Sweet Revenge (m|m)

Seven - Aaron

Kate is just locking up when I get back from my visit to Blake's shop. I keep my face carefully blank as she interrogates me about him and the new store. It's been a busy day, and we haven't had a chance to talk much since I got back from driving into Felton.

"Well?" she demands, flipping her perfect hair over one shoulder. "Is he single?"

"I hope so," I say, given that he just tried to kiss me and asked me out.

"So, which one of us has a chance—me or you?"

I press my lips together. I'm facing away from her, cleaning the glass front of the display case yet again. Why do kids have to touch everything, and why are their hands always covered in something gross and sticky? Another mystery of the universe, I guess. Like why, of all the candy shops in all the towns in all the world, Blake Welling had to move in across the street from mine.

"Me," I say at last. "He asked me out."

Kate lets out a squeal that could shatter glass.

"Christ, Kate!" I turn to glare at her. "Could you not do that?"

"Well, aren't you excited? He's hot right?"

I resume my cleaning. "Yeah, he is," I admit.

Blake is just as magnetic as he was ten years ago. He's the flame to my moth, but I'm not in any danger this time. My wings are already burned off.

"So why aren't you happy that he's into you?" Kate complains. "Don't you want to find someone special? You gotta put yourself out there sometime and take a risk."

She's had a string of bad romances herself, but as far as I can tell it's usually the other half of the equation that comes out the worse for wear. She goes through guys like fashion trends.

As I consider my answer, I realize I don't actually have one. The Blake I got to know today is just as charming and handsome as the Blake I crushed on in high school, but beyond that, I don't really know how the two compare.

Because if I'm honest with myself, I knew Blake in high school about as well as I knew my favorite pop idol. I was a stargazer and he a star; I looked at him and yearned to know more, but he was as unreachable as a distant sun.

Now it seems like he's set his sights on me, and I feel a little like a gazelle who looks up to realize he's been picked out of the herd. He's suddenly too close, too dangerous, and too interested in me for my own good.

"How about this, Kate," I say. "I'll tell you after I have dinner with him this weekend, if—" I hold up a hand quickly to cut her off "—you promise not to scream in the store."

She nods, eyes wide, and makes a zipping motion across her mouth. Then she mimes a silent shriek and hugs me while hopping up and down.

At least one of us is excited I have a date.

~♡~

I live in a tiny apartment above the shop. After I strip out of my work clothes and shower, I sit on the narrow twin bed and stare at my collection of books that line the opposite wall. About half of them are books about chocolate and candy-making, and old textbooks from culinary school. The rest are my portfolios: the records of my creations, my triumphs and failures.

Then there's the notebook.

I keep it in a special glass case I found at an antique store. It's just an old cloth-bound journal, really, but it's my most prized possession. It contains my grandma's original recipes.

Fudge, brittle, toffee, truffles, taffy—she made it all. It was her passion, and when I expressed an interest in learning, she shared it with me without hesitation. She didn't care that my dad thought it was wrong for a boy to want to cook—much less make candy—and for every discouraging word he threw my way, she had ten kind and supportive ones to take its place.

Which is why, when I decided I wanted to make something for Blake to thank him for saving me on the field that day, I asked her for help.

As I stare at the notebook and the fading daylight gradually drains from my little room, the memories come back to me like birds returning to roost, and settle in the waiting bareness of my winter heart.

~♡~

It's PE class again, two weeks after the incident with the inhaler, and I'm sitting on the bottom row of bleachers. My dad finally signed the letter excusing me from running after I had to refill my asthma medication for the second time in a month. Insurance only covered one in a thirty-day period, and apparently forcing me into his mold of masculinity wasn't worth the expense.

So I get to sit it out and watch everyone else suffer. Turns out it's not that entertaining, so I watch Blake instead.

He's training with his team, and I've lost track of how many miles they've done by the time they come over to stretch and cool down.

He sees me and waves. "Hey, Wheezer. How's it hangin'?"

I feel heat bloom over my face and curse my complexion. "F-f-fine," I reply.

Some of his teammates are watching, and I see them snicker.

He shoots me a wink, and I wonder if I'm developing some sort of heart condition because it misses about four beats. Then he goes back to stretching.

I'd like to sink into the earth and disappear, but I've been steeling myself for this moment for two weeks, and this is my chance.

"Uh... hey." He looks up. "Whatcherfavertcandy?"

He squints. "Sorry?"

"Um..." I take a breath and try again. "What's your favorite candy?"

"Oh... I dunno. Chocolate, I guess," he says, shrugging. "Why?"

I'm sweating now as well as blushing, and probably about a half a degree from spontaneous combustion, but for some stupid reason, I go on. "I w-want to get you—I mean, y-your team—something. To say thanks."

"You don't have to do that," he laughs. "But yeah, chocolate. That's my favorite."

He smiles, and I feel as breathless as if I'd run the mile after all.

"Okay then." I go to gather my stuff, but my backpack is still unzipped and when I lift it half the contents spill out. I scramble to pick it all up, but Blake comes over and kneels to help.

He hands me a stack of books, and my blood freezes when I see the one on top. It's Nina's latest favorite—a volume from the series about the tennis players, and there's no mistaking what they're doing on the cover. I look up and see that Blake's cheeks are tinged pink.

"Um, here," he hands me the books and stands, not looking at me.

I whisper my thanks to his shoes, and then he's gone.

I stuff the books in my pack and zip it shut, and then I wait. I wait for the ridicule, and the laughter, the taunts and insults. But they don't come.

Finally daring to look up, I see Blake chatting with his teammates, and none of them are sparing me so much as a glance. It sounds like they're discussing training times.

Blake casts a glance over his shoulder at me as I get to my feet, and gives me another heart-stopping wink.

We have a secret now, I realize. He knows something that sets me apart, that makes me different, and that divides me from a lot of this school and this town.

And it seems like maybe we're on the same side of that divide.

Later, when I tell my Nana about him, she recommends fudge. We've made it together more times than I can count, and I've got the recipe almost memorized, but not quite.

Unfortunately, she's going on vacation for the next week and a half, and won't have time to help me make it.

So she lends me her notebook of recipes because, as she tells me, I've got a gift, and anyone I choose to share it with is lucky; and most of all, because she trusts me to keep it safe.