Page 28 of Time After Time
Gen and I lay sprawled on a chequered white and red blanket, our eyes fixed on the camera. Her hair fluttered in the summer breeze, a stray strand brushing against my bottom lip. Her arms were visible in the photo, evidence of her trying to lift the camera higher to avoid the shadow they cast. The sun was so intense that it made one of her eyes squint shut.
My eyes moved downward. Even though only the top of her sundress was visible, I could recognise every one of her sundresses, and this one was one of my favourite ones. Green pastel, filled with embroidered little daisies. Although I believed Gen’s colour was a light blue, green also complemented her skin in a stunning way, and for some reason, when she wore that one, her eyes seemed lighter than usual.
My gaze moved to the side, noticing a slighter younger version of myself with shorter hair, the wild curls still making their presence known. Two or three strands fell on my forehead, my left hand caught mid-motion, brushing them away from my face. My head turned slightly as I wore a broad smile on my face.
I was stealing glances at Gen, marvelling at the infectious giggles she was trying to suppress. She had been struggling to locate the snap button, randomly pressing a couple until she successfully captured the moment.
Several years had passed, maybe four or five, since that photograph, yet it continued to be one of my favourites. That’s why it adorned my wall, standing out among the others instead of being tucked away in our photo book.
I tightened my towel to make sure it stayed in place and settled into my chair, my chin resting on my fisted hand as I glanced at Rob’s laptop for a few seconds until I couldn’t wait any longer, opening it and seeing the bold letters announcing new emails. However, as I scanned through them, I found a promotional message from an unrelated website, a newsletter from one of my favourite authors, and several other unimportant emails. What was glaringly absent was any communication from the apprenticeship programme.
Making my way downstairs, clad in black shorts and a matching t-shirt, I found Gen comfortably seated on the sofa, remote in hand, as she browsed through the channels.
Letting my gaze drift, I noticed she had chosen shorts instead of her usual sundress. These were the kind she didn’t mind getting a bit messy, as we were about to see if baking could be her new passion. As she adjusted her position, the shorts rode up to reveal the upper part of her thighs, and I found myself staring at the skin there, swallowing hard and subtly adjusting the collar of my t-shirt.
I positioned myself in front of the TV, causing Gen to startle as I gestured for her to join me in the kitchen. The tension in my shoulders and neck seemed to ease as I entered the space where I could move freely and effortlessly, the place where I felt weightless.
“Welcome to my cave,” I said with an attempt at a grin, gesturing dramatically at the array of ingredients and tools scattered around the kitchen, all exclusively used by me. “Ready?”
Gen’s eyes widened, and she hesitated before nodding, her gaze seemingly absorbing every utensil in the area. I was pretty sure she didn’t know that a few of them even existed.
“Let’s do this.” Her hands brushed together before she pulled a hairband from her wrist, securing her hair into a ponytail.Although she looked beautiful, I couldn’t help but miss the way her waves framed her face.
I opened one of the white cupboards, fetched one of my smallest aprons, and approached her as she washed her hands at the kitchen sink. Gen grabbed a towel to dry her hands, and as she stood there, I placed myself behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and tying the apron to position it correctly. While securing the knot, I noticed her draw a sharp breath and slightly arch her back in surprise.
As my breath grazed the nape of her neck, the fine hairs stirred, and a subtle shiver created goosebumps on that spot and on my arms. Stepping back, I turned around before she could catch my expression, placing the recipe I had prepared for her on the wooden counter. I then positioned myself behind the kitchen counter, creating distance, and settled onto one of the barstools.
I kept my eyes fixed on the recipe in front of me, even if I felt hers on me, my fingers tracing the faded ink. Resisting the urge to meet her eyes, I waited instead for the moment when she would step forward and begin the baking.
“Macarons?” Her brow furrowed as she read over the lines, dipping her head while she studied the recipe. For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the faint rustle of the paper. Her right hand drifted toward her mouth, fingers brushing her lips before she caught herself, dropping her hand to the pocket of her apron. She fidgeted with the fabric, her nervous energy showing in the way her fingers played with the edges of the dark navy blue cloth. “Isn’t that quite difficult?”
I offered a small nod. “You need to be precise when following the instructions.” Her focused attention almost threw me off, but I disappeared into the world of baking, explaining how even a few extra seconds of whisking the eggs could change the whole recipe. It was fascinating how something so small could matterso much. “Take a deep breath, follow the recipe, and try to enjoy the process.”
It dawned on me that I had forgotten to prep the ingredients for her. I sprang into action, moving through the relevant cupboards and placing all the necessary items within Gen’s reach.
Then, I leaned against the counter, watching as Gen double-checked the recipe, her eyes darting back and forth to make sure she got it right. She measured everything with such focus, completely caught up. I couldn’t help but chuckle, amused by how serious she was about getting every detail perfect.
As Gen worked on making the macarons, the kitchen became a mess of flour and sugar. The almond flour seemed to have a mind of its own, escaping from the bowl and creating a fine dust that covered every surface. And I don’t know how she did it, but a sizeable flour cloud temporarily obscured my vision. I fought the urge to cough loudly, not wanting to embarrass her.
“I don’t think that was supposed to happen,” she said, wiping her dust-covered nose with her arm. With a sidelong smile, I shook my head, encouraging her to move on to the next step.
The egg whites, meant for the meringue, turned out to be the most complex step, which I already expected. Gen’s attempt at achieving stiff peaks resulted in a froth that looked more like a bubble bath than the meringue needed for macarons. Her frustrated sigh and the look of defeat as she stared at the bowl made me step in. I didn’t say a word—just demonstrated the folding technique with smooth, patient movements, contrasting sharply with her earlier, rushed ones.
“Give it a shot.” I offered a reassuring look as she wiped her hands on her apron, leaving streaks of flour behind, then grabbed the tools from me with a determined grip. As she took her position at the counter, she glanced over her shoulder witha quick, focused look before getting to it. “It’s all in the wrist,” I advised, guiding her.
Despite our best efforts, Gen’s attempt to achieve the right consistency resulted in a mixture that was too thick and didn’t flow smoothly. The texture was closer to a thick batter that I already knew would affect the macarons, especially as she piped the mixture onto the baking sheet, the shapes uneven and lumpy.
“Gosh,” Gen’s face was bathed in the heated, orange light from the oven as she peered inside, her expression shifting to one of disgust. “This is not looking good,” she said, her voice tinged with frustration. Through the oven door, she watched as the macarons, instead of rising evenly, wobbled and distorted, their surfaces uneven and starting to crack.
I crouched beside her, scanning the macarons before turning my attention to Gen. Her ponytail, once neatly secured, had loosened into a messy cascade of hair, strands falling across her face. Flour and meringue streaked through the dishevelled strands closest to her forehead. As I looked down, I saw flour dusting one of her brows and a smudge on her nose, with a sprinkling of sugar on the corner of her mouth. Unable to hold back, I let out a chuckle. She glanced at me, her concentration momentarily broken by my laughter.
Fortunately, I had glanced away before she turned to look at me.
Standing up, I grabbed the oven mitts and eased Gen out of the way to avoid any burns. I carefully opened the oven door and took out the macarons, placing them on a heat-resistant surface to cool.
Looking at them, it was clear they hadn’t turned out as we’d hoped. They were uneven and cracked, not at all like the smooth pistachio macarons the recipe showed.
“Should we try them?” A hint of hesitation crept into her voice as she asked.
