A few days after the storm, Alex was putting fresh croissants in the display case when a man burst through the door enthusiastically.
“Alexander Barrow! I’m Mac—Barry MacKenzie, but everyone calls me Mac. Good to meet you.”
He stuck out a hand and Alex shook it, though he had specific opinions about people who said that everyone called them anything.
Mac was forty-five or so, burly, and a bit on the short side. He was dressed in Michigan gear from head to toe.
“It’s Alex. And nice to meet you, too. Can I get you something?”
“Oh, no, no, thanks. I brought you everything you’ll need.” He brandished a shiny blue U of M folder full of papers at Alex. “I’m the chairman of the Small Business Owners’ Guild, but I’m sure your mom’s told you all about it.”
“Nope,” Alex said, and Mac’s face fell.
“Well,” he said, recovering quickly, “no problem. All the info’s in the folder. I own the Maize Cave.”
Alex nodded. That made the Michigan apparel slightly more understandable, if no less ill-advised.
“Basically the SBOG works to keep all the business owners in town connected. This year, my initiative is to implement monthly theme days where all the biz owners will do something in their shops to reflect the theme. It works great on social media, so we figure it’ll generate some buzz. Especially with the younger patrons, eh?” He squeezed Alex’s shoulder, and Alex wanted to shake his hand off.
As Mac continued to monologue, Alex felt all the energy drain from him. This was one side of business ownership he didn’t relish.
“Listen, thanks for the information, but I’ve got bread rising in the kitchen and I need to go check on it.” He held out his hand.
A burst of laughter from one of the tables made them both turn. Mac’s expression immediately soured, and he sneered. But it wasn’t at the girls who’d laughed. It was at Corbin, ensconced in his customary place in the corner.
As if he felt eyes on him, Corbin looked up, and when he saw Mac, he froze. His pen dropped to the table. His wide eyes darted from Mac, who was still glaring, to Alex. Alex smiled at him the way he always did, but Corbin just blinked and gathered his pens and his notebook, shoving everything into his bag. Then he made his way to the door before Alex could say anything.
Mac shook his head as the door swung shut.
“Guess your mother asked you to let him loiter here.”
“No. My mother doesn’t make the decisions about who comes into my place of business. Besides, he’s not loitering. He’s a paying customer. A welcome customer.”
Mac raised his palms as if to say Alex was overreacting, but he shook his head. “All right, but you be careful with that one. He’s not the sort you want associated with your business, is all I’m saying.”
“Oh? And why’s that?”
Mac leaned in. “Kid’s not right. Ask anyone.”
“Okay, thanks for stopping by,” Alex said, gritting his teeth and gesturing toward the door. As Mac left, Alex looked down the street, hoping Corbin was lingering nearby, but he was nowhere to be seen.
He didn’t come back until four days later.
“Hey,” Alex said, stomach light and heart pounding. “I’ve missed you.”
Corbin froze, then a slow smile crept across his lips and he blushed and looked down. “Hi.”
When Alex brought him cinnamon toast around lunchtime, he smiled all over again.
Fortunately, Mac seemed to be an outlier. Most of the other business owners Alex met were all right.
Meg Patterson ran Trek, an outdoors shop two doors down, and had known his mother for years. Dima and Luke Petrakis owned Hellas, a Greek diner on the corner. They’d fed him poutine made with feta cheese and parsley that he’d had dreams about. Caitlin and Doug Kleeman owned two fancy galleries down the street; Marsha Langhorn ran a bead gallery a block over; Andrea, Marge, and Lilly Kuehn owned the ice cream and chocolate shop that wafted deliciously when the wind blew.
Alex had dinner with his mom and Lou one evening, and learned that Lou’s son, Orin, ran the Art Association two blocks from And Son. Alex remembered going there as a kid because they ran weekly art classes upstairs in the summertime. He remembered being ushered through the first floor gingerly so none of them would touch any of the art for sale.
Orin showed up a few minutes late for dinner, seeming a bit out of sorts, and apologized. Once the food came and they all talked for a while, though, he warmed up, and Alex thought he might see the promise of a friend. It would be nice to have one. Now that And Son was up and running, he had enough time to miss Gareth and his friends in New York.
Orin was about his age, or maybe a few years older. He had a low, soft voice and spoke as if he expected to be listened to. Orin looked nothing like his father. Where Lou was kind looking and a little goofy, Orin was intense and handsome. Where Lou’s eyes were twinkly and mischievous, Orin’s were piercing and gorgeous—the thickness of his long curling lashes almost giving the impression he wore eyeliner. His dark brown skin was flawless, almost luminous, and he had a widow’s peak and close-cropped hair. Large, graceful hands and broad shoulders made him seem expansive, comfortable in his body. Despite his intensity, there was a sense of stillness about Orin that relaxed Alex.
During dinner, Alex found out that Orin hadn’t grown up in Ann Arbor—he’d lived in Detroit with his mother—but had made his way here in his twenties when he and Lou had reconnected, and begun working at what was then a gallery space. He’d later become manager, and had bought it a few years ago when the previous owners retired. He’d left the downstairs space as a gallery and turned the upstairs of the building, where Alex had attended those long-ago classes, into a permanent space for programming. They ran family classes on Saturdays, drop-in classes on Sundays, after school classes during the school year. They’d just added a series of pay-what-you-can classes for veterans and a weekly free class for homeless residents.
“Orin’s a potter,” Lou said proudly, elbowing his son.
“I teach the pottery classes,” Orin clarified. “And some of the drawing and painting classes. For beginners. They aren’t my strength.”
“He made all his own dishes,” Lou went on. “And a lot of mine. I eat my oatmeal out of the bowl he made every morning.” He grinned.
Orin didn’t smile, but he seemed pleased nonetheless. When Alex said he’d love to come by and get a tour of the Art Association, Orin told him to come by any time.
It turned out that Alex’s mother stayed with Lou most of the time, so Alex often felt like he had the house to himself. It worked well, since he got up and went to bed earlier than was sociable. But it was strange having so much space. Though it was his childhood home, his mom had done some renovations since he’d left, so the kitchen and living room weren’t as he remembered them. After sharing New York apartments for the last ten years, the house seemed sprawling, and Alex would sometimes walk from room to room, wondering if he should rent something of his own instead. Something smaller. He didn’t know if his mother would want to sell this place if she moved in with Lou definitively. Something told him she might have been waiting to see what his plans were before deciding.
But Alex wasn’t sure what his plans were. Everything had been on fast-forward since leaving New York. And Son was settling into a routine, and he’d hired another baker, Hector, though he still needed to hire an assistant. It was early days, and Alex knew with nauseating clarity how many businesses failed in their first year. Still, he was cautiously optimistic.
About the business side of things, anyway.
Other things felt more unsettled. It was strange being back, and he was struggling not to feel like he’d somehow stumbled into an alternate reality in which he’d never left Ann Arbor after high school, never gone to culinary school, never worked in New York restaurants. It was strange to be in the house without his dad there. Strange to use the coffee mug he’d seen his dad use a thousand times, or rake the leaves off the front yard and realize he’d pulled on his father’s gloves to do so.
His father’s absence wasn’t painful the way it once was, but regret welled up at the most unpredictable moments. When he came across a pun on a city sign, snuck in by someone trying to make their job a little more interesting; his father had always gotten such a kick out of those. When he realized there was something about his father’s history that he didn’t know, and now could never ask. When faced with a situation he knew his father would see in a way he couldn’t even predict. Back in Ann Arbor, in the house he’d lived in with his father, he found these moments happening more often than they had in New York. He felt his presence a little more closely, and he welcomed it, like an unexpected gift found years after you wanted it.
Alex took to walking to And Son in the cold predawn and taking rambling walks after dinner. In New York, he’d walked everywhere, but it hadn’t been the same. He’d yearned, often, for the fresh air of his youth. Now he walked through sleepy neighborhoods in the morning and tramped through the fields behind his house in the evening. He took Sunday and Wednesday mornings off, drove to the woods, and took long walks along the river.
He wanted to get a dog. It had never felt fair to get one in New York, with the hours he kept and the tiny apartments he lived in. And Timo had been anti-dog. Now, though, he could get one, and he imagined taking it with him to the river, letting it run around in the backyard. Maybe if he trained it well, it could snooze next to the counter at And Son.
The thing that felt most unsettled, though, was his response to Corbin Wale.
He couldn’t stop thinking about him. Could hardly tear his eyes away when Corbin was in the bakery. It wasn’t like Alex. His attractions had always been so straightforward, so measured. He felt as if he’d been jumping wavelets near the shore his whole life and now he was treading water far out at sea, his back to the impending swell.
Something about Corbin called to everything in him, and though Corbin wasn’t an easy man to get to know, every time he walked through the door, it felt like things were right in Alex’s world. He felt a kind of peace and satisfaction that came from having the person you most wanted to see near you, and Alex couldn’t explain it any better than that.
Corbin had been coming in regularly the last two weeks, sometimes staying for an hour, sipping his coffee and staring into space, and sometimes sitting all day, drawing in a world of his own. He always paid attention to Alex, though, even when he ignored everyone else.
The last few days, he’d come in later in the day, and had stayed after closing. Sometimes drawing while Alex worked, sometimes talking.
Tonight they were talking while potting herbs in the windowsills. Alex wanted to have them fresh to bake with all winter. He potted basil and thyme while Corbin potted mint and rosemary.
“I could bring you some more herbs from home,” Corbin offered. “Sage, lemon balm, lavender. I’m not sure what else is good for baking, but I have a lot. There’s a greenhouse. I’m not very good at growing things. Not as good as my aunts were. But they’re still there.”
“I’d love that, thanks. You can use lots of herbs in baking. Lemon and lavender are great in cookies or cakes. Herbs like sage, chives, parsley are good in breads and other savory pastries. I really like using the ingredients as an inspiration for what to make.”
Corbin ran a fingertip over the dirt in each pot, not smoothing it, just touching.
“In New York, seasonality mostly means what’s cheaper to buy. I’ve always worked places that are operating at such a large scale they can’t really source locally or be at the mercy of the weather. But now I really like that I was able to get contracts with all local providers.”
Alex glanced at Corbin to see if he was interested, to find Corbin watching him intently, head slightly cocked.
“I’ve been going into the woods to walk, and thinking about how here it would be possible to actually use things that are in season.” Alex shrugged. “Everything’s different all of a sudden.”
There was a line between Corbin’s dark brows, but he just kept watching.
“I didn’t know I’d be coming back here,” Alex explained. “But I got dumped and fired in one week, and leaving New York seemed advisable before a piano fell on me or something.”
Alex had been going for a light tone, but Corbin frowned.
“You got dumped. Why.”
“Because . . . because my boyfriend had all these plans for our future that I knew nothing about. And when he found out I knew nothing about them, he realized that we didn’t want the same things. We weren’t even living in the same world.”
By the time Alex got to the end of his sentence, Corbin was gone. His gaze had turned inward and his expression smoothed. He smiled vaguely at Alex before he left. Alex walked home slowly, fingers still smelling of thyme.
“Hey, Corbin?” Alex said a few days later.
They’d just finished closing and Alex was feeling reckless. This morning he’d woken to a gust of cold air through the open window that made the whole world seem fresh and new. All day the feeling had stayed with him, a crisp sense of possibility.
“Hi.” Corbin looked up. He always said Hi like he was reminding himself it was something he was supposed to say. The collar of his button-down denim shirt gaped as he drew, revealing a glimpse of delicate collarbones that Alex couldn’t tear his eyes from.
“Hi. Listen, do you think I could come home with you today?” Corbin’s eyes went wide and he froze. “Thing is, I think I want a dog. I’ve always wanted one, and this is the first time I might be able to have one. And you said your dogs mill around. I thought maybe I could hang out for a few minutes, see if being around them seals the deal.”
“To my house.”
Alex nodded. “I won’t come inside, if you don’t want. I could just stay in the yard.”
He watched Corbin closely, ready to retract the question if Corbin seemed uncomfortable, but he just seemed confused.
“No one comes to my house.”
“Okay, that’s fine, forget I asked.” Alex smiled and started to turn away. This was what Corbin did, he’d realized. He stated things as if they were facts, but they weren’t what he wanted, only what he thought he knew. If given time, though, he’d get to what he wanted.
“No, I— No, you can come. The dogs. And you—I could show you the greenhouse. If you want. Dogs.” He nodded.
“Great,” Alex said with a grin. “Did you walk?”
Corbin always walked.
They walked to Corbin’s in silence, Alex giddy with fresh air and their destination. Corbin was clearly mulling something over. It wasn’t the same as when he was lost in thought. When he was mulling, he seemed almost to vibrate. After they’d walked for twenty minutes, Corbin said, “You’re gay.”
“Yeah. Is that why you left the other night after I mentioned having a boyfriend?”
“No. Yes. I had to think about it,” Corbin said.
“I know in high school people teased you about being gay. But kids say a lot of things that aren’t true. Just so you know that I don’t assume anything about you.”
“I wasn’t anything in high school.”
“And now?” Alex asked softly.
“Now. Now I’m only me. I’ll always be only me.”
When they rounded the corner and cut through a copse of trees, Alex found himself faced with the scene from Corbin’s sketchbook: the trees, the imposing house, the garden. He followed Corbin down the incline to the yard behind the house. Chimes hung all around the back porch, clacking in the breeze, and birds clustered around four different feeders, one of which was home to a battle between three finches and a plump brown squirrel.
As they neared the deck, a form bounded out of the trees and before he could register what it was, Alex was on his back, gazing at the sky. Then his field of vision was filled with a face he recognized from Corbin’s sketchbook. Gray fur, a black nose, and chilly blue eyes.
“It’s okay. He’s okay,” Corbin said, and the dog walked away. Alex pushed himself up on his elbows to stand, and saw Corbin kneeling on the grass next to the dog.
“Wolf is protective,” he said simply.
“No kidding. I’m glad you’ve got him to look out for you. He isn’t really a wolf, is he?”
Corbin bit his lip, and Alex wondered if he hadn’t meant to share the dog’s name.
“Maybe part.” Corbin wrapped his arms around Wolf and buried his face in his fur. The dog—Alex was going to keep thinking of it as a dog, thank you very much—tilted his head to rest on Corbin’s and put his front paws on Corbin’s thigh. They stayed like that for so long Alex felt the damp of the grass soak into his jeans.
When Alex stood, Corbin reluctantly unwrapped himself from Wolf and stood as well. He whistled once, twice, then a third time, and three more dogs loped out of the woods and gathered at Corbin’s feet.
Corbin called the large shaggy brown-and-white dog Cow. The small brindle dog that looked like some kind of terrier mix and kept jumping around Alex’s ankles, Corbin called Snap. The third dog had sleek black fur that was missing in patches, and a torn ear. It was quiet and calm, and leaned against Corbin’s legs so heavily that Alex was surprised he didn’t pitch over. Corbin called it Ghost.
They stood with the dogs for a while, Alex petting them and confirming that, yes, he wished he had one. Then Corbin found a few sticks and they started throwing them for the dogs to chase. Wolf was the fastest, but lost interest once he’d found the stick, leaving Cow or Snap to bring it back. Snap jumped excitedly on the stick as Cow waited. Ghost just stood, watching it all.
After a few throws, a crash came from the trees in the other direction, and the ugliest dog Alex had ever seen made for the most recently thrown stick like a bullet. It snarfed and pawed at the stick clumsily, and let out a howl of frustration when it couldn’t pick it up.
“Let me guess,” Alex said. “That’s Stick?”
“Yes.”
“What . . . what is she doing?”
Stick was scrabbling at the ground with two paws like she was trying to hold the stick and walk on her back paws.
“When she was a puppy, Aunt Hilda’s cat, Morrigan, had kittens, and Stick ran around with them all the time. She still tries to pick things up. She used to be able to. Kind of. But she’s getting old now. Stick!” Corbin called, and she came galloping toward them, skidding to a halt a foot from Corbin’s toes. Corbin threw another stick and Stick barked once, then shot off after it.
“I’d really like a dog,” Alex said. “Maybe it could even come to the bakery.” Corbin’s eyes lit up at that and Alex determined he’d make it happen one way or another. “Do you train them? I don’t really know much about training dogs.”
“No. They’re just themselves. I don’t tell them what to do.”
Should have seen that coming, Alex thought.
“And their names aren’t Stick, Ghost, Wolf, Cow, and Snap, right?” Alex said with a smile.
“No,” Corbin said, seriously. “It’s just what I call them.”
It was getting dark, but Stick was still enthusiastic about their game, so Alex ran to grab another stick. His foot slipped on a slick of leaves and he skidded for a moment and then landed on his knees in a slick patch of grass, his pants covered in mud that immediately soaked through.
Alex stood and wiped his muddy hands on his muddier jeans. Corbin was smiling at him.
“You okay.”
“Yeah. Surely you can tell I used to play sports from my incredible coordination.”
Corbin’s smile was bigger than any Alex had seen from him, and it made being cold, wet, and covered in mud feel entirely worth it. It creased the taut skin around Corbin’s eyes and made his nose wrinkle in a way that made him look slightly goofy and completely adorable.
“You can come inside,” he said, eyeing Alex’s pants. “My pants won’t fit you, but I have a towel.”
“Thanks.”
The sun had set completely and the house was just a looming shadow one shade darker than the dark around them, but Corbin walked unerringly and Alex trailed behind him, shoes squishing in the muddy grass. Cow and Snap chased each other around the yard, and Ghost stood, watching them. Wolf walked alongside Corbin and sat down next to the door like a sentry.
“Night, Wolf,” Corbin said softly. He hugged him and kissed the top of his head, and Wolf licked his cheek once, then settled in. Did he stay all night? Alex hoped so. Even though they were only about a mile and a half from his own house, it felt far more isolated out here, the house farther from its closest neighbors.
Corbin unlocked the door and flipped on the light, and Stick came bounding over. Her tongue was lolling out and her eyes went in two different directions, but as Corbin closed the door behind her, grabbed a rag that hung by the door, and began wiping the mud from her feet, she swayed in doggie delight and her tail slapped the ground as she tried to lick his hair.
Alex allowed himself to indulge briefly in the fantasy that Corbin might clean him off too.
Once her feet were clean, Stick ran off into the house. They’d entered via a small mudroom, and Alex followed Corbin through into the kitchen. Corbin flicked on the light and started filling a bowl with dog food, while Alex looked around in wonder.
The kitchen had whitewashed walls and all natural wood—broad, butcher-block countertops, beautiful hand-carved cabinetry, and thick wood flooring. It had high ceilings, and bundles of dried herbs hung around the large leaded window. There was an oven and six-burner stove that were old but appeared in good condition, with cast iron pans hung above it. On the far wall was a stone fireplace with an iron pot stand.
A large Shaker table held a hand-carved wooden bowl with a few apples and bananas in it, and a mason jar filled with pussy willow branches.
It smelled like dried sage and lemon, candle wax and a hint of woodsmoke.
“Wow,” said Alex. “This is absolutely gorgeous.” Alex knew a kitchen that had been built with love when he saw one.
Corbin hummed and waved him along, turning on lights as he went. As Alex followed him, he only caught glimpses of the living room and front door. At the bathroom, Corbin handed him a towel and left.
The bathroom was a strange color caught between gray and lavender with an indiscernible light gray pattern. No, not a pattern. It was pencil sketches. Someone—presumably Corbin—had drawn all over the walls. Alex could make out pinecones and acorns, leaves and clouds, cats and dogs and birds. He sat on the closed toilet seat to dry off his pants and saw that down near the baseboard were trailing roses with wicked thorns.
He could smell lavender in here, as if to match the color of the walls. The soap next to the sink looked homemade, and he sniffed it. Yes, lavender.
Once he’d cleaned up, he washed his hands with the lavender soap so he could take at least the scent of Corbin’s house home with him.
“Corbin?” Alex walked back toward the kitchen, but Corbin came from the other direction. “Oh, hey. Thanks for the towel.”
Corbin took it from him, and for a moment, the piece of fabric connected them. Then Alex let go and disappointment washed through him.
They walked to the front door, where the wood floor was in worse condition, with dings and dark grooves between the boards.
“Thanks again,” Alex said at the door. He wanted so badly to hug Corbin, or kiss his cheek. Even a handshake would be something. But Corbin had made it clear he didn’t like to be touched, and Alex shoved his hands deep in his pockets so he couldn’t.
“Alex.” It was, he realized, the first time Corbin had ever said his name. Corbin’s voice caught on the x, making the word his own, and it hovered in the air between them. “I . . . I am.”
It took Alex a moment to rewind to the question Corbin was answering.
“Okay. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No. No, I can’t.” Corbin looked away.
“You can’t? Why not?”
Corbin bit his lip and when he his eyes met Alex’s again, he looked sad and lost. Not lost in his thoughts as he so often was, but adrift somewhere. Unmoored. Lonely.
“It’s not worth it. Bad things would happen.”