Page 64

TWELVE

E ddie is back in his jeans. He’s on Cornelia Street (still? again?), just across from Patisserie Gaston.

He knows he has to go inside. He promised himself he’d bring opera cakes for Cookie, in case she’s woken up.

And he will go inside. He will.

But he’s stalling. Not just because he’s still a little dazed from what just happened, from what he just saw, from Cookie, but because he’s also remembering the last time he saw Theo. Eddie was cruel then, remember? He pushed Theo away and insulted him, when Theo was only trying to be kind. He spat something resentful about Theo’s perfect little world and perfect little cakes, a curt and cruel and ugly thing to say. Oh, how can he face Theo now? How can he find the words to apologize? Would Theo even hear them? Would he even accept them?

Eddie finds his answer when he steps through the doorway. Theo looks straight through him, to the little clutch of customers who stumble in behind Eddie, a group of three young women in yoga pants, one of them pronouncing loudly that she is certain this patisserie has the best croissants in the whole Village, because she saw it on the internet.

“Bonjour,” Theo says over Eddie’s head to the yoga pants. He smiles broadly at them, but Eddie knows enough about Theo’s smile to know it’s a practiced, artificial version. He steps aside to let the women approach the counter first.

While they contemplate the pastries, pointing at the tarts and brioches and seeking approval from one another about which they’ll request, Eddie spies four slices of opera cake in the case. He keeps his eyes fixed on them, hoping they won’t choose them, and they don’t. Theo wraps up their pastries, taking his time and adding three extra chocolate cookies to their orders with a wink. Soon they’re on their way, little white bags and paper cups clasped in their hands, whispering about how cute the guy behind the counter is. How handsome and friendly and sweet. The little bell over the entrance jingles as they leave, and they singsong in unison, “Merci!”

Theo turns to Eddie. His smile recesses to a more neutral expression.

There is no bonjour for Eddie, just a flat “How can I help you?” Theo’s voice is cool, formal, the kind of voice that anyone who’s worked in coffee shops hides behind when they feel like it. Eddie wonders if Theo’s truly angry, or maybe hurt, or whether he’s simply uninterested in Eddie’s presence now, as if he doesn’t care about Eddie at all anymore, as if he were just another task to take care of.

“I, um,” Eddie stumbles.

“We have croissants, brioche, almond twists,” Theo says with a faint sigh, speaking to Eddie as if he’s just any old customer. “Cheese puffs, eclairs, chocolate torte. What do you want today?”

What do you want?

Eddie’s mind tumbles. I want to apologize to you, Theo. I want to tell you everything. I want you to forgive me. I want to feel you standing behind me again, to lean into your body, to follow your hands and voice as you show me what to do. I want to taste every pastry you offer me, to tell you how much I love it. I want to be your friend. I want to grasp your hand when you rescue me from the curb and be grateful for you. I want to be surrounded by your warmth, by your world, your real world, where you wake up, and you go to work, and you go home, and listen to music and fall into sleep on the little bed by the window that I can see so clearly. I want to watch you smile, and hear you laugh, and know, like you know, when it’s morning, and when it’s night and where we are and where we’re going. Just to look at you, beautiful Theo. That’s what I want. Just to look at you.

But Eddie doesn’t say any of those things. He just clears his throat and says quietly, “I’d like some opera cakes please.”

Theo crouches down to slide the tray of opera cakes out of the case. “Two?” he asks.

“Yes please,” Eddie says. Then he remembers Albert. “Three, I mean.”

“Three?”

“Yes,” Eddie says, and then before he can stop himself, “Albert’s at the hospital, too.”

Theo stops for a moment, catching Eddie’s eyes with his own. He squints, and an expression of concern comes over his face. “Cookie?” he asks.

“Yes,” Eddie says, or tries to say, but the word catches in his throat. He looks up at the ceiling, blinking quickly to stem the tears that are gathering in his ducts. Please, drain back in, he thinks. Don’t cry. Not right now. He clears his throat again. “Yes.”

After a moment Theo starts to move again, carefully removing each opera cake from the tray and into a box. “I see,” he says.

“She’s going to be all right,” Eddie says, and then he says it again. “She’s going to be all right.” He’s trying to convince himself as well as Theo.

Theo pauses again, then adds a fourth opera cake to the box.

“I only need—”

“For luck,” Theo says, closing the box. He pulls kitchen twine from the spool and ties it around the box very carefully, then loops it up and through itself twice, creating a small handle. “We’re out of bags today, but this will make it easier to carry, so you can keep it level as you walk to the train.”

Eddie swallows, absorbing the thoughtfulness. Perfect Theo. “Thank you,” he says. He reaches into his pocket for money.

“No,” Theo says, holding up a hand. “Just give a good wish to Cookie for me.”

They look at each other for another moment (day, year, eternity), before Eddie turns to leave.

He stops at the door. The apology, the one he owes Theo, is just sitting there on his tongue. He’s afraid to utter it, because he doesn’t know if he’ll get it out coherently. He doesn’t know if Theo will accept it. But if he doesn’t get it out now, he never will. It will just sit there in his throat, turning bitter.

He turns back to face Theo. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, Theo.”

Theo shrugs. “For what?”

No, Eddie thinks. Not that, Theo. Don’t pretend that nothing happened. Don’t say it didn’t matter. Yell at me. Cuss at me. Tell me off. Tell me I am an asshole. Let me know that I hurt you. Make me feel bad. Let me know I matter enough for that, at least.

“I just really want to—” Eddie starts.

But Theo has already ducked down behind the display case to straighten the remaining pastries, leaving Eddie stranded. Theo has moved on. And so should Eddie.

“Thank you,” Eddie manages. He turns to go.

When he reaches the door, Theo’s voice comes—quiet but clear—from down behind the counter: “See you around?”

The question floods Eddie with warmth.

Eddie looks back to answer, but Theo is still crouched out of sight.

“Yes,” Eddie says, just loud enough for Theo to hear. He believes it when he says it, and he wants it to be so, but as the bakery bell jingles on his way out, he wonders if it is the truth.