Page 31 of Deeper (Caroline & West 1)

“You know it’s because you say things like ‘lady friend’ that I’m making you go, right?”

“Nah, it’s because you’ve got serious privacy issues. You could be a serial killer, and nobody would know. Or, like, a secret stripper. ”

Author: Robin York

“As if I have time for another job. ”

“That’s true. You’d have to stop sleeping. But it might be worth it to have chicks shoving cash in your jock. ”

“They do that, anyway, whenever I go out dancing. ”

“Oh, yeah?” Krishna’s face lights up. “You got moves?”

I don’t dance. If I need to get drunk, I do it at the bar in town that doesn’t card.

If I need to get laid, I find somebody who doesn’t go to the college, take her home, make her happy, and clear out. Townie women don’t expect anything from me.

“No,” I say. “I don’t need moves. I’ve got tight pants and an elephant dick. ”

Krishna laughs.

“You’re not driving, are you?”

“I walked. I can knock on her window if you want. Send her your way. ”

“Thanks, but no. ” I turn him in the other direction, pointing him toward the apartment. It’s only two blocks, and I’ve never heard of anybody getting mugged in Putnam.

“Don’t forget my muffin,” he calls as he turns the corner.

After Krishna’s gone, the kitchen is so silent it seems to echo. This is my favorite part of the night, what comes next—the part when I dump out the proofed dough, weigh it into loaves, shape it, fill the pans, and fire up the ovens. It’s an act of creation, and I’m the god of the bread.

I look at the clock and measure out the minutes. Ten.

Ten, at a minimum, before I go look out the window. Maybe she’ll be gone, and I won’t have to do this. I can rule over this tiny world, messing with temperatures and proofing times, how much flour and how much liquid, how many minutes in the oven. It’s like pulling levers. Up or down. More or less. Simple.

I wish Caroline would let me do it—let me be the god of the bread and leave me alone. But she’s out there, messing up my kingdom, and I’m afraid of how much I want to go talk to her.

I think of Frankie on the phone. Of the money I sent my mom this afternoon.

I promise myself I won’t go to the door for fifteen minutes.

Fuck it, twenty. I won’t go for twenty.

I can’t give in to this, because the worst thing about Caroline is that I’ve never promised her anything, but she’s here, anyway. It’s as if she knows.

She doesn’t know. She can’t.

She can’t know that when I make a promise, I keep it.

Or that I’m afraid if I start promising her things, I won’t ever be able to quit.

“You want to come inside?”

That’s all it takes. When she says, “Yeah, sure,” I turn and go back in, and she closes her car up and follows me.

I put my iPod on shuffle and start it playing. I like having music for this part of the night—put it on any earlier, and the mixers are too loud to hear it. While I wash my hands, Caroline wanders around, doing a slow circuit of the room. Unlike Krishna, she doesn’t touch anything.

I tie my apron on over my jeans and go back to what I was doing.

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