My natural instinct is to tell him there’s nothing to talk about. That everything is fine. That’s what I’ve learned to do over the last couple years. My dad is fine. Michael is fine. We’re all fine. The whole damn world is fine, just fine. Thanks for asking.
But here’s the thing; Colt is asking. Like, really asking. When I turn to him to tell him it’s nothing worth talking about, he’s watching. He’s looking deep and he’s asking for truth, and I’m struggling to remember the last time someone did that. The last time someone wanted more than a cursory answer that relieved them of their social duty to inquire in the first place.
I wave him over. “Come here. Come help me.”
I grab the tray of donuts, each one formed into the distinctly oblong shape of a football; Colt’s choosing. He happily takes a couple of flipping sticks from me when I offer.
“Rona and I went to school with Cassie,” I tell him as I drop the dough balls into the sizzling oil. “I was in choir and theater with her. We were close. Well, Cassie and I were. Rona has always hated her a little. I introduced her to my brother when we were in high school. They dated for seven years. She became part of our family, like a sister. She’d come over on Christmas and Thanksgiving. We performed in every school play together and she made it clear that she wanted to be a star someday. A singer on a stage in front of the world. We all supported her, especially Michael. He helped her record demos and sent them out for her. For Christmas one year he paid for her to shoot a music video and put it on the internet; all the things she was too afraid to do because she was afraid to fail. But he believed in her. We all thought they were going to get married. So did Michael.”
“Why didn’t they?”
“Time to flip,” I warn him. I show him how to use his sticks to flip the donuts bobbing in the golden oil.
He’s awful at it. Baking is definitely not his thing. I pick up the pace, finishing off the majority of the donuts before he can fumble them.
“Show off,” he whispers with a grin.
I spin a stick between my fingers like a drummer on a stage. “You have your talents, I have mine.”
“Why didn’t they get married?”
I scowl into the fryer, watching the oil bubble and burn. The scent mingles with his, the woodsy with the sugary, and it’s not as nauseating as it should be. I find myself drifting toward him. The crazy thought of leaning against his side, of resting my tired head on his big shoulder, flies through my mind. I swat it away before it can land.
“The music video went viral,” I tell him, stifling a yawn. “Suddenly Cassie had agents knocking on her door. She signed with one and immediately went on tour as an opening act for some folk rock band that was big up in Seattle. Thanks to them her album blew up and she got her own tour the next year. She showed up on the Billboard charts, every radio station in the country, and talk shows morning, noon, and night. And just when you thought you couldn’t blink without seeing her face somewhere, she disappeared.”
“She’s still doing publicity. I saw her on Conan a week ago.”
“No, I mean she disappeared from our lives.” I use my sticks to quickly pull the donuts out of the fryer and flip them back onto the tray. “She stopped calling Michael. Quit texting all of us. Dropped off social media. No explanation. She just cut us all off.”
“Were she and your brother having trouble?”
“She was cheating on him,” I answer frankly. “She got caught by the paparazzi twice. When Michael called her out on it, she cried. She flew home from Berlin and swore she loved him and that she’d do better. He believed her. He forgave her. Then she did it again, and after that I was done with her. So were my parents. But Michael wasn’t. He said they were doing better. That they were gonna make it. That’s when she ghosted him.”
Colt watches silently as I slide the tray of donuts onto the island before going to the proofer for another set. I slowly lower them into the oil, watching them dance and swirl on contact. They’re mesmerizing. The pattern weirdly soothing. Hypnotic.
“So that’s your issue with fame? With me?” Colt asks. His tone is carefully unaffected. “You think I’m like that? You think I’m going to do what she did?”
I shake my head minutely. “I don’t know what you’re going to do. I don’t know what you’re doing right now. What we’re doing here together.”
“We’re hanging out. We’re making donuts.”
“What if I don’t want donuts? What if I want something else?”
“Like what?”
I lick my lips, unsure how to answer that. What do I want? And is it too early to say it? I’ve known the guy for all of a minute and he’s a serial player. Am I really about to throw down the gauntlet and start making demands?