Chapter Three
Frankie
“Jesus, Frankie, you’re going to give me a heart attack, or worse, get me fired,” Cynthia bristles. I can tell by her flushed face and the sheen of sweat on her brow she’s frazzled. Cynthia is the bakery manager at Langley's. She's a middle aged woman who used to manage the produce department before transferring here. She is a pain in the ass and most employees despise her.
“I’m so sorry, I had a bit of an issue this morning. I promise I’ll be caught up by lunch.”
“You better be, or I’ll be looking for a new cake decorator!” she yells over her shoulder.
She doesn’t mean it. She loves me. Kinda. Besides, who else would take this job that’s barely above minimum wage, has shitty benefits, and starts at an ungodly hour? No one, that’s who. I could probably apply to one of the fancier bakeries in town, or better yet, start my own business, but I’ve been here, decorating cakes since I graduated high school. I learned everything I know from Jo, who has since retired. When she first took me under her wing, I could barely ice a cake, now I can put together a two-tiered, adorned with flowers and embellishments with ease. Cake decorating gives me an opportunity to flex my creativity, and I’ve been lucky enough that the grocery store gives me the freedom to do so, as long as I produce their required cakes, as well.
Carefully, I wrap my space buns in a hair net and slip on my white apron, wiping my hands on the front to shake off the morning and sort through the order forms for the day. Most look easy enough. Pull apart cupcake bouquets, heart-shaped cakes, just as predicted.
Starting with the orders that will be picked up the earliest, I pull cake from the freezer and buckets of icing from the fridge. Quickly, I flat-ice as many as I can before I move on to decorating and personalizing them.
“So, you gonna spill what happened this morning?” Taylor eyes me over her shoulder while loading the racks of cookies into the oven. She’s been a baker here for almost as long as I’ve decorated cakes, and is basically the closest to what I would call a friend. If it wasn’t for her, I’d likely have quit by now. Our conversation and easy banter help the day go by quicker. Still, I don’t know I’m ready to divulge what transpired this morning.
“Just a family thing, you know how it is.” I casually brush her off, adding some food coloring to the container of icing, trying to get the right shade of pink, before loading it into my piping bag.
“I call bullshit. You barely speak to your family.”
She’s right. I don’t speak to my family much. I’m the black sheep. The outcast. I didn’t follow the path my parents so desperately wanted me to, so my brother gets to play the favorite child while I’m the one they like to pretend doesn’t exist. Do I try to act like it doesn’t eat away at me, that I was cast away so thoughtlessly? Sure. But deep down, it fucking cuts me open to think I was discarded so easily because I didn’t fit into their cookie cutter-mold.
Taylor’s baby blue eyes soften as she watches me, as if she can see the tumultuous feelings brimming to the surface. I continue to pipe a shell border along the base of the cake, even though my eyes are glossing over with unshed tears. She peels the oven mitts off and leans against my workstation. “Hey, you don’t have to talk to me yet. But I’m here for you, ok?”
I offer her a smile, because it’s all I can do right now. I know if I open my mouth to speak, the dam will break. “I know, and I appreciate you.”
“Back at ya, babe.” She winks before walking back to her table to ready some cinnamon rolls.
The bakery is a flurry of people, bustling along, prepping and packaging baked goods. It’s a madhouse on the best of days, but on holidays, it's worse. There are bodies everywhere trying to navigate around each other.
I try to stay out of the way, in my corner of the department, immersing myself in my work, focusing intently on piping beautiful flowers and designs on each cake. On writing confessions of love in pinks and reds, each sprinkled heart a reminder of the authentic one I received in a box this morning that I’m trying desperately to forget. But my mind fixates on the cool temperature of the organ. The way the blood trickled slowly, slightly congealed. The sickly-sweet coppery tang that filled my apartment as soon as I opened the box. It’s likely a cruel prank and pig. Officer Barde’s words echo in my mind, I cling to those words like they’ll offer me solace, but there’s no alternative here that isn’t terror inducing.
The piping bag trembles in my hands and that claustrophobic feeling from earlier returns. I’m too hot . The sounds in the bakery too loud. Each one blending with the other until it’s nothing but chaotic noise and I can’t distinguish one from the next. Sweat pools on my brow and at the small of my back. I need to take a break. I have ten orders boxed, priced, and ready in the cooler. I’m close to being caught up, Cynthia won’t mind if I take lunch.
I put my bag down and carry the unfinished cake to the fridge for now, quickly tidying up my station.
“Hey Taylor, I’m gonna sneak out for a quick lunch. Can you let Cynthia know?”
“Sure thing, babe.”