Georgia Boys

12. in which we deliver the birthday order

Not even an hour after Quincy and I have finished devouring the pumpkin pie, I'm swiftly back inside the bakery, getting to work on the cupcake order my parents have freshly baked. I see them on my way out and Mom gives me her usual tips on using fondant and icing before making his way out, Mom in tow after taking the tray of cupcakes out of the oven.

My apron comes on and I find the decorations. The kid wanted cupcakes with blue, yellow and red icing. His parents had also said over the phone that he was a big fan of superheroes. Thus, my mind has a clear image of comic-style decorations for the cupcakes. The day has been long, and I've spent a good portion of it on the road with Quincy, but I am not short of energy. Instead, I'm bounding about the kitchen, testing out different decorating methods before putting them into practice. 

Quincy and I parted ways after we finished the pie and that was that. We hadn't talked about much when I left, not the game of Twenty Questions, not my dream about him, not the way fire crept over my entire body as neither of us moved our hands in the backseat of his car. 

See, I don't mind not talking about such things. Sometimes the silence is enough. And yet, despite the time we've spent together today, I find myself thinking of him, of his grin, of his hair. I find my eyes flicking over to the transparent door of the bakery, waiting for him to pop up and barge in. 

And he doesn't come by. I'm three-quarters through the cupcake decorations and he's not here. It's nothing surprising. If anything, we spent far too much time together. Quincy has his own life as well. Yet I consider where he might be right now: is he skating? Is he at the bakery? Does he have more errands to run? Does he need help?

I quash those questions as quickly as they arise. I'm not meant to worry about Quincy Denton, and what he's doing right now is none of my business. 

I wrap up the last batch of cupcakes, reach over to organize the cupcakes into each box. 

And then he arrives.

He arrives barreling in at the doorway, eyes wide. "Didn't think you'd get rid of me that easy, did you?

And I smile.

I wish I could say I didn't. I wish I could say that it was a smile caused half by shock, half by amusement at how foolish and frazzled he looks. I wish I couldn't say it was because I was waiting for him to drop by. I wish I couldn't say that I'd been stalling in hopes that he'd be there. 

But I can't. Because inexplicably, I want him here. I'd like to have Quincy Denton around. Perhaps only for now. 

"Well," I say, "if you want to make yourself useful, I have boxes I need to load into the family truck."

Quincy Denton beams. "Great. I'll grab one."

Thus, Quincy and I load the boxes of cupcakes into the truck before sitting side by side at the front. I pull up the directions to the place and he watches me, eyes following my movements. I start the car. We zip down the road. It's three, so we've got a good hour to get to the party and the place is only half an hour away.

Quincy plugs his aux to the speaker and bobs his head once his music comes on. He's got this silent smile on his face. He moves with the beat, steady, rhythmic. 

I focus on the road. Quincy cracks jokes. I attempt to stop amusement from crawling onto my lips every time he does so. I already smiled at him when he entered the bakery so I'm not awarding him with another smile today. 

Unfortunately, Quincy's good at amusing people. He's good at breaking out in laughter once the slightest hint of a smirk appears on their lips. It's somewhat frustrating and yet it's unsurprising. We arrive at the birthday kid's place after thirty minutes have passed us by.