Their secret ingredient? It sounds like an answer the Willy Wonka lobby would cook up, but if it works, who are we to shove away the chocolate cake?
Is sugar a friend or an enemy? Researchers at the RIKEN Center for Computational Science simulated the COVID virus invading human cells and discovered that glycans sugar molecules have something to do with the structural changes that make it both easy and possible for the coronaviruses to invade. If you can figure out how they got in, you can keep them out. So, friend or foe, we need to better understand sugar to combat the virus.
A sugar substitute called Supplant , a name that now seems inevitable, is here. It is ostensibly better for you than other sugar substitutes and better than sugar by far, the founders say. While the aforementioned Supplant seems like it could be an exciting competitor, Allulose and Tagatose have already hit the starting blocks though it is still prohibitively expensive to produce them. Which is why Hershey and other candy bigwigs are investing in Bonumose, a Virginia-based startup with a technology that could pave the way for mass market adoption of sugary substitutes.
Hoping to reach markets by , all they need now is to put some distance between search results and questions about their safety. Companies are under a lot of pressure to reduce the amount of sugar in what they sell. I blush, then turn around and finish cracking the damn eggs. His mind is on Lisa. His everything is Lisa. His everything used to be Carol. Sometimes his everything was Carol and Miles. Now his everything is Lisa.
Not anymore. I text her to see if she can meet me somewhere. She says Lisa just left to come to my house. She says I can come to her house and pick her up. I walk to her door, and I knock. Part of me wants to ask her a million questions until I know everything about her.
I wonder if she loves my nod as much as I love hers. She shuts the door behind me, and I look around. Their apartment is small. I think I like it. The smaller the house, the more a family is forced to love one another. They have no extra space not to. It makes me wish my dad and I would get a smaller place. Rachel walks to the kitchen. She asks me if I want something to drink. I follow her and ask her what she has.
She tells me she has pretty much everything except milk, tea, soda, coffee, juice, and alcohol. She laughs at herself. I laugh with her. Would have been my first choice. We lean against opposite counters. We stare at each other. We stare at each other some more.
I sprint. I overheard her on the phone with him yesterday. I still see Rachel. I open my eyes. I stare at Rachel. I turn around and grip the counter. I let my head fall between my shoulders. I know how lust works. Lust wants me to have Rachel. Reasoning wants Rachel to go away. I want to cover my ears with my hands. I want to cover my heart with armor. She tells me okay. I want to taste her again. She meets me halfway. I grab her face and she grabs my arms, and our guilt collides when our mouths collide.
We lie to ourselves about the truth. My skin feels better with her touching it. My hair feels better with her hands in it. My mouth feels better with her tongue inside of it. I wish we could breathe like this. Live like this. Life would feel better with her like this. Her back is against the refrigerator now. My hands are beside her head. I pull away and look at her. I want to be a pilot. What do you want to be? I show her my ID. She tells me happy early birthday.
She kisses me again. It would be hard to explain to their friends. Hard to explain to the rest of the family. She nods, and I can actually hear our countdown begin. I kiss her, and it feels even better now that we have a plan.
He walks into the kitchen, and Miles is following behind him. Corbin steps aside and points toward Miles. His hand is covered in blood. His blood is dripping all over the floor. Under the sink! I point toward the bathroom, and Miles follows me. I open the cabinet and pull out the kit. Closing the lid on the toilet, I direct Miles to take a seat, then I sit on the edge of the tub and pull his hand to me.
It was falling. I look back down at his hand. I need sutures. He pulls out a spool of thread and hands it to me. Just do what you can. I put his hand on my leg. Oh, hell. I take his hand and rest it on the counter, then stand directly in front of him. He watches me work quietly.
Every now and then, he looks up from my hand and watches my face. I try to ignore him. I try to focus on his hand and his wound and how it desperately needs to be closed, but our faces are so close, and I can feel his breath on my cheek every time he exhales.
And he begins to exhale a lot. I wonder where the rest of my voice went. I push the needle in for the fourth time. Every time it pierces his skin, I have to stop myself from wincing for him. I should be focusing on his injury, but the only thing I can sense is the fact that our knees are touching. One of the tips of his fingers is touching my knee. I have no idea how so much can be going on right now, but all I can focus on is the tip of that finger.
It feels as hot against my jeans as a branding iron. Here he is with a serious gash, blood soaking into the towel beneath his hand, my needle piercing his skin, and all I can focus on is that tiny little contact between my knee and his finger. Our eyes lock for two seconds, and then I quickly look back down at his hand. Two of the tips of his fingers are touching my knee. I inhale again and try to focus on finishing his stitches.
This is deliberate. His fingers trail around my knee, and his hand slips to the back of my leg. He lays his forehead against my shoulder with a sigh, and he squeezes my leg with his hand. I wait for him to ask me to give him a minute. His hand slowly begins to slide up the back of my leg, all the way up my thigh, around to my hip and up to my waist. Breathe, Tate. His fingers grip my waist, and he pulls me closer, still with his head pressed against me.
My hands find his shoulders, because I have to grab onto something in order to steady myself. Every muscle in my body somehow just forgot how to do its job. I feel him tilt his face up to look at me, but my eyes are still closed. I squeeze them a little tighter. I just know Miles. And right now, I think Miles wants to kiss me. His fingers are at the base of my neck, and his mouth is no more than half an inch from my jaw. He tightens his grip on my neck.
Or he kisses me. His lips against mine feel like everything. Like living and dying and being reborn, all at the same time. Good Lord. He begins to stand, but his mouth remains on mine. He walks me a few feet until the wall behind me replaces the hand that was on the back of my head.
Oh, my God, his mouth is so possessive. His fingers are splayed out again, digging into my hip. Holy hell, he just groaned. His hand moves from my waist and glides down to my leg. Kill me now. Just kill me now. He lifts my leg and wraps it around him, then presses against me so beautifully I moan into his mouth.
The kiss comes to an abrupt halt. Why is he pulling away? He drops my leg, and his palm hits the wall beside my head as if he needs the support to continue standing. No, no, no. Keep going. Put your mouth back on mine. He presses his forehead against the wall beside my head, still leaning against me as we both stand quietly, attempting to return air to our lungs.
After several deep breaths, he pushes off the wall, turns around, and walks to the counter. He picks up a pair of medical scissors and cuts through a roll of gauze. His voice is firm. Like metal. Like a sword. It evaporates. He wraps his wounded hand, then turns around and faces me. His eyes are firm like his voice was. Like swords, slicing through the ropes that held what little dangling hope I had for him and me and that kiss. He opens the bathroom door and leaves. Me kissing Miles.
Miles kissing me. I grab my glass and down half of my water in three huge gulps. Yes, Mom. Miles clears his throat. Corbin laughs under his breath, which stirs up a cloud of disappointment in my chest.
I suddenly find the kiss we shared earlier a lot less impactful. He smiles faintly and shovels a bite of potatoes into his mouth. So do I. So does Miles. Her eyes immediately grow wide, though. Still confused.
My mother points her fork at Miles. Why did I say that out loud? Now Corbin looks confused. He looks at Miles. A spoonful of potatoes is paused in midair in front of Miles, and his eyebrow is cocked. Miles shakes his head. Never have been and pretty sure I never will be. What the hell, man?
Oh, my God, Miles. Laugh, laugh, laugh. You said something about not being with a girl in more than three years. I just thought that was your way of telling me you were gay. Even me. I feel bad for Corbin. This embarrasses Miles. I turn to my mother. Miles nods but never looks at me. My mother asks me about work, and Miles is no longer the center of attention. We never spoke again after dinner, even though I spent a good ten minutes redressing his wound in the living room.
He just watched his hand the entire time, focused on it like it would fall off if he looked away. I just want him to be attracted to me, because the liking can come later. I watch the door, waiting for it to open, but the shadows disappear, and footsteps continue down the hall. I release a few controlled breaths in order to calm myself down enough to decide whether I want to follow him.
I check my hair in the mirror, then open my bedroom door and walk as quietly as I can into the kitchen. When I round the corner, I see him.
All of him. God, I hate that. I take it out, pour myself a glass, then lean against the counter across from him. I look down at my glass, then back up to him, and shrug. He takes a step toward me and motions for the glass. I hand it to him, and he brings it to his lips, takes a slow sip, and hands it back to me. All these movements are completed without his ever breaking eye contact with me. Well, I definitely love orange juice now. Filling the kitchen.
The entire house. I decide to make the first move. Have you at least. His voice is soft, like a down comforter. I want to roll around in it, wrap myself up in that voice. He folds his arms across his chest. His feet cross at the ankles. I do my best not to give him one. His lips curl up into a barely there smile.
I blow out a controlled breath, not even caring if he knows those words affected me like they did. The way he says my name makes me feel just as flustered as his kiss did. His eyes drop to my legs, and I watch him softly inhale. Six years. Your comments will appear here shortly. Please spread the word about us in social networks. Start for free to get a foretaste, then upgrade to get unlimited access to all features.
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