Trevor couldn’t decide if she knew that he wouldn’t respond to being told to eat, or if she was genuinely asking so she could plan dinner. She was probably still intent on teaching him to cook.
He adjusted his route to head into the kitchen to grab some of the snacks he’d foolishly purchased the day before, then stopped at the sight of the bakery box on the kitchen table.
“G.G. came by,” his grandmother revealed, coming up behind Trevor while he was still staring at the box. Since the staring would give him away, Trevor finally moved and approached the table. “He brought a gift. I told him that the desk was more than enough,” Trevor didn’t flinch but his grandma paused all the same, “but pastries are a nice gesture, don’t you think?”
G.G. had wanted to make something himself. Or said he had. Even if his family was right and G.G. was a terrible baker, Trevor would have tasted whatever he made and then come up with a kind lie.
Trevor didn’t think G.G. would be terrible, though. Maybe not the best in the world, but not terrible. G.G. was particular and exacting, if his renovation and decorating choices were to be trusted. He probably approached baking the same way. Which meant, if anything, he tried to get everything as perfect as possible and would think a tiny smudge in the frosting meant a whole cake was ruined.
Trevor wondered if people had responded to that by agreeing with G.G. instead of reassuring him, and how long it had taken G.G. to realize that it was better for him to not offer things—and then still do it because he wanted to so much. He wanted to be appreciated, if not loved.
“He didn’t have to do this,” Trevor agreed after a noticeable silence, and cleared his throat. “He could’ve waited for his hand to heal and made something. But maybe he wanted any obligations over with.”
“He said he thought they might go well with tea,” Trevor’s grandmother informed him. “And I said, ‘Tea?’ and he said, ‘Yes,’ and then looked worried and asked me if you drink green tea or iced tea and not what he was thinking. Which was apparently a formal tea. Do you think he imagines all gay men drink high tea?”
Trevor turned away from the bakery box to give his grandma an incredulous stare.
“No, I do not think he thinks that,” he finally told her.
“It did seem ridiculous.” She continued to frown. “And not the sort of thing I expect a sensible person like G.G. to think. Though I don’t know him that well, it’s true. I just couldn’t imagine why he’d ask that.”
Trevor rubbed his eyes, then sighed. “I offered him tea.”
“From acan?” His grandma murdered him with a single question.
“Well, he didn’t know that,” Trevor explained with a hint of irritation, “and I was going to give him something else anyway.”
She scrunched up her nose thoughtfully. “Is this why you bought that fancy beer?”
The remark was nothing at all like his mom wondering why Trevor had kept gettingShelterandBronsonfrom the last video rental place in town when he’d been thirteen, but something in his grandma’s expression did make Trevor want to hunch his shoulders and mumble before fleeing the scene.
He didn’t. “Please do not ask me why I asked a fully grown American man and former licensed contractor to tea. Or why I then thought he’d prefer some pricey IPA that I heard a friend who is into beer mention once. I’ve spent two years in the house, and he’s like twelve years older than me, and I lost my mind for a second.”
“Did you ask G.G. on adate?” his grandma demanded in a scandalized whisper. “Is G.G. gay?” Only to then scowl mightily before she got an answer. “What about Sky?”
Trevor met her scowl as squarely as he could. “Sky and I aren’t together. You know that.”
“Yes, yousaythat. But you two….” She stopped there, studying him for another moment before backing off, a little. “I like Sky.”
“I like him too.” Trevor wasn’t going to lie about it but he also wasn’t going to fidget or apologize. “But he’s not in this state and he’s not coming back. That’s what’s best for him.”
Trevor’s siblings would have made some commiserating comments about Trevor moving on and finding someone else, or possibly advised him to try with Sky again.
His grandma, thankfully, lived with Trevor and assessed his mood well enough to decide not to say any of that.
“G.G.?” she pressed after a moment of chewing on the matter.
“Don’t tell Nancy or anyone,” Trevor warned her. “I don’t know if G.G. wants the world to know.”
Nancy was hardly the world, but he didn’t want G.G. uncomfortable.
His grandma considered that, looking like she had several more questions to ask. She didn’t ask them. Instead, she said, “There’s more than twelve years between you. At least thirteen, maybe more.”
As if Trevor didn’t already feel young and stupid about it.
He went over to the table to pick at a corner of the box. The box was white, with thin lines of lavender across the top, and writing in clear black script that readBakery Rosemont.Simple sophistication, but not too classy for someone buying muffins for a family breakfast. A good design, Trevor thought absently, as he always did. Lincoln had likely paid a good sum for it, even though everyone in town still called his business the Rosemont Bakery.
“It wasn’t a date,” Trevor informed his grandmother without looking at her. Which was true. It hadn’t been a date. “G.G. reads everythingbutfantasy, I think. He has a real job and owns a home. Obviously, it wasn’t—wouldn’t have been. Rosemont is a smallish town. Smaller now. That’s what it feels like. And I need friends.”
