James and his buddies aren't exactly over the whole coffee fiasco by the time practice starts. Most days, I go unnoticed and unbothered by them. Which is to say they treat me like I just don't exist. I'm happy to not exist in their world. It's better than the alternative.

     On this particular day, the alternative is homophobic taunts and the occasional shove when Coach isn't watching. I grin and bear it because it's not the worst thing they can do and I don't want to push them to the worst thing. 

     So I spend most of practice in a daze, distracting myself with thoughts of Dres. My fantasizing is a little too good and I end up fucking up a drill. Coach decides to penalize the whole team for my lack of focus and we end up doing extra laps at the end of practice. When we finish, I'm quick to hop out of the pool, trying to dodge my teammates who are sending glares my way like bullets. I'll forego my shower and just go home, hoping to avoid a confrontation.

     I'm heading towards the bench to get my towel when a foot catches me at the ankle. I'm moving too quickly to come to a halt and throw my arm out to catch my fall. My finger bends back awkwardly, and I shriek from the immediate shock of pain. I clutch my hand to my chest, trying to breathe through it and the nauseating image of my finger out of place.

     One glance upwards reveals James's back as he walks away, a swagger to his step that suggests he's proud of himself. Coach is on me next, crouching beside me as he says my name. My ears are ringing and I can't focus on him at first.

     "Calvin," he says. "Let me see. Come on. Show me your hand."

     I move my hand away from my chest where I was clutching it and hold it out to him. My ring finger has definitely been shifted out of place. Angry tears blur the edge of my vision and I have to blink a few times to clear them.

     "You have to go to the hospital, kid," he says. "I would put it back in place myself but I don't want to risk injuring it further."

     This time, a tear escapes and I hastily wipe it away. "It's a minor injury," he says. "But you need a professional to fix it. You want me to take you?"

     I shake my head. "No, no I got it." I sniff, wiping at my face again. "Can you help me with my clothes, though?"

     Coach nods and takes the arm of my injured hand, holding it away from my body as he leads the way to the locker room. My finger looks like something out of a horror film. Absolutely disfigured. I know coach says it's minor but the pain pulsating through my hand begs to differ.

     The team is in the showers so I'm quick to point out my locker. I don't want them to get the satisfication of watching me struggle into my clothes or having coach dress me like I'm a toddler. Coach tries to slow me down as I nearly fall over stepping into sweatpants. Once I'm dressed, I grab my bag and head for the exit.

     "You're spacey today, Calvin," Coach calls stopping me. "You're lucky you didn't hurt yourself worse. And an injury now will ruin your chances at a scholarship. Not enough schools have seen you play."

     His words make my stomach drop. If James really wanted to hurt me, this would be the way to do it. I haven't thought of a plan B. My goal has always been swim scholarship. I've spent most of my life working towards it. I should tell coach what's going on with James. Keeping quiet about all the abuse is not doing me any favors. But when I think about it, it's not like I don't deserve it.

     I've never thought about my driving technique before but it turns out I like to alternate between my left and right hand. Not being able to do so makes for some awkward turns. Eventually I get to the hospital and go into the ER. I know a few of the nurses here who are my mom's friends. 

     The thing about the ER is it's so crazy that if you say the right words, you'll get an answer even if you're not technically privy to it. I grab the first tech that passes and ask who's the charge nurse on duty. 

     It's Bianca, who I know. I wait by the desk for her and when she walks up, she grins and says, "What're you doing here?"

     I hold up my offending hand. "Took a tumble."

     "Oooh, that looks like it hurts," she says. "You call your mom?"

     "No, I was hoping you could page her down."

     She makes a face. "You should've called her. Go to take a seat in 3. I'll send her to you."

     I obey, dragging myself into one of the exam rooms. I plop down on the bed, and wait, trying to think of the best way to explain what happened to my mom. I'm going to lie but I need that lie to sound as truthful as possible.

     She bursts into my room in the fashion I expected, frazzled, like she ran down six flight of stairs to get here, unable to wait for the elevator. Her eyebrow's pinched with anxiety and she stops, combing her eyes down my body, looking for damages.

     "What happened?" she exclaims when I hold my hand up for her.

     "Mom, please calm down before you have a heart attack and then I have a heart attack and we go down in history as the mom-son heart attack duo."

     "Kill the jokes," she snaps. "How did this happen?" She holds my hand up, inspecting the injury.

     "I tripped at practice. Wet floors."

     "Wet floors," she repeats back, her tone disbelieving.

     "I wasn't paying attention." Which isn't a lie.

     She's still holding my hand and runs her fingers over the top of it. "What happened here?" she says, referring to the blistered skin. It's all funky looking from swimming, like wrinkled, deflated balloons.

     "Burned myself at work." I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant.

     "Cas," she says with a tsk sound. "Every time I turn around, you've got a new injury. I'm going to put you in a bubble."

     "I wouldn't say every time," I say. "And coach says the finger isn't serious."

     "Oh, is that what coach says? So then should I not numb it before I snap it back into place? Since it's not serious?" She's angry, which is always confounding. Why do parents get mad when we get hurt? It's not like I want to get hurt.

     "I think I would prefer it if you don't snap my finger back into place at all. No offense but you don't work with bones often. Perhaps I can get the trauma doctor for this one?"

     One of the ER doctors walks in, then, like he heard my request, greeting my mom with a friendly hello. "Calvin," he says. "It's nice to see you again."

     I raise both my eyebrows. "We've met?"

     "This is Dr. Lewis," my mom says with a smile passing my hand off to him.

     The doctor takes a look as he says, "A few times when you were much younger. Your mother would bring you in and show off how well behaved a baby you were."

     My mother laughs. "I could put you in anyone's arms, and you wouldn't let out a sound."

     I frown. "That sounds safe."

     "So long as you were in the room," Dr. Lewis adds. "As soon as your mother left the room all hell broke loose."

     "Huh," I say looking between the two as they reminisce and laugh. I don't really want to be the ER any longer than I have to be. 

     While my mom may be content to spend all her time in a hospital, I hate the way it makes me feel helpless. Like I'm watching all these sick people walk in and can't do anything to ease their pain. 

     Clearing my throat loudly, I say, "Yeah, so I tripped getting out of the pool. Obviously my finger is doing somethig wild. I would be much obliged if we could make it stop doing the wild thing its doing."

     "Alright, hold still," Dr. Lewis says.

     "Wait, aren't you going to give me some lidocaine or something?" I exclaim.

     He laughs. "It's a quick pain. Take a breath. On the count of three, ready?"

     He goes on two. And I'm most certainly not ready.

     Afterwards Dr. Lewis splints my ring and middle finger together and says I'll need to keep it like this for a few days. A few days is nothing. I'm thankful. My mom keeps giving me these long looks like she suspects I'm lying about the circumstance in which I hurt myself. Things with James and I were worse before and my mom said if it started again she'd pull me out of Baxter. Since they've got the best swim program, and my two best friends, I do everything I can to prevent that from happening.

     "I'm just a klutz," I say after Dr. Lewis has left to discharge me. "It's no thing."

     "Uh huh," she says. "Well, another klutzy incident and maybe we'll have to move you to a school with softer floors."

     "Ha ha," I say sarcastically, wondering just how serious she's being with that threat. I never really know with my mom. She's chill until the exact moment she's not. And I can't imagine moving, not when I'm this invested in everything that isn't happening with Dres.

     When I get to work Monday morning, I've got the kind of energy that directly negates the fact I was up at five and worked all weekend. Dolores is behind the counter, arranging cupcakes in the display; she stops what she's doing when she sees me. "Morning, Cas," she chirps, offering a big smile. "Dres asked me to have you meet him the kitchen after you clock in."

     I go still, feeling the color drain from my face. I force my smile back to my lips and say, "Okay, cool."

     I nod before I head to the employee room to clock in and hang up my uniform. I stand in the room for a minute, trying to ease my nerves. I roll back my shoulders and start for the kitchen pretending that him requesting me in his space is the most normal thing. But my heart is beating so fast I can feel it vibrating in my wrists.

     I pause in the doorway, watching Dres, who is frazzled and running around the kitchen like some imminent threat is around the corner. He's got flour in his hair and his apron isn't centered on his hips. Today the kitchen is silent, no old school music to give Dres a rhythm to work to.

     He notices me and there is visible relief in the way his shoulders drop slightly. "Hey," he says softly. "I'm behind on all of the batches for today. I need your help."

     I almost ask him why he's behind on batches. It seems like Dres eats, sleeps, and breathes baking but clearly something stalled him this morning. I'm sure asking him why he's behind would only serve to agitate him more so I don't.

     Instead, I choose to stare at him like he's crazy. Because he must be if he thinks I can be of any help in a kitchen. I don't know what I expected him to want from me but I wasn't anticipating this.

     "Oh no — no, yeah, I can't bake for my life. Just the other day I set bacon on fire. I didn't even know you could—"

     I'm waving my hands back and forth dramatically as I speak and Dres is moving towards me in long strides. The space between us dries up faster than a drought; my vocal cords do a double take before hiding in the depths of my throat.

     He reaches out, grabbing my wrist so he can hold my hand up between us, as he asks, his tone thin, "What happened?"

     I'm not breathing. I clearly know I'm not breathing and I should breathe, that's the move, you know, but he is touching my skin with his skin and I'm going to die if he does not stop immediately.

     I force myself to, somehow, speak words. "I uh and uh I was walking and tripped. I mean uh I tripped when I was uh walking. At practice. I Fell."

     I sound illiterate but it's something. It's a start.

     Dres stares at me, head turned slightly like he's trying to decide on something.

     "Just a minor finger dislocation. Sounds worse than it is. Certainly looked worse than it was. No big deal. Healed in a few days. I'm clumsy, is all." I pause then add, "Which is why you definitely don't want me helping in the kitchen. I set bacon on fire. I'm sure that's a federal offense somewhere."

     Dres lets go of my arm. I take a rough breath. We don't stop staring. He steps forward, like personal space is a suggestion, and I smell Dres – warm spice and wood. He reaches behind me, picks up something off the counter, then holds a bowl between us full of batter.

     "I see that you're not really hearing me. And you're going to hate me when I mess this all up so really I'm—."

     "Calvin," he says and that shuts me up. My full name out of his mouth is a force to be reckoned. "I'm asking for your help. I'm not going to hate you if you make a mistake." He leans towards me forcing me to look in his eyes. I'm thankful for the bowl between us that keeps our chests from touching because I could not handle it. "Calm down, okay?"

     "Okay," I say quietly.

     Dres eyes me carefully like he's wondering if I'm going to have a nervous breakdown or something. I totally am but it won't be with him in the room. I'll save it for later, when I'm alone and can have some privacy with my panic attack.

     When he decides I can handle this, he explains to me my first task. It's simple enough, making me feel stupid for being so adamant I couldn't help him. I'm filling the trays with batter. No way I can screw this up. Still, I focus hard on my job so I don't mess up a single thing.

     If I thought working behind the counter with Dres was distracting, this is worse. Dres is in his element in the kitchen.

     He swings across the kitchen floor effortlessly, without thought, maneuvering through a litany of tasks. He places cakes in the oven while he mixes different batters and ices what's already cooled down. His multitasking skills are enviable.

     He laughs suddenly, breaking the spell he's unknowingly cast.

     I have to check myself cause I'm staring and he's totally caught me. "What?" he says his voice quiet and dewy. This is real Dres, the one I hardly get to see. He's not guarded here.

     I duck my head to hide my embarrassed expression. Dres in the kitchen is nothing like the Dres I'm used to. I like both sides of him but I want more of this.

     "What?" he asks again with a higher inflection.

     I shake my head, face flushed and hot. "Nothing," I say. "Nothing — it's just..." He waits, eyebrows moving to prompt me. "I don't know. You're like in your element."

     "In my element," he says quietly. He does that a lot, repeats things I say to him back to himself. Almost like he needs to hear it a second time to fully register it. I'd be lying if I said I didn't like it.

     "What does that mean?" he asks.

     I hesitate, not sure how to explain this to Dres without sounding like an expert on Dres. Sounding like an expert on Dres is too big an admission so soon. Like yes, I am obsessed but does he need to know this? Absolutely not. I'm not sure it'd do either of us any good if he knew just how much time I spend thinking about him. 

     "It's like," I say and here we go. I'm blushing. "You're like. I don't know. Like you're more you than I'm used to?"

     My ears are burning hot. I don't have the words to explain to Dres what Dres is. Perfect, I realize belatedly. And you can't explain that. There is no reference point because perfection is purely a matter of opinion, especially when it comes to people.

     His eyebrows furrow. "You're not very good at saying things."

     I shake my head, lips pursed. "You're good at this is what I mean to say."

     He looks thoughtful. Maybe he's considering the validity of my statement. "You think so?"

     I balk. "Everyone thinks so."

     He stops what he's doing, giving me his full attention. "But do you think so?"

     My pulse is thready in my throat, heat creeping into my hairline and maybe I am in a fever dream. It's a strong possibility. "Yes," I say finally. He's staring at me still, eyes deep and intense which makes me nervous, prompting me to continue talking. "I mean, I mean — I haven't tried anything, but I can tell you love what you do. And it has to translate to your baking because people keep coming back so. So yeah."

     He frowns. "You haven't tried any?" I shake my head. "Because you don't like cake?" he asks with genuine interest.

     "No, I do. I mean, it's cake what's not to like? And I am a garbage disposal, really. I will eat just about anything. Except brussel sprouts."

     "Brussel sprouts are excellent," Dres interrupts.

     "I completely disagree," I say.

     "You're not eating the right brussel sprouts," he says.

     "Well then make me the right brussel sprouts because I've never seen them," I retort too quickly that I don't really realize what I've just said.

     And then Dres says an equally speedy response, "Just say when."

     That makes me pause. Because. Did Dres just ask me out—no, he definitely did not. That did not just happen. If this is a fever dream, now would be a great time to wake up. This is just rude at this point. Dres is staring at me with this confused quirk in his brow like he's not exactly sure what the implications are behind his last statement, either.

     I skate past his comment because I can't. I just can't. I say instead, "It's just...I felt weird eating the merchandise. I don't know. Feels like I'm breaking a rule? Like an unspoken one? I work here. They're for customers, so..."

     He recovers, shaking his head as he leans away from me. It's good. I need the breathing room. "Do I seem strict to you?"

     "Is that a rhetorical question?" I ask and he makes a face. "Okay, not a rhetorical question. Got it. Uhm, well the honest answer is yes. The very honest one is hell yes."

     Everything about Dres's expressions suggests he's smiling except for his lips, which are a straight line. He asks, "You're that afraid of getting in trouble with me?"

     My expression is one of disbelief. "Of course I am. Have you seen you? You're scary."

     He squints at me like he's a little offended by my words. "I'm not scary," he says.

     "Just an FYI silent and sulky is way more lethal than the alternative. I mean, yes, now that I know your baseline temperature is silent and sulky, it's a bit less scary. But for the first couple of weeks? Forget it."

     Dres smirks but his eyes are glinting at me, smiling. "Silent and sulky?" he repeats. "Maybe you just can't read me."

     I think about my pulse points, how I can feel them ricocheting against my skin. I'm hesitant to answer. Of course I can't read Dres. I never know if I'm getting somewhere with him, or if it's all in my head. Does Dres even have the capacity to feel the way I feel? Anatomically speaking, here.

     I'm too aware of my breathing and notice my chest lifting and falling. Then I notice Dres's chest lifting and falling.

     If I was going to answer, I lose my window as Dres stands up right, and goes, "We should keep going. I want your help icing before you leave."

     Deflated by my missed opportunity all I can do is nod my head, saying, "Okay."

     I return to my task. The spell is broken. Whatever moment I thought I was having with Dres was obviously just a figment of my imagination, a mere projection of my own desires.

     Crushes fucking suck.