After the way he acted at the movie theater, I fully expect Webster to give me a hard time at school Monday morning. I’m bracing for his ridicule on my walk to Life Skills, but when I get there, he’s outside the door, flattened against the wall with his tongue in some poor sophomore girl’s mouth. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him demonstrate PDA in the hallways. There always seems to be a queue of girls—and possibly guys, but if so they’re less public about it—waiting for their chance to date the star of the basketball team. I remain completely baffled by the cultlike following he’s developed. And while I get the urge to take the sophomore aside and gently question her life choices, I suppose I should really be thanking her. Because by the time he walks into class, he’s in a great mood. So great that he barely acknowledges my existence.
This goes on for the rest of the week. And don’t get me wrong, I’m completely okay with not talking to Webster. It’s not like baking requires a whole lot of discussion anyway. But our peaceful silence finally breaks on Friday when he won’t stop eating the coconut we need for German chocolate frosting.
How many times do I have to explain to him the importance of having exact measurements? Finally, I smack his hand away from the bowl.
He finishes chewing and frowns at me. “You need to loosen up.”
This is a common theme throughout our admittedly sparse conversations. I’m uptight and no fun and if I just relaxed a little, we’d get along fine. Because of course our dynamic is my fault and has nothing to do with the fact that Webster is an entitled ass, or that he’s about as mature as a fourth grader.
“If you don’t want me sampling the ingredients, you should give me something to do,” he says.
“I’m not stopping you from helping.”
He rolls his eyes. “Please. You have a hissy fit if I so much as measure out a cup of flour.”
“Because you never level it off!”
His mouth twitches and I could swear he wants to smile.
“Fine, if you want to be helpful, why don’t you line the baking tin with these.” I pass over the package of white cupcake liners.
“You got it, boss.”
He’s only halfway through the task when Anna Simmons comes over and perches at the edge of our table. “Hey, Web.”
The cupcake liners are quickly forgotten. “What’s up, Anna?”
She shrugs and slouches closer with her elbows on the counter. “So bored. What flavor did you guys pick?”
He looks at the recipe, because apparently he’s so invested in our efforts he can’t even remember. “German chocolate. What about you guys?”
“Red velvet.”
“Oh man, that sounds good. Save me one?”
She grins widely, her teeth perfectly straight and intensely white. “Sure. So listen, I’m having a party tonight...”
At this point I know Webster’s a goner. He never made it sound like he was super popular at his last school but, considering how much attention he’s been given since starting here, it’s no wonder his ego has gotten so out of control.
I reach across him and grab the muffin tin. I finish the job and measure out batter into each of the liners. I’m closing the oven door when Anna finally walks away.
I start making the frosting, which is more complicated than the buttercream I usually put on cupcakes. Instead of just beating all the ingredients together with the mixer, this frosting has to be cooked in a saucepan. And it’s totally going to be short on coconut, thanks to Webster.
Webster goes to reach for the cupcake liners, realizes the tin is gone, and leans back to peek in the oven. “Oh. Thanks for finishing up.”
“No worries,” I say in a saccharine voice. “I mean, why should you be expected to pay attention to something as trivial as our assignment when there’s a party to plan?”
“Well, you know what they say. All work and no play...”
I’m pretty sure this is Webster’s way of calling me dull. I scowl and dip under the counter to check on our cupcakes, and only after I’m lifting myself up do I realize how close my head just was to Webster’s crotch. He clears his throat, and I reach for my notebook, flip to the syllabus taped inside the front cover. Only a few more weeks left in this segment of class before we move on to reproductive health. We’ll be switching to more complicated doughs next week, starting with making a pizza from scratch.
“Think we get to pick our own toppings?” Webster asks, making it clear he’s been reading over my shoulder.
“We’re not putting black olives on,” I say flatly. “I don’t care how much you like them.”
Webster’s mouth quirks. He looks at me for a long moment, a tightness to his dark eyes like he’s remembering his first summer here, too, all those pizza nights at his place, the two of us balancing plates on our laps while we watched movies on his living room floor. How we could never agree what kind to get and always ended up ordering different toppings on each half.
And now I’m remembering the last night pizza night of that summer. When we were finished eating, our backs against the couch and my hand resting on the carpet between us, he inched his own hand closer and closer until our pinkies touched, and when I looked up he was already watching me. The way he leaned in, I was so sure it was finally going to happen, that he wanted to kiss me. Only then his mom walked in, and I never got to find out if I was right.
“So...” He straightens, looks away. “You coming to Anna’s party?”
The question actually sounds genuine. Not like he’s setting me up for another joke, or making fun of the fact that I clearly wasn’t included in Anna’s invitation. It’s almost like...he’s trying to be nice. Weird.
“I have a date,” I finally answer. Holland and I have been texting all week, and a couple nights ago he asked me out again. We’re going to dinner, just the two of us this time.
“With Holland?”
I nod and check the timer again, because even though I just looked, I didn’t actually pay attention to what it said. Seven minutes left. I swear, every time our assignment goes in the oven I’m tempted to flee, just so we’re not forced to make this kind of small talk.
Webster drums his pen against the counter a moment, then tucks it behind his ear. “So what is it about him?”
I pull the finished frosting off the stove to cool. “What do you mean?”
He leans against the counter, facing me. His lips pout as he shrugs. “Just wondering what you like about my cousin.”
I squirm in my seat. This is so uncomfortable. Whatever I say he’ll probably relay right back to Holland, and it’s not like I’m going to sit here and gush about the guy. We’ve only been on one date. Besides, Webster knows him better than I do, and he should know what makes him likable. “We have a lot in common—we both want to be vets. And he’s nice to me.”
“He’s nice to everyone. But hey, I’m sure you haven’t given him a reason not to be, right?”
I can’t tell if Webster’s implying I don’t deserve a nice guy or that it’s just who Holland is and I shouldn’t read anything into it. Possibly both. “He’s smart, too,” I add in a tight voice.
“Smart.” Webster nods, his gaze fixed on me for a long moment. “That’s true, he’s a smart guy.”
Ignore him. I have to ignore him. This is what the past year of practice was for. I squeeze my fingers into fists and press my knuckles against the cold countertop. But something is swelling up inside me. Taking me back to junior year, the homecoming dance. Asking him for an explanation and getting only, You make it easy. And that laugh.
Because everything is a fucking joke to him. Especially me.
“So then what do you two talk about? Articles you read in medical journals? The latest NASA findings?”
“I get it,” I snap. “You find it shocking someone would actually want to date me. But here’s the thing—it’s really none of your business. So would you shut the fuck up about it?”
I manage to keep my voice quiet, but not as steady as I would have liked. Webster freezes, and my cheeks are too hot and I want to cover them, want to harness the adrenaline causing my hands to tremble and use it to stamp away this pressure building in the back of my throat. I swallow hard and study the frosting recipe like it contains the answers to my math test next week.
“Aubrey... I wasn’t—”
“Don’t. Okay? Just...” I shift my jaw and shake my head.
The timer goes off before he can say anything else. Webster shoves an oven mitt on his hand and pulls the cupcakes out of the oven. They look atrocious.
I test them to make sure they’re cooked through and scowl. “Shit, why are they so flat?”
“Maybe you should have let me help more.”
I just look at him.
He swipes his finger in the bowl of frosting and licks it off. Unbelievable. “What? Only trying to get a rise out of you.” He waits a beat, then nudges my arm with his elbow. “Get it?”
I know what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to backtrack, trying to say: just kidding, no hard feelings, don’t tell Holland I was such a dick to you. But I don’t have it in me to pretend any of this is funny.
We move the cupcakes onto the cooling rack in silence. Until finally I say, “Look, you obviously don’t think I’m good enough for Holland—”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just...leave it alone. Leave us alone. Don’t screw this up for me, okay? Please.”
Webster huffs out a humorless laugh. “You think I’d do that?”
“I know you would.” I start slapping on frosting even though the cupcakes are definitely still too warm, because everything’s already ruined, so who cares if the frosting melts?
Webster starts packing up his stuff, even though there are still ten minutes left in class. I’m frozen with a cupcake in one hand and a spatula full of frosting in the other. I want to fling it at him, get him right in the face.
“You don’t know shit about me,” he says without looking up. Only a beat later, he does, and his gaze is so unfriendly that I physically recoil, hip bumping against the counter.
An entire summer, seeing each other almost every day. Lying side by side in the sun, talking for hours about our families. The way his jaw knotted when he’d tell me about his dad’s new girlfriend. The way his eyes watered when I got him to laugh hard enough. I know what his favorite pizza toppings are and what book he rereads every year and what his voice sounds like late at night when he should be asleep.
But sure. Fine. I don’t know shit.
I’m smooshing the cupcake. I loosen my grip and finish frosting it, and lick the excess off my thumb.
“I’ll finish these. I would hate to see you overextend yourself.”
Across the room, Anna is trying to get his attention by waving a perfectly frosted cupcake at him. He pushes away from the counter and casts one more look at me before going over.
This is what I get, I remind myself. This is what happens when I let myself believe Webster can be nice.