I have this feeling. It's hard to explain but it's close to dread. I'm anxious the moment I wake up and head into Weston's. I don't know why that is. Nothing is happening, nothing has happened. There's no reason to be anxious.

     Charles comes in and we work to get the morning batches done in silence. I've started thinking about a Thanksgiving menu, but vaguely. I've got one more Weston's After Hours before Thanksgiving, on the twenty-third, and I'm thinking of doing some twists on the classic Thanksgiving staples.

     Tasha walks into the kitchen quietly. She's clutching her phone to her chest, eyebrows furrowed, and neither of us notice her until she eventually clears her throat. "Something happened," she says slowly.

     "Is Opal okay?" I ask concerned, setting down the piping bag I'm holding.

     "Oh, Opal's fine," she says. "This doesn't have to do with me. It's about you."

     "What about me?" I ask, confused.

     "You remember that food critic, right?" she asks, tipping her head.

     I nod slowly. "Luke Doucet. Yes, why?"

     "He wrote about you," she responds.

     "Yeah, the review. I read it. You read it. We all read it."

     She shakes her head. "He wrote about you again. Personally." She holds her phone out, looking down at it. "The Gay Vet Who's Turning Tides in the Food Service Industry," she says and slowly looks back up at me. Charles turns to stare at me, too. I know my eyes are wide but the rest of my face feels like it's remaining neutral.

     "Keep going," I say, then add, "Please."

     "A few weeks ago I had the privilege of securing a highly coveted seat at Weston's After Hours, the coffee house infamous for its unique and playful cupcake designs that's now a newly turned pop up restaurant. The Chef, Dresden Gibson, is a five-tour veteran having served active duty in Afghanistan from two-thousand and nine to two-thousand twelve. He received a Distinguished Service Cross for his time, but what's more distinguished about this experience is apparently the men in his platoon, namely, Michael Weston who he named his shop after and lost in the line of duty in two-thousand and eleven."

     She glances up at me again like she is unsure if she should continue. Even though I've just rehashed these details with Cas, with Jack, too, in New York, hearing them from Tasha, knowing that they're in print for all the world to see is different. I'm having a hard time moving air.

     I nod my head so she'll continue.

     "A source who wishes to remain anonymous, but served closely to Sergeant Gibson states the relationship between him and Private Weston was remarkably intimate, considering their stations, and that it didn't surprise him that Sergeant Gibson had named the store after the soldier. The source states it was, in fact, Private Weston's dream to open his own cupcake shop. It seems that Dresden Gibson was honoring the wishes of the soldier. One can only speculate the relationship the two had, but it was clearly impactful. At the root of all of Gibson's creations, you'll find love — love for the craft and maybe even love for the soldier he's honoring. If you haven't stopped by and had yourself a cupcake, yet, there's a train that pulls right into Aurora and the Falling For You is a speciality that sells out fast. You're welcome in advance for putting you on your new addiction."

     Tasha stops and the room is silent. I don't know what to say.

     Charles breaks the silence. "Any publicity is good publicity, right?"

     "Oh, this is gonna be monumental for you. I've already taken three catering phone calls, which you're gonna need to get back to. Are you okay? Because you're staring like you're going to set yourself on fire and then this room on fire and maybe even the world on fire, too."

     "How did he — who did he even — he can't just write that stuff about me without my permission," I say finally. "Can he?"

     "He can," Dolores says from the doorway where she's just now popped up. "I don't think he's said anything that isn't public knowledge or just his opinion. Everything was pretty carefully worded. Speculate. Gives him leeway to say what he wants without a source."

     "He's highlighting Weston's as the place a gay guy owns," I snap. "That's not what this is."

     "Are you not a gay guy?" Dolores asks.

     "That's not the point. It wouldn't matter if I was an alien from Pluto. It's about the food. It's not about me."

     "Who do you think the source was?" Tasha asks. "It wouldn't have been Jack, right?"

     I shake my head. "No, absolutely not. It could've been any number of people. Our fleet wasn't a small group."

     "I think you should look at this as a compliment," Dolores says finally. "He's endorsing Weston's. Increasing foot traffic here. And it's not like it was a secret that you're gay or that you named this after Michael."

     "I need some air," I say after a moment, walking past Dolores to exit. I head to the front, walk out the doors, stepping out onto the sidewalk. I tip my head back, breathing in loud breaths as the sun warms my face.

     It's not the end of the world. So a fraction of my story is out there. It's not like it's like some huge secret, anyway.

     I decide to call Luke Doucet.

     When he answers, he says, "Was wondering when I'd hear from you again. I take it you read my piece."

     "You had no right," I say flatly.

     "Of course I had every right. Freedom of the press."

     "Cut the freedom of the press crap. I'm not some politician that needs exposing. This is my life. Not the next episode of Real Bakers of Aurora."

     "And while I totally respect that, I was honestly just trying to help. You have a whole market here appealing to the gays, appealing to gay vets, that you're not even playing to."

     "Because I'm not a brand," I snap.

     "Of course you're a brand," Luke responds. "And a good brand at that. You're marketing just sucks. There are not many out vets, never mind out vets who dated their subordinates. He was your subordinate, right? I'm pretty sure that would be your relationship as a Sergeant and a Private."

     "Listen," I say after a moment where I try to ground myself with some breaths. "Don't write about me again. I don't want to see Weston's in print with your name on the byline, okay? Otherwise, I'm going to sue for defamation. Got it?"

     "Loud and clear," Doucet says before he hastily hangs up. Something about saying you're going to sue has a numbing effect. I'm not even sure that I'd have a case to sue, but whatever. I feel uneasy, pacing in a circle to keep myself from punching something.

     "Whoa," a voice calls out. "Who pissed in your cheerios?"

     I look up and Cas is walking down the sidewalk, in a distinctly better mood than I am in. "What?" I say.

     "You're pissed," he responds.

     I take another soothing breath. "No, I'm fine."

     He lifts an eyebrow. "I think now that you've started being honest, you've actually lost the ability to tell a good lie."

     I laugh at that. "You know the food critic?"

     "The one who wrote the rave review? I remember him, yeah."

     "Well, he wrote about me again."

     Cas makes a sound. "Take him on a date already. He's putting in the work."

     I ignore his comment. "He wrote about Weston. About my relationship with him."

     "Oh," Cas responds. "Shit."

     "Yeah."

     "How bad is it? Should I read it?" Cas pulls out his phone, typing at the screen.

     "Apparently, according to everyone else, I'm overreacting."

     Cas stares at his phone in silence. "Uhhh, yeah I don't think you are. He basically said go to Weston's because a gay guy runs it."

     "Exactly," I nearly scream. "Exactly what I said."

     "Fuck that guy," Cas says and I want to hug him. He gets it. Dolores, Tasha, and Charles definitely do not. "Let's go find out where he lives and teepee his place."

     "He probably lives in some fancy apartment on the Upper East Side."

     "Even better. We can stake it out and egg him when he leaves."

     "I appreciate that," I say with a small smile. Cas laughs quietly. We both know we'd never do it, but the sentiment is nice. "Are you coming in?"

    "Yeah, coffee before the worst shift ever."

     "What is it?"

     "One to one," he answers.

     "Is it busy normally?" I ask as we walk inside. Tasha's at the counter and Cas walks up.

     "Not in the beginning of shift, but towards the evening into the night, yeah. Lot of motor vehicles. Overdoses. That sorta thing." He looks at Tasha. "Iced Americano, please."

     "What are you having to eat?" I find myself asking without much thought.

     Tasha's back is to us as she makes his drink. Cas goes, "I'll have you know I just came from the French place up the street? Had the best Nutella crepes of my life."

     "That's disgusting," I say. "It's too early for all that sugar. You're gonna crash."

     "I also had an eggs Benedict, relax."

     "I've got some food in the fridge you can take with you," I say already walking away before he's responded.

     I come back holding a stack of Tupperware. Cas eyeballs it before he asks, "Are you feeding a small nation?'

     "I mean that's basically how I would define your appetite," I retort.

     He shakes his head playfully, taking the Tupperware from me. "Funny guy."

     We both halt, staring at each other. Tasha has slid his coffee towards him on the counter but we're both transfixed in each other's gaze. In another world, I'm transported back to five years ago, ripping on Cas as he shoves me and says, "Dresden Gibson, everyone, he'll be here all night."

     "Anyway," Cas says turning and reaching for his coffee. "I should go."

     I nod. "Yeah okay," I say. "See ya."

     I turn away, muttering to myself. "See ya? Seriously, that's the best I got?"