"This smells better than the usual Friday Night pizza." Mike throws his bike helmet on the couch as he walks by it and heads to the rows of arancini and the shells for the cannoli that I've baked after Amelie's quick departure.

"Wash your hands before you touch anything. And don't eat the food on the island."

"But I want to try it."

"The plate over there is for you." I point at the small mountain of things that didn't turn out perfectly for tomorrow.

I cover the large bowl of cut-up vegetables with clingy wrap, take it to the extra fridge I have in the garage, and rearrange the products of my prep work for tomorrow to make it all fit.

"Hey, man, where's the pizza?" Mike's voice greets me when I get back into the house. "You're ruining our long-standing Friday Night tradition, here. Fuck." He picks up the grilled cheese sandwich off his plate.

"Pizza is for tomorrow's party. I had the oven tied up, and you love grilled cheese."

"Just messing with ya." Mike takes a bite and a quarter of a sandwich disappears in his mouth. I'm not sure he chewed any of it. "Mmm, it's so good. And I've had enough pizza in the last month. At this point, it's the only thing Angie eats. The delivery guy might need to get a permanent parking spot by our building."

"She told me. How's the Grand opening coming along?"

"The plan is still to open up next week. I can't afford any more delays." Mike's done with the sandwich and inspects the rest of the food in front of him. "The dojang is ready. We are only waiting on the permits, and, at this point, the baby'll be here before we get them."

"Remember my projection calculations. You are fine as long as you open up by the end of August. And if the enrollments are steady, in six months you can start drawing a salary from the new location."

"And start looking for a house." Mike takes a small bite out of the chicken cacciatore, nods, spears a bunch more onto his fork. "Our apartment is barely big enough for the two of us, not to mention long-term guests. I have to suffer through ten more days of putting clothes on to eat in my own fucking kitchen. Three weeks is too long to have a guest. Speaking of guests, Angie told me you invited Linda to her baby shower tomorrow?"

"Angie said she didn't mind. I need to talk to Linda, and she said she had something for me, and wanted to meet Saturday, and I mentioned the party, and I couldn't not invite her. We are technically still seeing each other."

"Hold on. Fuck. I thought you were going to break up with her last week."

"That was what I wanted to do, but she was visiting her parents and came back yesterday. And that's why I need to talk to her tomorrow. So we are officially not together."

"You sure she'll be OK with it?"

"We made a deal. It was nothing more than—"

"Nothing more than sex, you keep telling me that. I'd like you to prove me wrong, but I think you're fucking underestimating Linda's...interest."

"I don't think so."

Mike is finishing his food, and I flip through Am's grandmother's recipes and find the one we made together today. The new Amelie dominated the kitchen, and the old Amelie lead the conversation. Her words didn't play hide-and-seek, she didn't insist on small talk, and she asked clear and direct questions, which freed up the mental and emotional space for me to be myself. The level of concentration trying to guess what people actually mean in an average conversation drains me faster than a day's work.

"All done. Let's play. There aren't going to be anymore Friday Gaming Nights for us for a while once the baby is born." Mike drags both palms across his face. He's been my friend for fifteen years, and I know it's one of his tells. He had something he wanted to say. As much as Angie wanted me to talk about my feelings, Mike and I didn't do that. The standard deviation in Mike's behavior is small, and I can predict his moods with ease. His today's mood is an outlier.

"I'm going to be a fucking father, and I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing. I even read some of the books you gave me but...fuck...a real child." He repeatedly rubs his face with his hands. 

"What if fuck it all up? What if it was a fucking mistake? My Dad may've changed, but he was a fucking disaster when I was little. The fuck will I know if I'm doing what I'm supposed to?"

The increased frequency of fucks is another one of his tells.

"Have you talked to Angie about it? She's great with the feelings side of life."

"No. She's enough stress on her plate. She's still trying to finish writing the album with the "Whats". I'm supposed to protect her, not have her be my therapist." Mike slides off the barstool, comes over to my side of the island, and blocks the walkthrough with his massive frame. 

"Let's go play and blow off some steam, fuck up some zombies."

After we kill two hundred and seventy-two zombies, Mike leaves, and I go for a midnight run. The time off I took, for the first time since I flew to visit my sister in New York for Christmas, was full of shopping, cooking, and filming. My weekly and daily schedules were rearranged, and most aspects of my life entered a period of volatility. Exercise was the only part of my routine that remained constant.

While my body runs, my brain recalibrates and sheds the confines of speech. Broad fields of data and knowledge I've collected merge in the safety of my skull, and the puzzle pieces fall into place.

***

The oven beeps, and the doorbell rings at the same time. I grab the mac-and-cheese for the kids out, place it in the warming drawer, put two pizzas in, set the timer on my phone, and jog over to the entryway. The bell rings again as I open the door.

Three large white cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other block Amelie from the waist up, but I see her eyes and the top of her head behind them. What did she bring this time? Didn't she say yesterday we had everything ready?

"Either let me through or grab some of these boxes."

I take the top two and the sweet smell, different from the sweetness of Am's perfume, fills my nostrils. We enter the kitchen, and there's no available counter space to put the boxes on. The floor will do. I deposit my boxes by the wall.

"What's inside?" I ask.

"Maison Pariseinne's delectable desserts. Wait until you try their Pain Au Chocolat." She lowers the box in her hand onto the two I just put down. I have the stand for them in the trunk. I didn't want to risk either breaking it or dropping the food by bringing both at the same time. I'll be right back."

The heels on Am's shoes today are higher but wider than the ones that got stuck outside the first day she was here. I didn't get a chance to deal with the paver she loosened up by the door. Heels can not be a good choice of footwear for the patio.

Amelie returns with a giant silver frame in one hand and white ceramic plates tucked under her other armpit. She looks around the kitchen and the living room for a place to put it, but there's still no counter space, and she continues to hold the parts for the tiered plate stand as she looks around the room. Every available raised surface is taken.

"Maybe put it outside?" I point at the large sliding glass doors to the patio.

"It's gonna get too hot there. The desserts'll melt."

So she did say desserts the first time. I made one hundred cannoli shells and plenty of creme for them. Angie loves cannoli. It's carbs and dairy, so it won't upset her stomach. And I told Am I'm taking care of the food. All the food, including the deserts. Was I not clear? Did she think I couldn't do it? This makes no sense. I need to assess the situation and formulate a question that'll solve this misunderstanding.

"Where do I pu—"

"May I open the—" We start speaking at the same time and stop.

"You first," says Amelie.

"May I open the top box and have a look?"

"Yeah, yeah, they have a sticker holding the lid glued shut, but it's easy to peel off." She's right. Sticker in one hand and box lid in the other, I'm bent over two dozen miniature eclairs. These will not do well outside.

"I might've ordered a but too many of those. They're my favorite."

I remember her making us stop and buy these things before we visited Tall's place for the first time. Am's shoes are inches away from the bottom box and my sneakers. The nail polish on her toes is dark red, almost maroon, and matches the one on her fingers. Her fingers that are still holding the pieces for the stand.

Figure out where to put the stand, then figure out what to do with twice the amount of dessert we need. The timer goes off on my phone. The pizzas are ready.

Pizzas first, then the stand, then the desserts. I walk over to the oven, grab the pizza peel and slide them out and onto the large cutting board on top of the stove. The doorbell rings. I grab my phone and look at the time, and we're minutes away from the start of the party. I can cut the pizzas later. I slide the peel under one of the two remaining unbaked pizzas on the counter and put it into the oven. Then do the same with the other and set the timer. I need to bring more pizzas from the garage fridge for the next batch and the salads.

The doorbell rings again.

"I'll get it," shouts Amelie even though she's only on the other side from me, still holding the pieces for the stand.

"Great." I have time to grab the stuff from the garage.

I take one step down into the garage and push the button by the door outside. The garage door begins to slide up, so Mike can park his car inside, and Angie doesn't have to walk up all the way from the curb. They're supposed to text me before they arrive, but I'm already here, so I might as well do it now. I open the fridge.

I'm able to cook for thirty people, but even with two fridges, I had to plan. I take out the large covered bowl with salad and balance two more pizzas I prepped yesterday on top. Now there's enough space in the fridge for maybe two of the three boxes Am brought. The eclairs will fit. Another problem solved, but it doesn' quiet down the buzzing that's started in my head and body.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and it echoes the buzz in my mind. I put the bowl topped with the pizzas on the cement floor.

Angie: Turning onto your street. Please open the garage door. We picked up Tall, and neither of us wants to climb up the steep front yard of yours.

This is good. Angie can help with the Am's stand problem while I can finish up the food. I slide the phone back into my pocket. It's no longer buzzing, but my head still is. I walk over to my exercise corner and lower myself on the mat. One pushup. Two pushups. Three pushups. The blood starts moving towards my arms and chest. Ten. Fifteen. The buzzing in my head eases off. Twenty. Twenty-one.

I hear a car climbing up the driveway. This should do it. The buzz has receeded. Greet Mike, Angie, and Tall. Grab the food. Ask Angie to deal with the stand. The timer beeps on my phone—the pizzas.

The baby shower is about to begin. I'm so ready to write it. It's going to be fun.

Are you getting a feel for being inside Ben's head? Do you like having his POV and not just Am's like in 'Love Novice'?

NaNoWriMo Day 5: 10, 695. Over the 10K mark  - woot!! That feels great. Five chapters down—double woot! Looks like I average about 2.1K words per chapter.