"Tell that to Pickle. The kid's got faith in your baking superpowers." Jake flashed a lopsided grin. "Speaking of which, is your baking where that nickname Cereal Carter came from? Is it about the cornflakes in your cookies?"
I stopped walking.
Jake took three more steps before he realized I wasn't beside him anymore. He turned, an eyebrow raised.
"That's not where it came from."
"Okay." He waited, hands still buried in his hoodie pocket. "Where did it come from?"
The wind cut across the lake, sharp enough to make my eyes water. I started walking again, slower this time, choosing my words how you'd handle thin ice.
"Junior hockey camp. I was seventeen. Showed up with labeled Ziploc bags for every day of the week. Monday: Cheerios and banana slices. Tuesday: granola with dried cranberries. Wednesday—"
"Fuck, you really labeled your breakfast?"
"Everything. Portion-controlled, nutritionally balanced, organized by day." I kept my eyes on the path ahead. "The other guys thought it was hilarious. Called me Cereal the first day."
Jake's footsteps fell into rhythm beside mine. "They knew you were sweet."
"They knew I was individually packaged and hard to read."
Jake laughed—not the performative guffaw he used for crowds, but something smaller and more real. I loved the sound of it.
"Fuck, that's brilliant. Individually packaged. Did they know you came with an instruction manual and safety warnings?"
I smirked. "It stuck. Like the tape residue on your stick if you don't replace it for three weeks."
"And now you're Spreadsheet." His voice was suddenly quieter, more thoughtful. "Evolution of a nickname."
I glanced at his profile beside me. He had his jaw set in a way that meant he was thinking too hard about something.
"You were going to say something. Again.
Jake shrugged, kicking at a piece of loose concrete. "Not sure how to yet."
We walked in silence for a few minutes. The bare trees kept rattling in the wind, and somewhere in the distance, a ship's horn called out across the water—long and low and lonely.
I wasn't lonely. Not with Jake beside me, holding his secrets close and giving me space to keep mine.
We found a bench facing the water. Jake flopped down beside me with his usual lack of ceremony, pulling one leg up and wrapping his arms around his knee. Gulls cried in the distance.
It was as good a time as any to explain more of my past. "My mom died when I was ten."
Jake blinked hard and looked at me.
"Cancer. The kind that takes eighteen months to kill you, so you have plenty of time to watch it happen." I turned my attention to the lake. Whitecaps tore across the surface, shredded by the wind before they could crest cleanly. "My dad didn't handle it well. Started drinking more, working less. By age twelve, the state decided I'd be better off elsewhere."
Jake didn't say anything. He didn't reach for me or make the soft sounds people make when they think you need comfort. He merely stayed where he was—close to me.
"The first placement wasn't bad. The Kellys. They had three other kids, all younger. I kept my head down, did my homework, and helped with dishes. Model foster kid." I picked at a splinter in the bench's armrest. "The second one was different. TheHardings. They were... strict. Religious. Had particular ideas about what boys should and shouldn't do."
A gull landed on the rocks near us, then took off again when a wave crashed too close. I watched it disappear into the gray sky.
"I was careful. Respectful. Quiet. One day, I looked too long at a boy in gym class. Jimmy Fremont. He had freckles across his shoulders, and when he changed his shirt, I..." I shrugged. "I was fourteen. I looked."
Jake's breathing was steady beside me, but his body tensed subtly.
"Mr. Harding called it disruptive behavior. He said I influenced the other kids in the house negatively. They moved me within a week." My voice stayed even and controlled. I'd practiced the story in my head so many times that the sharp edges had worn smooth. "No one said gay. They didn't have to."
