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“Okay, what do you think?” Buck asks Jee. They’re set up at the kitchen island with a plate of cookies between them.
Jee takes a bite of still-warm snickerdoodle. “Yummy!” She sprays cinnamon-sugar crumbs.
Buck takes a nibble and, yep, tastes like a snickerdoodle.
“Try this one.” Buck hands her a peanut-butter cookie. She chews and chews and chews, then starts making the grabby-hand gesture that Maddie says is leftover from her baby sign language days.
“Coming right up.” Buck hands her a mug of milk to wash her mouthful down.
“That one is too sticky, Uncle Buck!”
He breaks off a piece to sample. “I think we underbaked them, Jee.” It feels gloopy in his mouth, so he pours himself his own glass of milk and gulps it down. “Okay, last one.”
They each take a bite of chocolate chip cookie. Melty chocolate, caramely cookie, buttery crumb. Even Buck, whose taste buds have kind of been on the fritz since Tommy dumped him, can tell it’s delicious.
“That’s the best one!” Jee squeals.
“You are so right.” He grabs his recipe notepad and writes the ranked list:
1) CCC
2) Snicks
3) PB (bake longer)
“Thanks, Jee. You’re a good sous-chef.”
“What’s that?”
Buck explains about kitchen hierarchy while he puts away the cookies. He carefully packs the chocolate chip and snickerdoodle into a glass container and leaves the peanut butter on the plate to throw out later.
“You can take these home to your mommy and daddy.”
Jee tilts her head in that adorable way that reminds Buck so strongly of Maddie. “You don’t want any?”
“Oh, I’ve got lots of cookies already.” He opens his freezer to show her the tightly Tetris-ed space, full of containers and freezer bags of cookies, muffins, scones and pie. He actually threw out some (admittedly freezer-burnt) lasagna the other night so he could squeeze in a batch of maple scones. He knows it’s getting ridiculous, but there’s only so much he can bring into the station. He looked into donating some stuff to LA soup kitchens, but it turns out they mostly don’t accept homemade food. It makes sense, but he doesn’t know what he’s going to do with his freezer stash.
“Can I have another chocolate chip cookie?” Jee asks. “Pretty please?” She’s looking up at him through her eyelashes. As if Buck was ever going to say no.
He plates one up for her and they head over to the couch to watch some Bluey. The theme music is going to be stuck in Buck’s head for at least a week. It’s just after eight, which means Jee is going to last — yup. He looks down at her nestled under his arm. She’s out like a light, cookie in danger of sliding off the plate that’s on her lap. He rescues the plate, turns off the TV and thunks his head back onto the couch cushion.
He hasn’t thought about Tommy, not really, not since Jee got here. But now the emptiness starts spreading out through his apartment again.
The baking thing sort of started because he thought he could make some brownies and eat his feelings about his breakup a little bit. But then he went down a rabbit hole about fudgy versus cakey brownies, made two different batches, decided to attempt ganache — and looked up two hours later to a messy kitchen, a chocolate-scented apartment and a quiet brain.
Then he looked at his phone, of course, and the spell was broken.
It helped, though. It was a good distraction with something to show for it at the end. So he did what he did anytime a new hobby entered his life — he doubled down. He was going to hate himself when he looked at his credit card statement, but he’d bought a stand mixer, cookie scoops, a bundt pan, a doughnut pan, a fancy balloon whisk and three new cookbooks.
Too bad that, despite it all, nothing tastes right. He doesn’t actually think something is wrong with his taste buds (though he took a couple COVID tests, just to be sure). He knows it’s probably a psychological symptom of his post-breakup dejection. But the few times he’s sat down to eat his own creations, he takes a bite, then kind of loses interest. He’s not experiencing it the way he thinks he should. It feels better to just give away his loaves, parker house rolls and tarte tatins.
Now, he unlocks his phone while Jee’s sweet sleeping weight grounds him. He muscle-memory-opens his texting thread with Tommy. Nothing. No bubbles. Just the last text Buck sent him two weeks ago.
Buck swipes out of it. Opens it again. Thinks about Eddie and Hen playing keep-away with his phone. Closes the messaging app.
He takes a selfie with the top of Jee’s head in the frame.
He just misses having a default person. Normally he would send this to Tommy and caption it “Uncle Buck” and wait for a reaction. Now …
Whatever. He sends the photo to Maddie, who immediately hearts it. He sends it to Hen who leaves him on read. He sends it to Eddie —
Who texts back, Looks good on you. Babysitting?
We made cookies
Of course you did. When are you going to bring me some?
Dude literally anytime
His phone screen goes to sleep before Eddie messages again: Come over tomorrow?
**
Buck opens Eddie’s freezer to stash the three dozen assorted cookies he brought over, then does a double-take. “Eddie, why do you have so many bananas saved up?” There must be more than a dozen black frozen-solid bananas stacked up in a rough pyramid shape. “Come on, you didn’t even peel them?”
Eddie looks over from the sink. “Oh, those?” He sighs. “Yeah, I kept buying bananas after Chris left. I used to buy a huge bunch every week because he has one with breakfast every morning.”
Buck tries to keep his face neutral, but is pretty sure the dismay comes out anyway. He wishes he could take back the thing about peeling them. “So, uh, you just kept doing that?”
Eddie pulls a rueful face. “Well, it felt hopeful. It’s stupid. I stopped after a couple weeks, but that was still fourteen bananas about to go bad.”
This is not cheering Buck up. He casts around for something to say that isn’t about Chris. He eyes the blackened bananas piled in the freezer.
“Man, you should bake something with these. I’ve got this crazy banana bread recipe that uses, like, eight bananas. You cook them down to concentrate the flavour.”
“Yeah, I’m not going to do that.” Eddie smirks. “Knock yourself out if you want to, though.”
“What, right now?”
Eddie shrugs. “Do you have something else going on today?”
Point. It’s early afternoon. He came over after a long run and lunch. His plan was to mope on Eddie’s couch while watching something on his streaming services.
“Do you mind? I think this is going to take a while.” But he’s already pulling the bananas out and putting them in a colander in the sink to thaw.
Eddie smiles at him, and Buck smiles back helplessly. Eddie tosses him the faded orange apron that lives on the back of the pantry cupboard door. Then Buck pulls up the recipe and makes Eddie hunt down the unsalted butter.
Buck starts dual saucepans going on the stove — one to cook down the bananas, and the other to brown some butter. He commandeers Eddie’s ancient hand-cranked rotary beaters. He wrinkles his nose at the artificial vanilla extract in the pantry. (“Give me a break. I’m not going to spend twenty bucks for this much of the real stuff.”) He sweet-talks Eddie out of a tablespoon of his bourbon to use instead.
“You don’t have to keep me company the whole time,” Buck says about forty minutes into the process. Eddie is at the sink, washing one of the three dirty mixing bowls. “You’ve gotta have stuff to do.”
Eddie raises an eyebrow at him, the more playful version of the Eddie Diaz shrug. “Sure, but nothing urgent.” He flicks water at Buck, who shields his face with his arm. “I like watching you bake.”
Well, okay, then.
Fifteen minutes later, Buck slides two loaf pans into the oven, and they move to the couch to watch TV while they wait for the banana bread to bake.
“You want to watch some Blown Away with me?” Buck asks. “It’s this glass-blowing competition show, and it’s incredible. I watched two episodes last night, but we can go back!”
“Yeah, okay.” Eddie leans back while Buck navigates to Netflix. Once he has the show queued up, Buck pulls out his slightly floury phone.
“Hang on,” Eddie says, and he reaches across Buck to press Pause on the remote.
“What?” Buck asks.
“No phone,” Eddie says.
“Uh —” Buck had been planning to — okay, he had been planning to open his text thread with Tommy, refresh it a dozen times, then move over to Instagram to stare at Tommy’s grid, which hasn’t been updated in sixty-seven weeks, but maybe today will be the day he’ll break his no-posting streak. He thought he’d fit in some solid digital moping as a sort of multitasking exercise.
“I’m serious, Buck.” Eddie holds his hand out. “Don’t start torturing yourself again.”
And, well, Eddie is right. Buck knows that staring at his phone isn’t making this breakup any easier on him. He knows he’ll be happier, more at ease, if he just takes the option to contact Tommy out of the equation — even if the idea of relinquishing his phone makes him feel antsy.
He nestles deeper into the couch, checks his texts and Instagram one more time, then hands his phone over.
Eddie double-taps the screen and whistles. “Eleven percent? Man, you like to live dangerously.” He gets up to plug it in out in the kitchen, then comes back to flop down next to Buck. “So. Glass blowing?”
**
Almost two episodes later, the oven timer goes off, and Buck sprints to the kitchen to pull out the domed, golden loaves. He leaves them cooling on top of pot holders on the counter. The kitchen is steamy and cinnamon-scented. Eddie trails in after him.
“Smells great,” he says.
“Hmm.” Buck turns off the oven. “Listen, I should probably head off. I’ve got some stuff to do at home. Enjoy the banana bread!” He says the last part with a forced smile and a double thumbs-up.
“Hold up.” Eddie pauses in the act of reaching out to pick up a crumb. “You’re taking one of these home, right? I can’t eat this all by myself.”
“Nah, that’s okay,” Buck says. “I’m more into the baking part than the eating part.”
Eddie leans against the counter, looks at Buck. “This isn’t some diet thing, is it?”
Buck shrugs uncomfortably. “No. Really, no. Just. Nothing tastes right.”
“Uh-huh. Big vote of confidence for your baking skills.”
“No, no.” Buck sighs. He isn’t explaining this right. “I mean, I know what I’m making tastes good. I just can’t enjoy it.”
Eddie is nodding, mouth twisted slightly. “Okay, sure. Listen, I can bring one of these to my tía or something.” He hits Buck with an imploring look, all brown eyes and long lashes. “But at least have a slice with me now.”
“I don’t know …”
“Come on. I saw how much work you put into these. Have a slice with me.”
Buck says nothing as Eddie puts on the kettle for tea and hacks off crumbling too-warm slices for both of them.
“Sit,” Eddie says, nudging a plate in Buck’s direction. Eddie is eyeing his slice critically. “There’s gotta be twice as much banana as flour in these.”
“Well, I cooked out the water in the bananas, so it actually wasn’t that much in the end.”
“Okay, master chef.” Eddie takes a big bite, chews, nods emphatically. “Wow. You have to try this. Come on.”
Buck sighs and sits down. He knows how this is going to go. He breaks off a piece and takes a polite bite. He sees Eddie watching him closely, waiting for Buck’s reaction. Buck chews and — “Holy shit. Okay, you’re right, this is really good.”
“Browned butter, man.”
“Don’t forget the way I concentrated the flav—”
“Yeah, yeah. Evaporating the water content. Got it. Do you want more?”
Buck looks down to see that he’s already eaten almost his whole slice. And, it tasted good. And he does want more. Holy fuck, this is the best banana bread recipe ever. The banana-iest, toastiest, brown-butteriest. Buck is a master chef. This could be his retirement plan. If any of his friends get married, he can pull the badass move of baking their wedding cake. He needs to figure out how to use fondant next.
“You good?”
Buck looks up to find Eddie scrutinizing him. “Oh, yeah. Just. This is really good.”
“See? Told you,” Eddie says. He saws off second slices for both of them, then holds his piece up to his lips and inhales.
“What are you doing?” Buck asks, even as his hand twitches to his pocket for his phone. “Oh, shoot,” he says when he remembers it’s charging all the way across the kitchen.
“I’m savouring,” Eddie says. “What are you doing?”
“I was going to take a picture of you making out with my baked goods,” Buck admits. “Post it on my Instagram story. But, you know, I’m in phone jail.”
Eddie snorts, then pulls out his own phone. He snaps a photo of Buck without preamble and taps around for a few seconds. “There.”
“Eddie. What did you do?”
Eddie shrugs. “Check your phone.”
Buck retrieves his phone (68 percent, thanks) and brings it back to the table. Tanaka from B-shift texted the 118 group chat to ask if anyone can cover his upcoming twenty-four. His run-tracker app needs a software update. And Eddie tagged him on Instagram.
He opens the app. Right at the top of his timeline, there’s a photo of himself. He looks slightly annoyed, but in a happy way. Eyebrow quirked, lips turned up at the corners. He has his arms crossed. The caption says: True love 🍌
Heat washes over Buck’s face and neck. He can feel sweat forming on his back. “Eddie. What. This caption …”
Eddie scrunches his brows together in mock earnestness. “True love,” he says. Buck feels like his heart is about to explode. “You and the banana bread.”
Oh.
“Uhhh. I’m not sure that’s how people are going to see it.” Buck can’t stop staring at the caption. “You can barely even see the banana bread in this photo!” The plate on the table is just visible in the bottom-right corner.
“Yeah, that’s why I added the banana emoji. To make it clearer.”
“Uh-huh,” Buck rasps out. “That’s. Definitely clearing it up.”
“Sure is.” Eddie smiles at Buck over the top of his mug as he blows on his tea. The kind of overflowing smile that Buck hasn’t seen on his face since before Chris left. “Come on, bud. Eat up.”
Buck considers the picture for one more minute, during which time Maddie DMs him a series of question marks and exclamation points. Same, he thinks, then turns off his screen and pushes his phone away. He takes in Eddie across from him, breaking off crumbs to eat, sipping his earl grey, looking relaxed and good. He takes another bite.