“He’s the dick,” I say automatically. We could have this argument in our sleep.
“Babe, come on,” Gabe calls, lifting his arm in a beckoning motion. “You’re gonna be late for work.”
Autumn’s phone rings in her hand, and we both glance down at it. “Who’s Charlie?” I ask over another rev of the engine. “Gabe’s replacement? Please say yes.”
I expect her to roll her eyes, but instead she declines the call and shoves her phone into her backpack. “Nobody.”
The back of my neck prickles. I know that tone, and it doesn’t mean anything good. “Is he one of them?” I ask.
She shakes her head, resolute. “The less you know, the better.”
I knew it. “Are you making extra stops today?”
“Probably.”
My jaw twitches. “Don’t.”
Her mouth sets in a thin line. “I have to.”
“For how much longer?” We could have this argument in our sleep, too.
“As long as I can,” Autumn says.
She hoists her backpack higher on her shoulder and meets my eyes, the question she’s been asking me for weeks written across her face. We have to take care of our own, right?
I don’t want to nod, but how the hell else am I supposed to answer?
Yeah. We do.
CAL
“It’s orange,” I tell Viola when she puts the doughnut in front of me.
“Well, duh.” Viola might be in her forties, but she can roll her eyes as aggressively as any teenager at Carlton High. “That’s the Cheeto dust.”
I poke uncertainly at one side of the doughnut. My fingertip comes back bright orange. “And this tastes good?”
“Honey, you know our motto at Crave.” She puts one hand on her hip and cocks her head, inviting me to finish the sentence.
“The weirder the better,” I say dutifully.
“That’s right.” She pats me on the shoulder before turning back toward the kitchen. “Enjoy your Cheeto-dusted Bavarian cream.”
I regard the orange lump on my plate with a mix of anticipation and fear. Crave Doughnuts is my favorite breakfast place in the greater Boston area, but I haven’t been in a while. It’s hard to find anyone willing to eat this particular style of doughnut unless they’re being ironic. My ex-girlfriend, Noemi, is gluten-free and all about clean eating, so she refused to set foot in the place no matter how much I begged. Somehow, that makes it even worse that she ultimately broke up with me at Veggie Galaxy.
“I don’t know what’s happened to you. You don’t even seem like yourself anymore,” she told me over a plate of kale and seitan salad last week. “It’s like aliens abducted the real Cal and left this shell behind.”
“Um, okay. Wow. That’s harsh,” I muttered, feeling a stab of hurt even though I’d seen this coming. Not this, exactly, but something. We’d barely seen each other all week, and then all of a sudden she texted We should go to Veggie Galaxy tomorrow. I had a bad feeling, and not just because I hate kale. “I’ve been a little distracted, that’s all.”
“It doesn’t feel like you’re distracted. It feels…” Noemi tossed her braids over one shoulder and scrunched her nose up, thinking. She looked really cute, and it hit me with a pang how much I used to like her. Still did like her, except…it wasn’t that simple anymore. “Like you stopped trying. You’re doing stuff because you think you’re supposed to, but it’s not real. You’re not real. I mean, look at you,” she added, gesturing toward my plate. “You’ve eaten almost an entire plate full of kale, and you haven’t complained once. You’re a pod person.”
“I didn’t realize criticizing your food choices was a prerequisite for being a good boyfriend,” I grumbled, stuffing another forkful of kale into my mouth. Then I almost gagged, because honest to God, only rabbits should eat that crap. A few minutes later, Noemi signaled for the check and insisted on paying it, and I was single once again. Sort of. Truth is, Noemi was probably picking up on the fact that I’ve been interested in someone else for a while, but she didn’t have to pummel my self-esteem into the ground in retaliation.
“Take some time for yourself, Cal,” my dad said when it happened. Well, one of my dads. I have two of them—and a biological mother I see a few times a year, who’s a college friend of my dads and was their surrogate seventeen years ago—but I call both of them Dad. Which is pretty straightforward—to me—but a certain subset of my classmates finds it endlessly confusing. Boney Mahoney, in particular, used to ask me all the time in elementary school, “But how do they know which one you’re talking to?”