Middle of the week already. Time flies. I’m glad it went faster than Monday. Monday was… not grand.

What should I bake for tomorrow? Brownies are always a hit, but I baked cherry fudge brownies for the last meeting. I have apples that need to be used. I don’t want to bake a pie. I made apple pie for the fourth of July party. 

Apple dessert.

Apple dessert… that’s not pie?

Oh! The answer was staring me in the face. Apple cake. What do I not have in front of me that I need for apple cake? Vanilla extract, rolled oats, cinnamon…

Yeah, I have rolled oats. Knew I had a container somewhere of these. Haven’t used them in anything in a while.

Sudden movement in my peripheral had me spilling the sugar. James jerked back, cringing away from me with a quick step.

“Is alright. You startled me is all.” I refilled the missing portion and poured it into the mixing bowl. “So quiet on your feet. What brings you to the kitchen?”

I wiped up the spilled sugar. Glanced over my shoulder to check on him. He moved his hand out to hover over the measuring cups.

“You want to help?”

He nodded.

“Grand! I’m making apple cake. Ever had it?”

His face scrunched up a wee bit in confusion. It smoothed back out a moment later. He gave a half shrug.

“Lucky for you then because this is my Mammy’s recipe, and she makes cracker apple cake. I’ll teach you the secret recipe.”

Come to think of it, this is a grand opportunity to double the recipe. He can make his own to keep here at the house while I take the other to work tomorrow. 

I rummaged through the cabinets and drawers for extra mixing bowls, a cake pan, and a rubber spatula. He gave me room to reorder the counter space. 

“Very important that my Mammy’s secret recipe doesn’t get out. You promise not to tell?”

He gave me a sharp nod, all serious determination. I smiled and waved him over.

“First step is to measure out the sugar and butter.”

He followed my instructions with steady hands. His portion of sugar made it all into his bowl. His butter measurement was more precise than mine. The end result turned out the same, which I think he was pleased with if the little nod to himself after double checking the bowls was any indicator. 

“We use the teaspoon for the vanilla extract. Next, we’ll beat the eggs in.”

I offered the teaspoon and mixer to him to use first. He shook his head.

“I don’t mind if you go first. We are sharing after all,” I reassured, vanilla extract almost overflowing from the teaspoon as I spoke.

He reached for the mixer with a little frown after I finished clanging the beaters over the bowl to get the batter off. An egg was carefully selected from the carton next. He cracked it one-handed like an expert chef.

“Wow!”

The mixer shut off with a jolt.

“Sorry. I’m just impressed.”

He tilted his head at me. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at the eggshell held between his left fingers, the mixer in his right hand, and the half-beaten egg in the bowl.

“You’re talented. I always mess up when I try to do that,” I explained.

He gave me a side glance. Set the shell on the counter and reached for another egg.

“Is alright. I interrupted, I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

The remaining eggs were beaten in slowly. Next were the dry ingredients to be measured, mixed up, and folded into the wet ones. His nose scrunched in irritation at the dry mix puffing up. My advice to pour closer to the wet ingredients next time was answered with a serious nod. 

I peeled and sliced the apples while he mixed each bowl of batter. Once no lumps of flour remained, he carefully poured each into the buttered cake pans.

“Just two more steps before they can bake.”

His gaze shifted to the apple slices on the cutting board.

“Apples go next,” I confirmed. “You can cut these into shapes if you like. Designing the top has always been my favorite part.”

I began measuring the ingredients out for the streusel topping while he thought it over. Utensils shuffled around in a drawer while I stirred. Cookie cutters made an appearance beside my bowl. I laughed.

“These are a bit big for apple slices, but yes, you could try cutting them into these shapes. You can use that knife,” I said, gesturing toward the paring knife.

He stalled in front of the cutting board, grip readjusting on the knife handle as I finished preparing my portion of streusel. I stole a slice from the edge of the board to snack on. A pensive gaze met mine some 5 minutes later.

“They don’t need to be complicated shapes. You could do squares and triangles.” I pulled another small knife from the drawer to demonstrate on a slice. “Like that.”

Halfway into turning my fourth slice into triangles, he began on his own. It felt nice. Comfortable, even if it was quiet. A little smile quirked his lips as he worked.

I covered my cake batter in a spiraling pattern of triangles. His took on more of a checkerboard appearance with little squares and big triangles. When I covered mine with streusel, he frowned.

“I know. I was always disappointed that my design got covered, but Mammy swears the streusel makes all the difference.”

The moments ticked by. He glanced at his cake pan and the remaining ingredients set out. Back and forth. Part of his healing lip ended up between his teeth with a frustrated grimace.

“Is alright, lad. The cake will be just as good without the streusel topping.”

That frustrated gaze turned cautious as it turned to me. I nodded to emphasis the point.

“Mammy won’t know. Why not make it how we like, yeah?”

He nodded hesitantly. I opened the oven.

“Right then. All that’s left is to bake these beauties.”

I set the pans side-by-side on the middle rack. Checked the time and brushed the flour off on my pants so I could set a timer on my phone.

Time to clean up.

“Would you mind putting these away while I wash up?”

No words came forth from his parted lips. His jaw snapped shut, body swiftly turning away to start the task.

I set a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. He became a statue.

“Don’t worry over it. You’ll speak when you’re ready.”

A long, measured breath was taken. I removed my hand.

“I’m sorry, lad.”

His head jerked sideways, wary eyes locking onto mine. I raised my hands in a placating gesture.

“For touching. It makes you uneasy, yeah? I’m sorry.”

His expression smoothed out into something more neutral. A fleeting glance was sent to my hands.

“I swear I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I’m just a tactile person. Touch is how I comfort. Well, one of a couple ways I comfort, but it’s a big one. I’ll do better.”

An uncomprehending expression flickered into place for a few moments. Without a word or gesture, he turned back to the counter to collect our baking ingredients.