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KARL PUT THE finishing touches on the cake, carefully printing Charlie’s name in chocolate. He chewed on his bottom lip in concentration, not to ruin the apricot-mango frosting. Taking a step back, he eyed his work. “Humpf.” Maybe he could cook, but his handwriting was shocking. But who cared, really? Most of the kids couldn’t read.
“When will they be here?” he heard Charlie in the background, followed by the closing of the front door.
“Soon. You can open one of your presents if you like, buddy.” The humor in Paul’s voice stilled Karl for a moment. He’d barely heard that tone all week. Not that there was much of a chance to. Paul kept a noticeable distance between them. The evenings lacked their former easiness, the air between them thick and awkward.
He did catch Paul staring at him sometimes, but the frown on his face suggested whatever thoughts went with it, they weren’t good.
Quickly, he slid the cake into the fridge. A surprise for Charlie and his friends. Though Paul had bought a cake already. Could there ever be enough at a party? As he shut the door, Paul came into the kitchen. They looked at each other a moment before Karl stepped back, giving Paul more space to pass him. Paul cast his reddened, puffy eyes downward, and shuffled past. “Thanks.”
Yep, awkward.
And frustrating as hell.
Karl cleared his throat. “I set up a table of snacks.”
Paul finished pouring a glass of water. “You didn’t have to. It’s the weekend, I don’t expect you to—”
“Come on. It’s Charlie’s birthday. I did it because I wanted to.”
Paul swallowed and nodded, still not looking at him. “Right. That’s kind of you.” He paused a moment, then asked, “So, what did you make?”
“Some avocado salsa and brochette. Some cheese dips, and a sundried tomato pesto.”
Now Paul looked at him, but with his face all scrunched up, one corner of his mouth curled in amusement. What? “They aren’t going to eat that. They need kiddie food. Some sausages and chips. Junk food.”
Karl frowned. “Well, I put the salsa on animal shaped crackers. And there’s a bowl full of sour-cream, too.”
Paul’s expression morphed into a smile. For a moment he stared at Karl, and then snapped his gaze away. “Maybe we should add some chips and cocktail sausages.”
The doorbell buzzed before Karl could respond. He’d tried to make the food simple, yet with a bit of good taste added in there. He rolled his tongue over the chip on his front tooth. Paul had a point, though. When he was a boy he’d never had fancy food on his birthday. It was sweets and as much soda as he liked.
In the background, he heard Paul welcoming one of Charlie’s friends. A peal of feminine laughter curled its way into the kitchen. The sound only made him grind his teeth. He yanked open the fridge and glanced at the cake. Apricot and mango.
What was he thinking? He would’ve had chocolate or vanilla or something as a kid. Stupid! He gently shut the fridge, almost jumping when he saw Charlie right behind the door with Nathan from pre-school.
“Karly!”
He suppressed a retort. It was the kid’s birthday, he could call him whatever he wanted. Today.
“I saw an elephant at the zoo, and millions of monkeys. I missed you, why didn’t you come?”
Karl crouched to his level. “Sorry, I was busy. Next time, okay?” Of course, he hadn’t been busy, but he’d sensed Paul wanted some quality family time. More than that: grieving time. Sympathy filled him thick and fast; he swept the boy into a hug, wondering how often Paul had done the same thing. How hard it must be for him to celebrate on this day. Yet, other than the telltale rings around Paul’s eyes, he kept his humor. For Charlie’s sake.
He squeezed the boy tight, then laughed, “Happy birthday, Charlina.”
“Hey!” Charlie stepped back and poked his tongue at him.
Okay, seemed he couldn’t hold the retort in after all. He’d make a terrible father.
Pulling on Nathan’s arm, Charlie led him out the room. Karl stretched out of his crouch. A couple more kids zoomed by. Karl grabbed some packets of chips from the pantry and a large bowl.
He passed behind Paul at the door and stopped. Jenny’s mother had a hand on Paul’s arm, head cocked slightly to the side. She laughed. God, how blatant could flirting get? Karl noticed Paul rocking on the back of his heels and glancing to the side, as if trying to find an excuse to leave.
Not knowing why he had a sudden urge to help the man, he found himself moving toward them. “Uh, Paul,” he interrupted, “Charlie has something he wants to show you in the kitchen.” Ah, kids, they made for great excuses. He flashed an insincere apologetic look to Mrs. Kits, who thankfully dropped her arm and rushed a goodbye.
Paul started toward the kitchen as Mrs. Kits strutted to the elevators. Karl shut the door. “Paul. I made it up. Charlie’s fine playing with his friends.”
“Oh.” Paul turned back around, following Karl into the lounge swamped with balloons, which he’d blown up himself. Should have bought a pump or something.
Karl opened the chips and poured them into the bowl, not missing Paul’s sigh. “Thanks for that. She’s quite clingy, that one.”
Karl chuckled. “Must do wonders for your ego, though.”
A grin cracked Paul’s face. “Maybe.” He popped one of the salsa crackers into his mouth. Chewed. “Hey, that’s not too bad.”
“Not too bad?” Karl shook his head. “It’s fantastic. Some of the best I’ve made, I reckon.”
Paul threw a smirk. “You might want to tone down your ego.”
Karl blinked in surprise at Paul’s sudden willingness to banter with him. This was the way they were meant to interact. Much more natural. His mind edged at the frustration he’d had over the last week, missing this easiness. Yet, now it was here, he couldn’t help but wonder how long it would last.
The doorbell buzzed, and this time, Karl took the liberty of opening. He recognized the boy, Jackson, but it was the first time he’d met the mother. He smiled. “You must be Mrs. Sonn.”
Paul sidled up to him, reaching out to shake her hand. Jackson darted inside, and Mrs. Sonn glanced at him. Then at Paul and Karl. She reluctantly shook Paul’s hand, her gaze continuing to skip between the two of them. Karl clenched his teeth at her look. Similar to one he’d seen before. It could almost be his mom’s top lip pushed up in disgust.
“And who is he?” She threw a finger in his direction. A silent blow. Karl’s hand gripped the open door, squeezing.
Paul looked fazed by the question. Or maybe the directness of it (or perhaps indirectness, was more accurate).
Karl reined in the rising swirl of anger he felt inside, stopping himself from slamming the door in her face. He kept his tone level. Forced a smile. “I’m Charlie’s nanny.” There was no way he was going to say Girl Friday. Especially to this woman.
Mrs. Sonn visibly relaxed, relief transparent on her ugly-ass face. He didn’t like her at all.
As if Paul only just registered what was clear to Karl the woman was thinking, he shifted, creating more space between the two of them. As he did, Karl’s anger faded, turning bitter. With a wisp of politeness, he left the two, stalking back to the kitchen.
There, he opened and closed the fridge for no reason whatsoever, except that something nagged at him and he couldn’t grasp it. It hovered between a reminder of how badly his parents had acted towards him, and disappointment. Did Paul really have to slide away from him like that?
Karl grabbed a pot and filled it with water for something to do. Maybe cook up those cocktail wieners.
Charlie and his friends burst into the room, zigzagging through it. “We’re hungry!”
“Food’s in the lounge. Go for it.”
The kids swarmed out of the room. In the distance, a balloon popped. Wails followed. He checked around the corner to make sure nobody was broken, but Paul was already there, cooing softly to Jenny. She wiped her eyes and smiled at him.
Karl felt himself smile, too. It was just . . . nice. To see a dad really caring and not just dismissing it like his would have. Did.
Paul caught sight of him and beckoned him over. “Come join the . . . fun.” Karl could see in his expression he was crying for help. He wasn’t surprised; just one kid did him in. How did teachers manage?
Karl ducked into the kitchen, turned off the elements, then headed back to . . . save Paul.
* * *
When the last kid left, Karl dropped onto a sofa still covered in gift wrapping, and what he hoped were flecks of raspberry juice. In a word, he was shagged. In two: Never again. This was worse than the hangover. Paul collapsed on the other sofa, similarly drained.
“Next year we are hiring a bunch of babysitters to help out.”
Karl stilled, the word ‘we’ replaying in his head. ‘We’ as in Paul and Charlie, he must have meant.
Which was fine. Good even. Because of course he didn’t still want to be a Girl Friday in a year’s time. He picked himself up off the sofa and started snatching the gift paper and scrunching it into balls. A rubbish bag lay by the window; he stuffed it in there.
“Leave the cleanup. We’ll do it later.” He wanted to shout: ‘Stop with the we!’ Instead, he stuffed more trash into the bag.
Paul heaved himself to his feet. “Better go check on Charlie.” But before he got three steps, Charlie shuffled into the room.
“Papa?”
Karl caught sight of the boy’s pale face; he cradled his stomach in his arms. The look was one Karl knew well. Too much cake and soda. “I feel sick.”
Charlie belched, and Paul steered him right to the bathroom. Karl heard the splash and Paul’s curse before they got there. Karl went straight for the mop and cleaned up, while watching Paul lightly rub Charlie’s back as he chucked a few more times into the bathtub.
Make it three words: Never, ever again.
Karl quietly helped Paul make Charlie feel better and get him into bed. Paul stayed outside the boy’s room for a good half-hour while Karl attempted to straighten out the lounge. He was only a third of the way through when Paul came back in. Without saying a word, Paul piled dishes and cleared them away.
It was sort of odd that they didn’t speak, but Karl didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to explain his standing anymore—not even to himself. No, Paul would have to be the one to talk first.
They finished with the cleaning, and Karl sank into the sofa, flicking through cooking channels.
Paul lingered in the space between the two sofas, before choosing to perch himself on the arm of the one Karl was on. In a rather loud and rushed outburst, he said, “Thank you, Karl.” He scratched his head, his eyes closing. “Uh, thanks for today. Helping with Charlie. The party. I seriously wouldn’t have managed without you there.”
Karl muted the television and leaned back into the sofa, twisting so he faced Paul. “Sure.”
Paul stood, walked over to the wooden trunk on the other side of the room, then came back carrying a large wrapped box. “I, ah, I can’t believe all the organizing you did this week in preparation for today. I wanted to show you that I appreciate it.”
Karl stared at the box Paul was handing him. He took it with a frown, but settled on joking his way through opening it. “You know, it’s Charlie’s birthday, not mine.”
“I know that,” Paul retorted. “Yours is a couple of days after mine.”
Karl lifted his gaze to meet Paul’s. “Thorough much with my resume, huh?”
Paul gave a nervous chuckle. “Nah. I remembered.”
“That’s an awful long way back to remember.” Karl certainly couldn’t recall that far back. Well, not in such detail.
“Yes, well, you always had your party the same weekend I did. Kids went to yours, you were cooler.” Hearing that tugged at something sensitive inside Karl. “Anyway,” Paul continued, “this is thanks for helping out today, this week.”
A little zing went through him as he and Paul locked eyes. This time he was the first to pull away, imagining the dick kid he was, inviting almost the whole class to his party except for Paul. And Paul, alone at his own . . .
He picked at the tape and pulled back the paper. Then froze.
In fine gold writing, Culinary Heaven stretched across a silver box lid. Warily, he looked inside—
There it was. The same pan he’d eyed up a week ago.
He suddenly felt sick. Like maybe he needed to sob but couldn’t, and—and he didn’t deserve this.
He couldn’t unpack it. Couldn’t even look at Paul. Didn’t even give a murmured thanks. Just stood up, leaving the box on the sofa, and made for the bathroom—Paul and Charlie’s bathroom. There was even a framed picture Charlie had drawn of fish over the towel rack. He sat on the closed toilet seat, head in his hands, fingers gripping at his hair.
A soft knock at the door. A hum—like a sound someone made when undecided if they should say something or not. “Are you okay?”
Was he? Not really. Pull it together. “Be right out.”
He listened for Paul’s retreating steps, but they didn’t come. For some reason, that annoyed him more than it should have. He yanked the door open. “I said I’d be right out.” He made to pass Paul, but Paul moved surprisingly fast, blocking his path.
“What’s up? You barely looked at the gift. I thought it was something you wanted.”
“I do. At least, I did. I—” Damn, why couldn’t he just suck this up?
“Do you want me to exchange it?”
“No, I—” What? What! He let out a frustrated growl, and spoke between gritted teeth. “I don’t get you. Why’re you doing this?”
Paul didn’t say anything, then shrugged. “Just wanted to say thanks.” He turned to leave, and that really was too much.
Karl snagged his pullover, stopping him. “You confuse me.”
“What?”
Words spurted out of him, thick and fast, and not within his control. “You’ve been cold all week, then today everything’s okay again. You’re like a—a big yo-yo, and I can’t make sense of you.”
“I haven’t been cold—”
“Yes, you have, ever since the weekend when . . . ”
Paul paled, covering his obvious shock with a frown, feigning like he didn’t have a clue. Dammit!
“When you kissed me.”
Paul stepped back from Karl, ramming into the wall. He looked ready to object, but Karl cut him off, coming closer. His confusion and frustration were taking him over. Now to a much quieter tone, one more lethal. “Paul.” He leaned over, his five o’clock shadow almost grazing Paul’s cheek. “Do you, or do you not, find men attractive?”
No answer. But that wasn’t good enough. He wouldn’t stop until he got one this time. This frustration was too much.
“Because you know what I think?” Karl let his lips hover at Paul’s ear, feeling the heat of their bodies standing so close. Softly, he spoke, feeling the shiver that crept through Paul. “I think you do.”
“N-n-no.”
Karl’s voice fell into a whisper, “Why don’t I believe that?” He drew back, but only an inch, so he could see his face. He listened to Paul’s uneven breath that hitched when he touched his arm. They stared at each other, Paul frozen into the wall. When he bit his bottom lip, Karl followed the movement. Such fine lips. He really wanted to—
Karl captured them in firm kiss. Not so hard the man couldn’t push him away. If he wanted.
Paul kept entirely still, but as Karl gently teased with his tongue, his lips parted, and his jaw relaxed. The tiniest moan escaped the man, and Karl found it more than appealing. Satisfying.
Paul’s hands found his arms, gripping them as they deepened the kiss. Yes, Paul, this feels good, doesn’t it? The hands moved from his arms to his back, pressing him closer. Karl obeyed, closing his eyes at the feel of their chests together. He could taste a little of his apricot mango frosting on Paul’s lips, and smelt the tangy scent of his aftershave.
Paul’s fingers clutched at his hips. The heat that rose in him when he did that was almost too much. With effort, he broke the kiss, stepping back. He didn’t want to get carried away. He wanted answers. Touching Paul’s now somewhat swollen lips, Karl said, “That was nice.” He dropped his hands. “I think you liked it, too.”
Paul slammed his eyes shut, knocking his head back against the wall. The silence stretched between them, only their breaths accompanying it. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth. Did you?” He knew the answer was yes, had felt it brushing against his thigh, but he wanted Paul to say it.
“I can’t.” Paul managed after another long pause.
“Can’t admit it?”
Paul’s head shook slightly, his whole body trembled. Karl watched as his eyelids fluttered open and he stared at the ceiling. His chest rose, and held, then fell. He swallowed. Fists balled at his side. Finally, Paul spoke, his voice hesitant. Unsure.
“I can’t . . . l-like it.”