Page 41 of Forever is the Sweetest Con
And then I remember Kei in the bathroom again, the way he was hunched over, the syringe in his belly. A look crossed his face, and at the time, I read it as embarrassment, but now that I think about it, maybe it was actually guilt.
“Is it yours?” I hiss.
He looks at me, confused, for a moment. And then he understands. He rolls his eyes. “I told you, I’m diabetic.” He looks so hurt. I’m a monster. “I’d better go check on the cookies,” he says, a chill in his voice.
He pushes his way out of the storeroom, and I follow behind. He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, staring intently at the oven.
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching out to touch his arm. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find any sprinkles.”
He looks at me sideways. “It’s okay,” he mumbles. His posture softens. He leans into me. “I probably shouldn’t eat sprinkles anyway. I’m diabetic.”
“Is that right?” I say, as if this is new information.
“Yup. So, if you see me injecting my insulin, which Ineedtolive, don’t go jumping to any conclusions, okay?”
“I would never,” I say, leaning back into him. “Only an insensitive asshole would do that.”
“True,” he replies. He looks at me, and we both laugh. Anyone who watches this will think we’ve lost our damn minds, but I don’t care. What matters is that we’re okay. Yes, he has drugs in his pocket, which isn’t great, but we’re okay.
The unmistakable smell of butter and sugar hits the air. I pull in a deep breath.
“That’s how you know they’re almost done, when you can smell them,” he says, pulling on an oven mitt. It’s a cute look for him. He pulls the tray of cookies out and inspects them. “Nice and golden around the edges, no shininess in the middle—they’re done.” He pulls the tray out and sets it on the metal prep table. They look perfect.
I reach my hand out to grab one, but Kei swats it away. “Nope! You have to wait.”
I pout. “Why?”
“Because right now, the sugar in those cookies is like molten lava. And plus, they taste better when they have cooled down a bit. Good things take time.”
“Hmm, maybe,” I say, biting my lip. “But you know what else is good? Instant gratification.”
“Sure,” he says, turning to face me. “But sometimes, if you rush into things, you get burned.” He leans closer to me. I respond by taking a step toward him.
“Are we still talking about cookies?”
He looks into my eyes, and then his gaze trails down to my lips. I lift my heels slightly, pulling myself up closer to his mouth. He moves almost imperceptibly closer. His shallow breath warms my face.
But then the clanging of the bell diffuses the moment. Kei jerks back, startled. He sighs. Is he disappointed? Am I? This heaviness in my chest would suggest that I am. Because another kiss would really convince the audience of our connection—that must be why.
“I guess it’s challenge time,” Kei says, pointing to the door.
“We’d better go.” I wave him ahead. Then, when his back is turned, I snag a cookie, winking directly at the camera as I pop it into my mouth.
Chapter Seventeen
Campers!” Natasha stands before us holding a drill, wearing a gingham print sundress and a smirk.
“Today’s challenge is a tribute to this beautiful country we’re in—Canada!”
“Hell yeah,” Kei says, clapping.
“This is our season’ssweetestchallenge, as you’ll be using this—” she holds up the drill, squeezing the trigger so it revs to life “—to draw maple syrup from a maple tree.”
Several campers groan. “How you gonna get maple syrup out of a tree?” Giovanni says, his brow deeply furrowed in confusion.
But I’m buzzing. I actually know how to do this. I used to do it every year as a kid, when we’d visit my dad’s family in the Laurentian mountains in Quebec. I can feel my dad’s hands on mine, helping me hold the tap straight as he drove it into the tree with a hammer.
I don’t want to give myself away just yet, but after proving myself useless in the kitchen, I’m happy I can show Kei that I’m not a total dud, at least.
