Corbin had snuck in to perform the ritual three more times since first doing it. Each time he stood in And Son’s kitchen, hands dusty with flour and the scent of yeast in the air, he concentrated on pouring the curse into the challah. He imagined it drowned in egg, cut by salt, enrobed in flour, and anchored by braiding. Then he watched as the oven devoured it, not leaving until it was reduced to carbon.
And while he couldn’t be certain—there was so little certainty with these things—he thought he felt . . . lighter. He felt like he had as a child, when the forces of the world were friends, and his navigation of them a kind of play. When he’d dipped in and out of flows of energy like they were rivers and he could see the terminus.
He felt . . . Was that happiness?
Still, he couldn’t trust it. Couldn’t trust Alex’s very life to a maybe. He touched Alex cautiously, and watched intently, always on the lookout for signs that some hint of his poison had rubbed off. Alex seemed all right—but not unaffected. He seemed to feel the weight behind Corbin’s touches, even if he couldn’t know what it indicated.
One morning, Corbin woke early, full up with a sense of purpose. He showered quickly, then made his way to And Son in the predawn.
He felt a tugging at his skin, like he was being hurried along. The dark, chilly wind pressed him forward, leaves sweeping him onward, and shadows of branches laying an urgent path before him. His mouth tingled, the snap of sugar hot on his tongue.
All the signs pointed to the same thing. That it was time for the final ingredient. That, this morning, Corbin was going to reverse polarity. He was going to bake his positive feelings into the bread and give it to Alex. Bake with love for those you love and they will taste the sweetness. These things always cut both ways.
He’d decided to stick with challah—the braid seemed apt, and he’d felt the way the woven strands strengthened his intentions. As the yeast bubbled, he thought of the fizz he got in his stomach when Alex stood close to him, the warmth of his skin a tantalizing promise. As he mixed oil and egg with flour and salt, watching them bleed into each other, he imagined the ways he wanted his mind and Alex’s to become one, their thoughts merging. As the dough rose, he pictured rising with Alex in the early morning, soft pillows and warm arms and hot breath. As he braided the dough, he pictured the way their bodies would entwine, edges obliterated as they sank into one being in a form more beautiful than either could make apart.
One piece of yourself to sign it, his aunts had always said, so Corbin pressed the lightest of kisses to the top of the risen braid before putting it in the oven. This time, he didn’t want it to burn. This time, he wanted it to bake perfectly. For its scent to fill Alex’s nose even before he consumed it.
The timer went off just as the door to the kitchen swung open, and Alex walked in.
“Corbin, hi. You’re not scheduled today.”
Corbin slid the challah from the oven but froze, still holding it, because someone else had come into the kitchen behind Alex. The air around the man was mottled and twisted with fear, pain, shame, and shot through with hope, determination, and relief.
He also had Alex spangled all over him. In his hair, clinging to his clothes, on his skin. And he stuck close to Alex like he didn’t want more than a foot of space between them.
Corbin’s gut clenched with a pain he’d never felt before. It was so different from what he’d felt when his aunts died, or his mother never came back, that it didn’t feel like the same emotion.
Then, he’d felt adrift, his edges tattered and torn at by the wind. Now, he felt like something planted deep inside him, something nascent and delicate and yearning, had been crushed in a fist and torn out of him by the roots.
“Corbin?”
The pan clattered on the wooden countertop, and Alex slid it away from the edge and took his potholders.
The man with the aura like bruises looked at him intently. He was pale as milk and thin, like Corbin, though a few inches shorter. Delicate bones and haunted eyes the color of a blank summer sky. A puff of hair bleached as white as a dandelion seed head, the sides shaved aggressively short, with a line cut to the scalp.
This man was beautiful and sharp and vulnerable, and of course Alex would want him. Alex could have him.
Why would Alex want poison when he could have sustenance. Why would Alex choose an ankle-snapping trap when he could have a warm embrace. Corbin was broken and deadly and ruinous. This man, though worn around the edges, was potential and companionship and joy.
Corbin wanted to throw up.
Alex’s hand closed around his shoulder, and his traitorous body relaxed automatically.
“Corbin. Are you with me?”
I’m always with you.
Corbin nodded, and forced himself to meet Alex’s gaze. His eyes were warm and concerned, and Corbin’s heart beat in the hollow of his throat, because in his dreams Alex looked at him that way just before he enfolded Corbin in his arms.
“This is Gareth, my friend from New York. Remember?”
My best friend got hurt. He’s going to come stay with me for a while.
Corbin nodded again and gazed at the man—Gareth. The name didn’t fit him. Gareth extended a hand and when Corbin took it, their eyes locked. They both felt the snap. Friends, then. Or at least not enemies. But Corbin felt something more, too. Gareth was like him. Just a little bit. It was long buried, disavowed, unacknowledged in the light of day. But Gareth had that spark in him, and Corbin could feel the way like called to like.
Gareth’s clear blue eyes narrowed in unconscious recognition. He dropped Corbin’s hand and gestured between himself and Alex. “We’re friends, not lovers. We’ll always be friends, not lovers. I mean, there was that one week when we first lived togeth— Uh, yeah, but we’re not together.”
Corbin felt like he could breathe again, and he knew he was blinking stupidly at Gareth but he couldn’t stop.
Alex was shaking his head minutely, but he was on the edge of laughter.
“Anyway, I’m starving,” Gareth said, throwing himself onto the counter and swinging his legs. “Is that edible?” He pointed at the challah.
Corbin realized he hadn’t yet spoken when he tried to answer and found he couldn’t. It happened sometimes—things on the inside swelling to stop the words from getting out. He opened his mouth to try again and felt the tiny seed of panic that always lived there. What if my words never come back?
Corbin pushed the challah toward Alex, since he couldn’t speak.
“Is this for me?” Alex said slowly, his voice low. In moments like this one, Corbin knew that Alex saw him. Alex didn’t have the spark. Alex was as earthy and present as a sapling, with roots that would deepen over time even as he grew into the sky. But he felt what Corbin was, what Corbin meant, what Corbin needed, in a way that made Corbin vibrate with rightness.
At Corbin’s nod, Alex smiled. “Thank you.” His pleasure was simple and warm. He leaned in to smell it and his smile widened. “Cinnamon and sugar challah? What a good idea.” Corbin cocked his head because it wasn’t quite right. “Cinnamon toast challah,” Alex corrected himself, and Corbin’s heart pounded yes.
“Okay, okay, I get it. It’s for Alex.” Gareth shot Alex an amused look. “But can I please have some too? Helen cooked last night, so obviously I didn’t eat anything. I don’t know how you survived growing up on that, much less ate enough to be all . . . football-y,” he said to Alex.
“I didn’t. My dad always cooked.”
“Oh, right. Sorry,” Gareth muttered, and tugged Alex’s sleeve once in apology. But Alex waved it off.
Then they were both looking at Corbin, and he felt something new stir inside him, like a small thing with sheathed claws unfurling in his chest from hibernation. He did want to share the bread with Gareth. Gareth was important—was going to be important. He belonged here. He was part of the picture.
Corbin’s voice was only a croak, but it must have sounded affirmative enough because Gareth practica
lly dove at the challah. As Gareth’s pale fingers tore a chunk from its side, Corbin felt the tug within him.
Yes, yes, yes, this is right.
Alex shot Gareth an irritated look, and Corbin could see his possessiveness. The braid was his and Gareth had damaged it. He cut a slice of his own, the air suddenly redolent with cinnamon, and Corbin’s eyes were magnetized to Alex’s mouth as he took a bite, chewed, swallowed.
Yes, yes, yes, yes.
Alex’s eyes widened and Corbin knew he could taste it. He might not recognize it for what it was, but it didn’t matter.
Bake with love for those you love and they will taste the sweetness.
“It’s perfect,” Alex said.
Gareth garbled something complimentary through a full mouth, but his gaze on Alex and Corbin was sharp and assessing. Gareth saw.
Alex cut another slice of challah and held it out to Corbin. “A baker should always taste his recipes.”
Corbin chewed, the give of the challah just right between his teeth, the bloom of sugar on his tongue just right against the richness of the bread and the earthiness of cinnamon. It was the relief of rest after sleepless nights combined with the comfort of Alex’s presence. When he swallowed, Corbin felt eased. Yes, it was right.
He got lost in the tangled web of associations inside his head, and came out of it to the touch of Alex’s hand on his arm. And now he didn’t have to take himself away from Alex’s touch, did he?
“Did you know it’s Thanksgiving?” Alex was saying, as if perhaps he were repeating himself. Corbin stared at him. He hadn’t known. “I don’t think we’ll get that much business, but I thought we’d do a few simple things. Some bread, anyway.” When Corbin’s words still didn’t come, Alex went on. “You’re not on the schedule, but if you want to hang out, of course I always love your company.”
He said it matter-of-factly, but a shade of hopeful energy was there in the air around him.
“Obviously, you’re staying,” Gareth said, jumping down from the counter and clapping him on the back. “Do you talk? It’s cool if you don’t, I just want to know whether I’m asking polite questions or torturing you. I only like to torture people on purpose.” He leered, and Corbin blinked at him.
Finally, the words were there, the blockage cleared away.
Corbin turned to Alex. “You don’t celebrate Thanksgiving.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t want to close the bakery in honor of it, but I also don’t want to make a bunch of stuff no one’s going to buy. Usually, it’s no big deal since we take it all to Food Gatherers.” That was the local homeless shelter and meal service that And Son donated all their leftovers to. “But on Thanksgiving, they’re actually inundated with donations, so it’s not as helpful.”
“Even though Alex doesn’t celebrate horrible Thanksgiving, we’re still going to hang out tonight after we close up, in a totally non-celebratory manner, because I’ve been cooped up in that damn house for over a week and I’m climbing the walls. And you’re going to hang out with us.”
Corbin could see how Gareth and Alex were such good friends. They were the inverse of one another, Alex’s gentle geniality covering gut-deep confidence and iron will, Gareth’s snappy bluster the veneer over a slightly nervous desire for approval.
For the next two hours, they baked companionably. Gareth, Alex explained, was a chef, so while he didn’t have Alex’s experience with baking, he could follow directions well enough to help with everything.
Once they opened, the day passed in stretches of down time broken by a few flurries of activity. They sold most of the bread and a lot of coffee to harried holidaymakers, and watched as a group of teenagers lingered over lattes, clearly attempting to avoid the inevitable moment when they had to leave the joy of each other’s easy company and go home to family celebrations they dreaded.
Around four, Gareth went to the market down the street before it closed and came back with a bag of groceries for the dinner he said he was going to cook them.
Corbin had spent hours drawing, in the downtime between baking and cleaning. (He didn’t interact with customers. He’d made that clear when Alex had hired him.) But rather than draw scenes with Carbon, Jasmine, Lex, and Finnian, Corbin found himself sketching Alex and Gareth. Not drawing them into his imaginings, not making up stories, but rendering them as they were—Alex’s strong arms and broad shoulders bent toward kneading bread, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. Gareth’s easy smiles and glittering eyes with the customers, and his tense expression when he thought no one was looking.
“Can I see?” Alex asked, pulling up a chair next to where Corbin was sitting. Corbin scraped his hair behind his ear and slowly flipped the notebook back two pages. “Wow.” Alex searched his face. “I’ve only ever seen your more comic style stuff. These are incredible.”
Corbin ducked his chin.
“I’m serious. You’re really talented.”
Corbin hmmed but didn’t know what to say. Compliments are unnecessary and pandering, his aunts had always insisted. Either the person you’re complimenting already knows, or they won’t believe it anyway.
“You about ready to take off? That is, you don’t have to come hang out with us if you don’t want to. But we’re going to leave soon, if you do.”
Corbin cleared his throat. He didn’t even know what hanging out would mean. “Do you want me to.”
“Yeah, of course I do. Absolutely,” Alex said, squeezing Corbin’s shoulder. Flushed and vibrating with satisfaction, Corbin nodded and gathered his things.
They made their way through the silence of downtown in Alex’s car, Corbin watching out the window as the birds streaked overhead, three by three.
Gareth’s voice startled him. “I’m seriously sick of the walls at your place, Alex. Corbin, do you live alone?”
“Yes.”
“Can we go to your place instead?” Gareth spun around in his seat and batted his eyelashes. “Please? For real, I don’t want to go back to Alex’s.”
“I— All right. It’s just not very . . . I don’t have people over,” Corbin stammered.
“Well, do you have a kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a table and chairs—or a floor?”
“I— Yes, of course.”
“Then great, let’s go there.”
“Gareth,” Alex warned. “We weren’t invited.”
“He said ‘all right’!”
“Corbin, we don’t have to come over if you don’t want.”
Corbin remembered the day he brought Portia Washington home with him from the park. They’d been climbing on the monkey bars, then they’d drifted over to a hollow stump where they played potions, mixing dirt with crushed berries. Corbin had told Portia that his aunts had real potions, and she’d wanted to see, so they’d walked together, kicking at rocks and chunks of fallen wood.
When Aunt Jade had found them rummaging through their stores of dried herbs and unguents, she’d been furious, and Portia had run away, afraid of Aunt Jade’s anger and the scar that twisted her mouth. The scar which Aunt Jade always said was the souvenir of a car accident, but which Corbin came to suspect later had a somewhat more sinister origin.
He’d never asked another person home. It hadn’t helped that soon after, the other children at the park and the farmer’s market had begun talking about the boy who lived in the haunted house, and the scary witches who lived there with him. When he’d told his aunts, they’d laughed and exchanged knowing glances. It happens every ten years or so, Aunt Hilda had told him. But Corbin had felt the pain underneath her flippant reply and wished he’d never mentioned it.
“No,” he told Alex. “I want you to.” It’s my house now, he told himself. Of course it was. It had been for years, but this felt like a step toward feeling the truth of it.
When they stepped out of the car, Corbin saw the moon hanging heavy and nearly full in the sky, a thin cover of cloud turning the light milky and delicate. Then, as Alex
walked toward the house, the cloud was blown away, moonlight falling on Alex like a consecration. He glowed with it, illumined against the dark angles of the house. It took Corbin’s breath away.
“He thinks you aren’t attracted to him. He’s not even sure you notice him at all.” Gareth’s voice was pitched low, his words so absurd Corbin almost couldn’t make sense of them.
Alex commanded his entire focus, as nothing ever had. He imagined he radiated it whenever he looked at Alex.
“I can tell you do, though. You do notice him. Right?”
Corbin stared at the ground, then nodded.
“Good. He deserves to be noticed.”
Gareth’s bag had revealed a bottle of whiskey in addition to the ingredients for dinner, and Gareth pushed it across the counter to Corbin and then waved both of them over to the table so they weren’t in the way as he cooked.
“This place is wild,” Gareth said as he took out pans, knives, and a cutting board. “Your parents must’ve been pretty into cooking with a kitchen this big?”
“My aunts.”
“They raised you?”
“Yes. My father died before I was born, and my mother wasn’t around.”
“They cook a lot?”
“Sometimes.” Corbin pictured the late-night or early-morning feasts, and the days on end of cheese sandwiches in between. “They liked to cook elaborate meals, but then they’d lose interest for a while. Or they’d leave a pot of chili on the fire and just add bits to it.”
“On this?” Corbin nodded and Gareth examined the round-bottomed pot that hung over the grate in the fireplace. “Wow. I love it. Very double double, toil and trouble. There weren’t three of them were there?”
Alex shook his head, but he was smiling.
“No, two,” Corbin said. He eyed the bottle on the table, and Alex, following his gaze, raised an eyebrow.