In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(101)

“His name’s Christopher. And I don’t know. I think it’s too soon. Like, he’ll be having dinner at his parents’ and we only started dating a couple of weeks ago, so.”

“You could always invite him over for a postdinner Thanksgiving burrito at your place,” I offer.

“Huh. Not a bad idea, sweetie. Not a bad idea at all.”




“CAN YOU grab some butter?” Rex asks me.

We’re at the grocery store buying some last-minute additions for Thanksgiving dinner. Or, security items, really, since Rex has planned about three alternate dinner menus. Really, I have no idea what we’ll be eating, except that there’s a turkey, which I got back to his house yesterday to find in the sink.

We’ve already been to an indoor farmer’s market about twenty miles from here that Rex apparently frequents, where I embarrassed myself in front of several vendors and Rex by buying fennel because I thought it was the celery Rex sent me to get, so god knows why he’s asking me to pick up anything. Still, I can hardly f*ck up butter, can I?

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Rex says, “I need unsalted. I should’ve told you to get the red package.”

The box I’m holding is blue.

“Never mind. We’ll just grab it when we get over there,” Rex says, obviously writing me off as a shopping buddy entirely. Doesn’t matter. I’m pretty content to trail along behind him while he looks at food. He dragged me out of bed at six this morning to get to the farmer’s market before they could sell out of… whatever he bought there. He made three pies last night as well as some kind of sauce for something. And I’ve never seen him so excited as when we were wandering through the market. It feels strangely domestic. I’ve never cared about cooking, obviously. But I haven’t really cared that much about eating either. I mean, it’s a necessary thing that sometimes tastes good, but especially when I’m by myself, it’s just a chore. An interruption, like laundry or cleaning.

But Rex makes cooking and eating feel like part of my life—our lives. He expresses something of himself through cooking. Not just his personality, but his care. It’s like he cares about what I eat—if it’s healthy, if I like it. And so everything to do with it feels important. Even grocery shopping. Because I can feel him looking at the food the way you’d look at a shelter dog or something: as a thing that might come home with you, if it’s the right fit. Something that will be incorporated into our lives. Life. Our life.

It’s all there in the way he chooses an onion or a bagful of apples, his attention totally focused on it. I can see the path from apples in the store to apple pie. Can see his hands kneading the pie crust. And I realize that the more I pay attention to Rex as he moves through the store, the less I think about myself. The less I notice if people are staring at me and the less I wonder what they’re thinking. The less I pay attention to who sees when I knock over a pyramid of limes.

I noticed that this week, when we were talking. When I paid close attention to Rex, it was like I escaped the present. Kind of like I do when I’m reading. It’s so f*cked. I started reading and making up stories to escape how shitty things were. Then, that habit made it hard for me to be back in the real world—hard to connect with anyone. Which made me super self-conscious and want to escape. Jesus. Anyway, I’ve decided that if I’m going to escape, it’s better to escape into Rex than into a fantasy world where no one will ever find me.




THE SECOND we’ve unloaded the groceries, Rex remembers something he forgot and runs back out to get it. Will and Leo are coming over to help us cook, and Rex promised them breakfast, so I’m going to give it a go. Rex didn’t look impressed by this idea when I yelled it to him as he was walking out the door, but he gave me a resigned smile of what I can only assume is the thank-god-I-bought-extra-eggs variety and nodded, so I guess that’s that.

I’ve seen him make pancakes and I know I can look up a recipe online, so I think it’ll be fine. I’m not even going to try eggs again because I still can’t figure out how they tasted so disgusting the last time, and I’m not risking it again. Pancakes and bacon and then Rex will put us all to work on dinner.

The bacon is in and I’m pouring the first pancake into the pan when Leo and Will show up, bickering.

“It’s set in the eighties,” Will is saying. “That does not qualify as historical fiction, even if you didn’t happen to live through the decade. Wait.” He freezes, looking shocked. “Oh my Christ, you really didn’t live through any of the eighties, did you?”

Leo rolls his eyes and walks over to me.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Daniel! Thanks for inviting me!” He’s practically bouncing in place. Well, the kid definitely has manners.

“Ask the professor,” Will continues. “Daniel, a book set in the eighties is not historical fiction, right? Tell him, please.”

“When was it written?”

“2009,” Leo says.

“Actually, I probably would call that historical fiction, because—” I start to say.

“Oh, shut up; no one asked you,” Will grumbles.

“Um,” Leo says, “I think your pancake’s—”

“Shit!” I yell. My pancake is black and smoking in the pan.