The rest of the week moves without precedent, save for the fact Grace is trying her hand at capturing Dres. Her tactics vacillate between overly flirtatious conversation and her sexiest outfits, to invasions of space and drawn out eye contact. If Grace were pulling out these moves on anyone else, it would be a hook, line and sinker. But Dres is basically immune to all of her charms. Admittedly, I'm not bothered by this.

     By Friday, Grace has all but given up on him. "There's a good possibility," she's saying as we sit for lunch in our cafe, "that he's very much gay."

     "Just because someone doesn't like you doesn't make them gay," Halston practically barks at Grace. Grace shoots her a glare, offended.

     "Yeah, that's a bit farfetched even for you, Grace," I say. Sometimes it's important to remind Grace to humble herself. She's beautiful but too much vanity can make anybody ugly.

     Grace goes, "Okay, yes, I know that him not being interested in me doesn't immediately equate to gay."

     Halston goes, "It doesn't equate to gay at all. Someone can just not be interested in you."

     "Again, yes, I'm not refuting that. It's just that he didn't even respond to any of it. It's like he didn't even recognize my body? Like he looked right through me."

     "I'm not really understanding," I say because I'm not.

     "Like let's say I stood up on this table right now and stripped naked. Every guy in here, except you," she looks to me, "is gonna check me out, whether they want me or not. Dres, however, would also totally not."

     "That's just how he is," I respond defensively. "That doesn't automatically make him gay. Maybe he's just being respectful because you're my friend." 

     Grace shrugs. "Maybe," she says but she sounds unconvinced. I let it go because talking about Dres is not going to help me get over Dres and I need to for my own sanity. Particularly when my brain is stuck on "he's very much gay" and refuses to unstick.

     Later that night, my mom and I are having dinner. It's more of a late night snack, though, since it's after ten. Dres let me leave work early again. I'm kind of tired of him doing that but it's not like I can tell him not to. It's not like I can tell him I enjoy spending time with him. Cause that'd be crazy.

     I'm just finishing regaling my mom with work stories when she says, "You talk about Dres an awful lot." She gives me a weird look, like there's something else she wants to be saying but won't.

     "Well, he's my boss and I see him a lot."

     I shrug as I continue shoveling food into my mouth like I'm a human garbage disposal. My mom's big on eating healthy so tonight's meal consists of brown rice and skirt steak with couscous, cucumbers, tomatoes, and feta cheese on the side.

     "Okay," she says in a very clearly disbelieving tone.

     I roll my eyes. Whatever. I'm not going to try and explain myself when she's already made up her mind on the matter.

     "How old is Dresden?" she asks, back in her motherly shoes.

     "I don't know." I shrug, clearly lying. She stares at me hard. "Okay, okay, he's twenty-one."

     "Too old," she says.

     "Hardly. You and dad had a six year gap. And it's not like it matters because I don't like him. And he's straight. So it doesn't matter. So can we drop it, please?"

     "Be careful, please," she says next.

     I shake my head. "Dres and I aren't going to happen, mom."

     "I'm just saying, Calvin. I want you to be happy but I also want you to be smart and safe." She emphasizes the word safe.

     "It's not like I can get anyone pregnant," I respond stiffly.

     "You know that's not what I mean!" she snaps. She sighs then. "Do I have to give you a safe sex talk? I thought we dodged this bullet."

     "We did, we did. I got it mom. No glove, no love. Wrap it before you tap it."

      She face palms. "Lord help us, Calvin. I really hope you don't talk like this outside the house." I don't intend to respond to that because anything I say can and will be used against me with her.

     "He's just my boss," I say instead. "Don't worry about it."

      Saturday morning hits me in the face with a painfully vivid sex dream of Dres and an alarm that fails to go off. I'm running late, am frustrated as hell, and there's nothing I can do about the two. I rush through the necessary grooming, and get dressed fast enough to be out of my house fifteen minutes later.

     As is the circumstance of my life, once shit's rolling down hill it only gains momentum. There's no parks outside Private Weston. I find a spot two blocks away. Still determined to make it on time for my shift, I take off running after I pay the meter. My shoelaces are coming undone, but I ignore it, stepping heel to toe to avoid tripping.

     When I burst into the store, panting and sweating, I think huzzah victory is mine. But my next step catches on my shoelace and I go sailing forward. I reach for a table, or a chair, or something but manage to land right into Dres, instead.

     Not that I'm complaining. Dres is a wall of muscle, unwavering like a boulder that I, too, am suddenly feeling rock hard. He grabs my shoulders, holding me steady as he shifts me upright so I don't completely face plant. "What's wrong?" he barks locking eyes with me. I flush. The last time I saw those eyes they were looking down at me while I was between his legs.

     I'm panting and hot all over. I somehow manage to piece together words. "I, uh, overslept."

     Dres looks at me like I'm crazy. I feel crazy. "You could've called."

     I glare at him suddenly cranky, which doesn't sit well with the sexual frustration quaking through me. 

     He says, "What? What is that face?"

     "No face, boss," I say snippier than intended. I try to step past him but he blocks me.

     "Boss?" He laughs and I should, would, be elated that I've made Dres laugh, but I'm running on one cylinder here. "You're feisty today."

     "I don't like rushing," I say as an excuse because it's sort of true. It's not like I'm going to tell Dres I'm having a hard time looking at him and not picturing him naked. My stomach makes an angry sound and, okay, I may also be a little hangry.

     He tugs on my sleeve and his fingers brush the underside of my bicep. My whole arm tingles. He says softly, amused, "Your shirts on inside out."

     My shoulders drop, defeated. "I would expect no less at this point." My stomach growls again and I press my hand against it like I can hold back the sound. Dres's gaze darts down for a second before it returns to my face.

     "Come on," he says grabbing my sleeve and pulling me towards the back before I can stop him. I'm nervous because it feels like I'm about to get yelled at for being a mess. If I'm a mess it's fully Dres's fault. I won't tell him that, either. But I'll think it rather pointedly while I accept ownership of my messiness.

     When we get to the kitchen, Dres lets go of my shirt and says, "Sit down."

     Confused and weary of what's going on I ask, "Why?"

     He glances at me, crossing the kitchen to the fridge so he can pull out a carton of eggs. "Did you eat breakfast?"

     I shake my head, responding slowly, "No..."

     He pulls out bacon next, only it's turkey bacon? He's been putting Turkey bacon on that one maple cupcake? 

    "Then sit down," he commands.

     I sit, still unsure of what's going on. I watch him grab an avocado and a tomato next. I almost ask him if he's making me breakfast, but all signs point to yes, he is, and I'm not about to ruin it. I resign myself to watching him, even though I'm pretty sure this is the thing that will kill me.

     He moves across the kitchen in a leisurely way like it's the most casual thing in the world, him making me breakfast. Finally, I say, "You don't have to do this." I'm not even sure what this is, but it definitely feels like something. Something that gives me hope and makes me sad.

     He just responds, "Don't you have practice after this?"

     "Yes."

     "Would you characterize your practices as physically straining?"

     I stare at him with a look that I hope conveys what the fuck. "You're belittling me."

     He laughs. It's short, brief, but still there. Twice in one day. It's a record. I wonder if I'm still dreaming. If I did not, in fact, wake up for work today. If I am not, in fact, in a coma.

     I settle into watching him cook me breakfast. If this was an alternate universe, I'd be in his kitchen at his home and we'd have just woken up after spending a night of intense fucking, our hunger ravenous after such activities. But this is the reality: I'm at my job and my boss is cooking for me and I've got the worst kind of crush on him.

     He throws the bacon into the frying pan as he asks, "You don't have any dietary restrictions, right?" He moves back to the fridge and pulls out a container of spinach leaves. I'm getting a very healthy vibe from this breakfast.

     I say, "Well you've already started cooking."

     He pauses, holding a handful of the spinach and looks back at me, levelly. For someone who won't answer the simplest of questions, he sure takes issue with not getting a straight answer. I know this about him but I like to give him a taste of his own medicine when I can. It's not like I have any food allergies, anyway.

     He raises his eyebrows questioningly. "Are you allergic to something? Eggs? Avocado? Do you not eat meat?"

     "Oh, I eat meat," I say and it's definitely too enthusiastic. Dres stares at me, expression utterly void. If there was any double meaning to my words, Dres missed it. "I just meant that you'd already started cooking so it wouldn't have changed anything if I did. But I don't have any food things. Except that I hate peas."

     "So then spinach is okay? Anything I'm using you don't like?"

      "Yeah, no, it's all good. My mom's all about cooking with color so I eat pretty much everything. Including peas when she makes them because waste not, want not or something."

     He starts to smile, and I think do it, smile, yes, please but he doesn't. It's almost there but then it's gone. "Cooking with color," he repeats quietly to himself, tossing the spinach into the skillet. He uses a wooden spoon to sautee it. He dices the tomato next, like something straight out of Masterchef before tossing it into the pan.

     "So why'd you oversleep?" he asks. I'm not surprised by it. Ever since the night I told him about my dad he's been all about asking questions. Maybe he pities me. I hope that isn't the case.

     I'll take it either way, hoping if he gets to know me it'll make him like me.

     I'm not about to tell him about the dream I had, so I give him the other response, an honest one but somehow a lie, too. "I don't know, it's just been a long week for me, I guess. I've been working on this paper for history and it's killing me."

      "What about?"

     I'm surprised by his follow-up question. He kind of sucks at those. "Well, my topic is terrorism and 9/11's impact on the U.S. military and patriotism."

     Dres stiffens noticeably if only for a second before he grabs a plate. He's made an omelette of the bacon, spinach, and tomatoes. He places a few slices of avocado on top.

     He sets the plate down in front of me, and takes a seat across from me. I glance from the plate to him, questioningly. Is he really about to watch me eat?

     Dres asks, "What did you say in your essay?"

     I'm too hungry to be uncomfortable with his staring. I start eating and immediately lose track of myself taking a second bite on top of my first. I manage to say between a mouth full, "You should like go be a professional Chef somewhere cause this is incredible."

     "Its just breakfast," he says like it's no big deal. It's a huge deal to me, though. "Your paper?"

     "Oh yeah, I mean, well, I guess I was examining how patriotism can often be disguised as racism and xenophobia. Where people think 9/11 bought us together, I'm arguing that in a lot of ways it pulled us apart, ultimately, birthing and being the stepping stone for toxic patriotism. At what point does enlisting move from patriotism to reluctant obligation? And how does racism play a role in that choice?"

     Dres stares at me. And I can't read him. I've got no idea what's going on in his head. "Would you have enlisted?" he asks thoughtfully, quietly almost.

     My face draws and I don't know how to answer that. I try to sound honest when I say, "Yeah, I mean, yeah. Of course." My voice pitches.

     Dres stares at me his expression giving nothing away. "You wouldn't," he says decidedly.

     "I so would," I say, trying to keep my voice level.

     "I know you wouldn't."

     I frown and then glare at him. "Okay, if you know I wouldn't why would you ask me, then?"

     "Why are you lying?"

     I sigh. I can't tell him the real reason I'm lying but I've got to come as close to it as I can. Clearly I can't get away with not telling the truth with Dres. "It's like the pillar of manliness to go to war for your country. Not doing so makes you like the proverbial Upham."

     "Upham?" he repeats, kind of amused.

     "You know, Upham," I clarify an inflection in my voice that suggests he knows. "From Saving Private Ryan."

     He nods. "Yeah, I know."

     "I just look like the type who'd be an Upham. I've got the uphill battle of proving myself. You obviously can't relate to that problem." I'm checking him out and I hope he doesn't think that's weird. "You're like—" I refrain from saying the thousands of things I'm thinking.

     He quirks an eyebrow at me. "Like what?"

     "Y'know, like, you just look like someone who'd be able to do it, I guess."

     There's a quirk or flinch on his face like he's fighting some kind of expression and then he says, "Don't sell yourself short."

     I raise both my eyebrows and then lift the sleeve of my shirt. "Do you see my bicep? It's half the size of yours."

     "Being in the military isn't just about physical strength."

     "It's cool. I'm all about the uphill battle. I've reconciled with myself that I am not just the proverbial Upham but the literal one, too."

     "Am I supposed to believe that because you said so?"

     "No, you're supposed to believe it because it's true."