Page 58 of The Last Guy On Earth
Toby chews his lip and then looks up into Clay’s eyes. “Will you show me?”
“Yeah,” Clay says, cuffing him on the shoulder. “I will. And I’ve got some cream cheese in my fridge. But I gotta ask—do you have a second muffin pan? Or this is going to take all night.” He gestures at the small pan that only holds six cupcakes.
Toby shakes his head. “That’s the one they had at the grocery store. We don’t have a mixer either, so Grandpa and I took turns with the spoon.”
Clay glances around our poorly furnished kitchen and seems to come to a quick decision. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Get your ingredients and those baking cups and bring them to my place. We’re going to do this right, and I don’t feel like dragging my KitchenAid over here.”
“Really?” Toby perks up immediately. “Okay!” He grabs the cocoa box off the counter, and then the bag of flour.
“Whoa, easy,” I say as a puff of flour escapes into the air. “Go get one of our shopping bags out of the front hall closet.”
Toby scampers off, and I turn to Clay. “You didn’t have to do that,” I whisper. “Learning to process failure is a life skill.”
“So is learning to ask for help,” Clay says, closing the carton of eggs and tucking it under his arm. “You should try it sometime.”
My jaw drops, but before I can defend myself, Toby bounds back into the room with shopping bags and a big smile.
So I close my mouth and gather up the rest of the ingredients.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Clay
“Remember—turn the mixer onlow,”I tell Toby. “Or the flour will fly around the kitchen.”
“Got it,” he says, reaching for the switch.
“Now add the liquid a little at a time.” I hand him the Pyrex cup and stand back, hoping he’s not about to spill chocolate and butter everywhere. It’s getting late, and he’s probably tired.
But he’s careful. This is our third batch, and we’ve got our system down pat.
Meanwhile, Jethro is at the sink, giving me a heart attack every time I catch sight of him. He’s wearing low slung sweatpants and a Detroit Lions T-shirt so threadbare that it should be illegal. He’s washed every single mixing bowl we’ve sullied and hand-dried each measuring spoon between batches. That was always our routine—I cook, and he cleans up. So we’re basically repeating history right now.
And fuck, now I have a visual for the future I always wanted with him. It’s not very conducive to Operation Get Over Jethro.
That’s on me, right? I could have given Toby a few pointers and left him alone. But baking is hard, and he needed my help. That’s what I’m telling myself anyway. Because the alternativeisn’t very mature—that I wanted this exact moment in my kitchen.
And, well, I wanted Jethro to get another glimpse of what he’s missing.
It’s not very mature of me. I’m supposed to coach Jethro as best I can, and avoid drama. And maybe after tonight I’ll remember how to do that.
At the moment, though, I’m kind of lost in the moment. There’s jazz playing on my speakers, and the room smells like chocolate. I find it hard to stop sneaking looks at his strong body standing right there in front of my sink.
“Don’t you think that’s mixed enough?” Toby says, snapping me out of my reverie.
“Right.” I shut off the mixer. “Easy does it. Last batch for the muffin tin.”
“Maybe you should do this one,” he says, handing the mixing bowl over to me. Then he folds his arms on the countertop and rests his head there, exhausted.
Jethro sets down his work and ruffles Toby’s hair. “Listen, bud, it’s past your bedtime. When you get the last batch in the oven, you’re heading home to go to sleep. I’ll take them out of the oven for you and finish cleaning up.”
He picks up his weary face. “I’m okay. I got it.”
Jethro shakes his head. “Nope. I’m calling it. Don’t forget that it’s me you’ll be snarling at in the morning when you don’t want to get out of bed.”
Toby smirks. “Fine, but let me get ’em into the oven.”
Luckily for all of us, that only takes a few more minutes and a dozen globs of cream cheese goo on my countertop. I slide the tray into the oven, and Toby sets the timer.
