace at the airport were precious and it felt like just what I needed before starting the competition.
#
"Mommy, I wanna sit beside you!" A little girl screamed before kicking against the back of my seat. My seat jolted in response to the kick and I closed my eyes in frustration, wishing I was seated anywhere else.
Yes, the show had paid for my ticket to New York, but they'd given me an economy seat. Me, a six foot five, two hundred and thirty pound man who had legs that were longer than some people...in an economy seat. The economy section of a plane was to be expected; cramped, small and cheap in that artificial plastic sort of way.
Our section was three seats with one aisle to our left. I was on the aisle seat, beside me was a mother with what looked like an infant bundled against her chest, and an elderly woman occupied the window seat. The nature of plane rides was that I would always be uncomfortable. The arm rests dug into my sides, my legs folded awkwardly and I had to slant them at an angle just to almost have enough leg room but that meant my knees would scrape against the hard plastic-like surface of the seat in front of me.  In the end I  just tried to act small, and hunch to minimize the general discomfort of flying. The flight to New York from Toronto was only around ninety minutes. I could suffer for ninety minutes.
Just after that thought the girl behind me kicked the back of my seat. Again.
But today, with this child behind me screaming, everyone in the surrounding seats looking our way and the mother beside me shooting me glares, it was difficult. I knew what she was going to ask before she even asked it.
She looked up at me, rocking her baby from side to side mechanically in her arms.
"Sorry, but could you—?" She gave me a look and then glanced back at her daughter. "Bethany gets a little anxious when we're not together. Somehow this was the closest they could get our seats."
And how could I say no? Our flight hadn't even taken off yet. I murmured some kind of response and got up, getting my carryon from the overhead storage and transferring one seat behind. As soon as the girl got into my former seat she started to throw back her chair knocking it into my cramped knees over and over again.
Irritation made my general anxiety back down a bit. "Hey," I said in a loud voice. "Could you get your daughter to stop throwing back her seat?"
The woman glanced back at me, and then looked away. Dismissed, just like that.
I didn't want to make a scene so I just sat there, crunched into my seat with a crazy screaming kid in front of me.  I covered my face with my hands and tried to channel inner calm even though I knew this would be a torturous two hours. The person beside me kept huffing and I knew the problem was my size. I was big and took up more space than I was entitled to.
"Can you move over?" The man beside me grumbled.
I scootched over as far as I could but he was still grumbling beside me. The way things were going I knew that I'd eventually have a panic attack in this airplane and the idea that I wouldn't have anywhere to hide was  intensifying that feeling.
A flight attendant started to make her rounds and her brows rose when she saw the little girl throwing her seat back. We locked eyes and she gave me a polite smile. The flight attendant was pretty, perfectly coiffed and manicured with bright brown eyes and a professional smile.
She came over to our section with a smile. "Is everything alright here?"
I didn't say anything as the child continued to throw her seat back. The flight attendant leaned down and the faint scent of perfume washed over me. "Sir, we have an extra seat in another part of the plane that may be more to your comfort level. Would you like to change seats? It won't cost you anything."
The man beside me started to stand. "Thank God, I can't be crushed by this guy for the rest of this damn trip."
The flight attendant's voice was glacial. "I wasn't speaking to you."
The man floundered and then sat back down. I realize she'd been offering me the seat and I was getting up and getting my carry-on in a heartbeat. We shuffled along the narrow aisles and I thanked her profusely. "Thank you so much for that. That girl just would not stop and the mom didn't even try to get her to stop. And, I didn't want to make a scene."
She looked over her shoulder. "It's really no problem. You looked really uncomfortable and I'm glad I could help."
We continued to walk through the plane and we got through economy before the aisles got wider, the seats got larger and the people started to look a lot less cramped. It was then I realized we were in business. But, the flight attendant didn't stop and we kept going until the plane just about transformed.
"Oh my God— is this first class?" I asked after passing a bar. I didn't even realize planes could have bars. How did that even work?
"Yes, and here's your seat."
It wasn't just a seat it was like a booth, lounge and sofa all rolled into one. Not only did I have space for my bulk but for my giraffe legs, too. It was hard for me to ever really feel comfortable about anything. I barely felt comfortable in my own skin. So, physical comfort was a huge deal to me. All the stress about being cramped for two hours started to melt away and I nearly felt like crying in relief.
"Thank you so much." I said in a thick voice, looking at the flight attendant like she was an angel. "Honestly. Flights are hard for everyone obviously, but I'm just so big—and I'm rambling and thank you. What's your name?"
She pointed high up on her chest where her name placard read Sandra.
I laughed. "Well then, thank you Sandra."
"It's really no problem. Sometimes the only thing that makes this job worth it is brightening people's days just a little bit."
I thanked her again before putting my backpack in the overhead storage. As soon as I sat in the seat I could feel the comfy cushioning, I was able to stretch my legs and I looked around the compartment. There was my complementary water bottle, a pillow, a blanket, an amenity kit, noise cancelling headphones and did I mention the leg room? There was more leg room than I ever thought possible.
Sure there was a seat beside mine but there was a partition that I could keep up for the entirety of the flight if I wanted. I got comfortable and stretched out in my seat. Any sensation of oncoming panic attack was completely gone. The plane still wasn't taking off but I felt relaxed now.
#
Imagine Darius' seat like the 2J one below but it's next to another seat like the picture further down. So Darius is taking American Airlines and this is their version of first class. Now, don't get me wrong, this first class is nothing compared to Singapore first class or UAE first class but those are luxury airlines and American Airlines is— not luxury.
The image below is American Airlines economy. I'm sure it's hard to imagine Darius sitting there. Poor guy.
#
"Darius, my, is that you?" I heard my name and turned around, looking for the person speaking Twi to me. I looked across to the seat that was closest to mine and saw Yaya Yeboah. She was dressed casually in a blue hoodie and dark blue jeans.
My heart dropped and a sense of embarrassment filled me. The last time I had seen Doctor Yaya Yeboah was when she acted as my psychiatrist after the worst breakdown of my life. She was a lovely person, Ghanaian like me, easy to talk to and a professional.
But black people weren't supposed to do the whole therapy thing. Men weren't supposed to do the whole therapy thing. Black men especially weren't supposed to do the whole therapy thing. Every time I had gone and seen her I felt like I was doing something wrong. Partly because, aside from Manny, it was a complete secret.
"Darius?" Dr. Yaya said softly.
I blinked, looking down and then up at her. I wasn't bi, or anything remotely close to straight but Yaya was objectively beautiful. Her hair was full of luxurious curls that rolled and bounced with every move complimenting her rich brown skin. For a woman, she was tall, probably just under Trace's height and had the frame of a long and willowy model. Despite her tallness it gave her a delicate look.
"Uh, yeah— Hi, Dr. Yaya."
She smiled, showing off one long dimple in the side of her cheek. "Just Yaya is fine, Darius. Flying first class?"
I explained to her about my lucky upgrade and she nodded, telling me the same thing had happened to her. We talked about her family and her infant child. I had seen Yaya just after my breakdown, and saw her for about half a year before she went on maternity leave. She referred me to another psychiatrist but I couldn't show another person all the raw, broken pieces of myself so I hadn't gone.
And now here she was looking at me with kind eyes and speaking in Twi. I had been born and raised in Canada but my parents ensured that I was fluent in their native languages. For my family that meant learning Twi, learning West-African French, and learning Ewe which was the ethnic group both my parents were a part of even if it spanned across different countries. I wasn't exactly sure why Yaya and I spoke Twi during our sessions but it was what had happened.
"I'm sorry," I said hastily. "I didn't follow up with you, and I never saw the person you referred me to. I don't even know if you remember the stuff we talked about."
She nodded. "I do. And you don't have to apologize. Everyone has different journeys. You don't need to feel guilty."
"Sure." I said, feeling guilty.
Silence persisted while we strapped in and took to the skies. We were given menus and chatted conversationally over how broad the menu was. By the time the food came she was showing me pictures of her son, Joshua. He had her eyes and her dimple. It was sweet that she had a family and a life and I wished one day I could have that, too.
"Anything new for you? I remember you've been wanting to date..." Her voice was gentle.
I rubbed a hand down the side of my face, embarrassed. "There's this guy..." who was now my boyfriend.
"Oh?" She said playfully, "I'm happy for you."
Then, Yaya dug around in her purse for several seconds before pulling out a business card. "I know you're very particular about who you speak to, and I won't be in my office for a few months because I was asked to be part of the mental health staff for this reality TV show, but after all that I would like us to continue sessions if that's to your comfort level."
I took the card, before taking in her words. "Wait, where are you heading to?"
"New York."
Oh.
Oh no.
I looked down at the card, rubbing my thumb over the slightly raised card stock, unable to read the words.
"So...what's the show?" I somehow managed to push out between my suddenly dry lips.
"I think it's called Beasts who Bake or something, I'm not really sure. They hire mental health professionals because of how many contestants start to experience mental distress. Oh, wait a second, Darius. Are you...?" Her voice trailed off until it was silent and realization hit.
"It's called Baking Beasts. Is it really supposed to be that stressful?"
Yaya's eyes widened, and she leaned back in her seat as if she'd run out of air. The look in her eyes was telling me all I needed to know and I slouched into my seat wondering if this really was too much for someone like me.