Lucas Lyeworth

The nervous man asked his daughter, "Are you ready for this?"

She looked up concerningly and softly muttered, "Of course, dad."

This is one of the most nerve-wracking days for any parent to endure, but the man gently held her hand, comforting her uneasiness. He didn’t want to let her go. She was a new university student; and she would be on her way soon. He hugged and kissed her, letting her go in this new phase of her life. His heart virtually froze as she started her car.

"I love you, buttercup."

“I love you too, dad.”

He sadly watched the car drive off, and they waved to each other.

The clouds thickened on this uniquely overcast day, casting a cool shadow over the small neighborhood. Through my window, I saw my private neighbor, Harry Durand, cry over his daughter's departure.

I knew nothing about him except they moved in four weeks ago from Chicago. This was a small neighborhood in the town of Portland, Maine. It was such a quaint, homey neighborhood, and with summer on the horizon, the weather was calm and peaceful.

I should properly introduce myself to him, but I wanted to also do something. He seemed awfully upset over his daughter's first day of school, rightfully so. After a short visit to the store, I made him my famous apple-rum spice cake. It was a family heritage that has gone through several versions throughout its inception, and it was my favorite baked good to make for someone.

My old friends described me as generous because I always cooked or baked. Cooking is how I communicate affection, and I have difficulty opening up to someone. I think people grew tired of the wall I've built around myself. I don't blame them, but I didn't know what would help me understand who I was, and at times, I felt like I didn't even have an identity.

As I chopped, mixed, and poured the ingredients, the entire kitchen was filled with a sweet aroma of apples when I was finished. The irresistible fragrance of sweet apples always gave me nostalgia. I placed it in a homemade basket my grandma made many years ago. I relished in the lovely outside breeze as I walked to his house with butterflies swarming in my stomach.

As I approached his front doorstep, an overwhelming sense of nervousness wafted me. I don't know why I was feeling nervous all of a sudden. He was just a normal person, after all. I knocked on the door with apprehension, and after a few moments of waiting, he opened it.

He was a handsome man with hazel eyes, dirty blonde hair, a short beard, and a soothing, deep voice. He gave me a small smile, but his eyes were puffy like he had been crying for hours.

In an undertone, he murmured, "Oh, hello. How is it going?"

My mouth felt sticky and dry, but I managed to say, "I'm Lucas Lyeworth." I cleared my throat, "I'm your neighbor down the street."

He shook my hand, "Oh, it is so nice to meet you. Please come in."

We walked through his lovely place. There were nice photos of him and his daughter. He had many homey knicknacks, and it had such a pleasant aura.

He eyed my ebony-colored basket, "What is that?"

"Oh, I made you an apple-rum spice cake, a little treat for you to settle in the new neighborhood."

He looked thunderstruck, "Wait, that's for me?"

"Of course it is."

He sniffled, "Wow, that is so nice. You didn't have to."

"I know, but I really wanted to."

"Thank you so much. That is so sweet."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"No, I'm being serious. It was an incredible gesture. You don't know how much this means to me."

"Aww, well, that's what I'm here for." I looked at him and said, "Well, if that's all, I hope you enjoy it, and let me know if you need anything."

I was about to leave out the door when he held my left shoulder, "I'm not working today. Would you like to stay? We can have some of the cake."

I was a little surprised he invited me to stay, "Oh, sure, that would be nice."

"Make yourself at home." He pointed at a corner, "You can leave your shoes right there."

"OK. Thank you."

As he walked into the kitchen to slice up the cake, I took my shoes off. I sat down at his dining room table, and I awkwardly waited for him to serve us.

He came in with two plates with the delicious-looking cake. We sat together and began eating. I usually remain humble, but this was an area I knew too well to be modest.

"This is really great. Oh wow."

"Haha, yeah, it's my favorite thing to make. It's been in my family for years."

"Really, do you normally bake?"

"I cook for myself all the time, but there is no one in my life that has the pleasure of tasting my extraordinary baking.

He giggled, "I see someone isn't shy about their talents."

"Not with this. I love doing it. I just wish I had a professional taste tester."

"Well, I will apply for the job when it comes out."

"Haha, that sounds great."

"I really love cooking and baking, too. My grandma used to bake a wonderful mango rum cake, so this feels a little nostalgic for me."

"How nice. You'll have to make me that one day."

"Of course, that sounds like a plan."

I probably intruded on his personal territory, but I was curious about why he was depressed today.

“I saw you with your daughter. Did she leave?”

“Yeah, Gracie, she’s a new student at Brown University.”

“Wow, smart girl.”

“She is. She’s driving there today to get settled.”

“Are you feeling okay?”

"I'm fine. Parents go through this all the time."

I could tell he wasn't telling me everything he wanted to. Still, I understood because I never felt comfortable sharing about my life.

"That's true. Are you sure you're OK? And no pressure if you don't want to tell me."

"It's just her mom isn’t in the picture, and her not having a mother today made me feel really sad. Sometimes, I think I'm never enough for her."

After a long pause, I added, "Well, I don't know your situation or too much about you, but you are trying your best to give your daughter a good life, it seems. You should give yourself a break and try" —

"I don't really have the luxury to give myself a break. I'm trying so hard. And I feel depressed.”

I held his hand, "I'm sorry, but I can always help if you need anything. If you can't cook or are too busy, I can make you something."

He began timidly crying, "That would be wonderful."

I felt awkward being around a man who openly cried like Harry did — not that there's something wrong with it, but I just never knew someone like that.

I rubbed his back, "I should be going."

"Oh, of course. But please come back. I'd love to get to know you more."

I smirked at him, "Maybe I will."

He hugged and walked me out the door. His touch felt amazingly pleasant, and I felt comfortable with him. I've never felt this viscerally relaxed with anyone, and this was only from his physical touch.