It would still smell like peanut butter, but I opted to keep my mouth shut and just gut it down. He added his sliced bananas and took a seat on one of the painted metal barstools while I found a stick of butter and smeared lots of it over the residual peanut butter.
“I threw up a bunch of puppy chow … you know, the corn or rice cereal with peanut butter, melted chocolate, and powdered sugar? And since then, I haven’t been able to eat peanut butter.”
“Thanks for sharing your peanut butter vomit story while I’m eating peanut butter.”
I glanced over my shoulder while returning the butter to the fridge. “Oops. Sorry. Cinnamon?”
He nodded to the spice rack by the stove.
“Sugar?” I grabbed the cinnamon.
“Pantry.”
“Where is your pantry?”
“The door to your right.” He took a big bite of his toast and nodded to the cabinet door.
“Here?” I opened the door and a light turned on to a hidden pantry and walked inside. “This is cool.”
“Second shelf on the right, clear to the back.”
I plucked the bag of cane sugar from the shelf and exited the hidden pantry. “Did you build this house?”
“I did.”
“Seriously?”
He chuckled. “If you didn’t think I could seriously build this house, then why did you ask?”
I shrugged. “Just making conversation.” I did my best to play it cool. When, in actuality, I was on a high.
Eighteen.
In a new state.
Mom out of town.
Living with a twenty-eight-year-old man who rented a large portion of space in my head. Dominating my thoughts—corrupting my thoughts. He even interrupted my prayer time. I quickly discovered that my on-and-off anger toward him was because he made me think and feel things that felt sinful. I wondered if I could have an innocent crush on him? He wasn’t married. And if I didn’t act on it, could it be a big deal? An actual sin?
“I built it three years ago. My dad is an electrician. My uncle is a plumber and a welder. I started working for a construction company when I was fourteen, over the summer. And I loved it. I knew I wanted to build houses. So my dad and uncle helped me get up and going. And things took off. I have more business than my crew and I can handle most days.”
“So you have a crew?” I took a seat at the counter, leaving two chairs between us, and he smirked when he noticed that I was avoiding close proximity to him. “Does that mean you don’t build the houses anymore?”
“I don’t build as much, but I still do a lot of the trim carpentry in the custom homes we build.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I didn’t want to be the deer-in-the-headlights girl with him, so I nodded like I totally understood.
“You ever been married?” Why? Why did it happen again? Why couldn’t I control my curiosity?
“No. You?”
I smiled over my bite of toast while wiping cinnamon and sugar from my lips. “Duh.”
“Boyfriend?”
I did it. I started it. And he jumped on board, making me regret saying anything.
“No.”
“Girlfriend?” he asked.
I whipped my head to the side, stopping mid-chew. “Um … no.”
He sipped his coffee and shrugged. “Don’t look so offended. You’re eighteen. You’re supposed to be woke enough to not be offended by the question like there’s something wrong with being a lesbian.”
“I … I …” Swallowing, I shook my head. “I didn’t say there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian. It’s not their fault.”
“Fault?” His jaw dropped. “Oh man, I’m embarrassed for you.”
“What does that mean?” I set my toast down, no longer feeling hungry. Not that I was anyway because it was too dang early in the morning to eat.
“I’m pretty sure implying being a lesbian is a ‘fault’ would not score you points with a lot of people.”
I felt so backed into a corner. I didn’t know what to say. I knew all the things my grandparents had told me and all the things I was taught at the Christian academy. “You know what I mean,” I said softly.
After a few seconds of eyeing me until I felt two inches tall, he nodded. “I do. I know what you mean. But not everyone would.”
“You’re gay,” I said as it hit me. Everything so clear. Of course my mom wasn’t with him. He was gay. That explained his reaction to what I said.
Without a shred of offense, he shook his head. “No. I’m not gay.”
I frowned. “It’s wrong.” Rubbing my lips together, I shrugged. “I was taught that it’s wrong.”
He stared at the last bite of his toast for a few moments before popping it into his mouth and lifting a shoulder in a half shrug. “Well, good thing you’re out of that place they called a school. Now you can fucking think for yourself.”
Cringing at his use of the F-word, I felt insecure and completely exposed. I had no idea Fisher Mann would teach me so much during our time alone.