Chapter 13
thirteen
CALLA
Can you start a new batch of eclairs ? I text Erica, the young woman I left in charge of my bakery. I’ll be in late tonight to bake and frost cupcakes for tomorrow.
Less than a minute later, Erica sends a thumbs up. She’s not the most communicative texter, but I put that down to her age. She only just graduated from Greater High. Content that my bakery will make it another day, I put my phone away.
Jay is driving the car this morning. I am in the passenger seat, trying my hardest to seem like last night was no big deal. Like, yes! I have incredible, life-changingly good sex almost every day! What of it?
He hasn’t brought the topic up either. Instead, he keeps nervously promising me that today is going to be amazing . Honestly, after last night, my standards for things that are amazing might have changed. Maybe I’ll like whatever he’s got planned.
The drive from the Wagon Wheel Inn to our next stop on our road trip takes less than twenty minutes. As we approach the town limits, a giant, peeling billboard proclaims, "Welcome to Claxon: Home of the World's Most Fun Leftover Fruitcake Festival!" My jaw drops as I read it.
“Most fun?? It’s got to be the only one in the world!” I exclaim.
Jay slows the car. I can practically hear him grinning. "Welcome to the town where fruit goes to retire!"
"More like where dignity comes to die," I mutter.
There are a lot of people here. People who apparently think that fun and fruitcake can comfortably be used in the same sentence. Those people are wrong, just so we are on the record.
Jay pulls onto Main Street. I cast a skeptical eye over the kitschy decorations lining the street. Every lamppost is adorned with tinsel and little brown and green blobs; I can only assume that they’re fruitcake ornaments. It's like a bad Christmas movie set; except it's the beginning of February. We missed the Christmas mark by six weeks.
Jay parks the car and I take a moment to smooth my skirt and adjust my hair in the visor mirror. Have to look good for all the Claxon locals, I guess. We step out into the chill of the winter day. Almost immediately, I regret my choice of attire. A-line skirts and sleek tops are my uniform, but today I wish I'd opted for two more sweaters under my heavy coat. At least my Converse are comfortable.
We make our way toward the town square, where a makeshift stage has been erected. A banner flaps lazily in the icy breeze, announcing the "25th Annual Fruitcake Toss." The crowd is a mix of locals and curious tourists, all huddling close to the heat lamps that dot the street. I spot a woman wearing a fruitcake-themed bikini top.
My soul cringes in sympathy. She really must be freezing her tits off.
"Is this for real?" I ask Jay.
When I look at him, he’s scanning the crowd with the enthusiasm of a Labrador at a dog park. "It's tradition," he says, as if that explains anything. "Small towns have a way of making the ridiculous seem charming."
"Charming," I repeat, dubious. “We live in a small town. This? This is just bonkers.”
"You must be Jay and Blake!” A man in a gaudy, fruit-laden hat approaches us. He’s beaming. "You’re here to film yourselves participating in the fruitcake toss, right?”
Jay scowls, his hand slipping around my waist. “Jay and Calla.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, there must have been a mix up in our public relations department. No matter. Welcome to Claxon! I'm Mayor Abernathy.”
I open my mouth to say something. I'm not sure what.
“Nice to meet you.” Jay cuts in with a broad smile. "We're here to observe this time. Maybe we'll participate next year."
Next year? I shoot him a questioning look. We're not supposed to be making long-term plans for fruitcake festivals.
The mayor's smile doesn't falter, though his hat wobbles precariously. "Well, make sure to try some of the fruitcake punch. It's a local favorite." He hands Jay a flyer. Before I can say anything, he’s turned to greet another hapless couple.
“O-kay…,” I say. We give him a wide berth as we continue down the jam-packed street. Out of curiosity, I tug the flyer from Jay's hand. It's covered in cartoonish fruitcake graphics that seem to be competing with one another for the title of ‘most garish’. It’s a list of the events today and the corresponding times. I fold it and stuff it in my po cket.
“Hey, I just realized that there’s no camera crew today.” I raise my brows and rub my hands together for warmth. My tattooed wrist, freshly anointed with lotion, tingles faintly. “What gives?”
“The company van had a flat tire.” Jay flaps a hand. “It’ll be back on the road soon enough.”
“So it’s just us today, huh?”
Jay smirks. “Yup. Just you and me. That won’t be a problem, will it?”
The way he’s looking at me makes my cheeks flush. But I can’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he made me look away, so I keep full eye contact.
“I can’t imagine it will be,” I reply as sweetly as possible. “I didn’t get that much sleep last night, so?—”
Jay trips over his feet, looking like a startled baby bunny. “Uh, yeah. Same.”
I clear my throat. I didn’t realize that things could be this awkward between Jay and me. But here we are, not talking about the elephant in the room.
Jay points to a building that people are streaming in and out of. “Maybe we should head in there. The Fruitcake Bakery should be… safe.”
I nod and let him usher me along as I let that word sink in. Safe? Safe? What am I supposed to read into that? We hurry inside while I ponder the meaning of the word.
The Fruitcake Bakery is a shrine to bad taste in every sense of the word. Shelves groan under the weight of neon-colored fruitcakes, each more hideous than the last. A glass display case at the counter showcases slices in a dizzying array of flavors. It seems to dare anyone to take a bite.
Jay and I step further inside, and I take in the décor: a Christmas tree made entirely of stacked fruitcake rounds. The tree twinkles with tinsel and ornament shards. It’s like a holiday hallucination coming to life.
"Can you believe this place? It's like walking into a time capsule from the 1950s." Jay looks as happy as a kid on his birthday. He seems to take joy in these weird, horrible, kitschy places.
His attitude is kind of admirable, if you can get past how tiring it can be. Places that I would never in a million years deign to go? Jay dives into them headfirst and smiles while he does it! He is either secretly a serial killer… or he’s just a counterbalance against my practical, occasionally terrible, attitude.
I make a noncommittal noise and focus on the menu board above the counter. It lists flavors in a curly, hand-painted script. Each name is more absurd than the last: Tropical Temptation, Berry Suspicious, Citrus Surprise, Nuts About Bacon, Pickle Me Fancy.
They all sound inedible.
A woman in a flour-dusted apron steps out from the kitchen. She scans the crowd, but most of the tourists are clearly still looking around. Her eyes lock on me. "What can I get for you folks?"
Jay leans on the counter with the casual grace of a man who’s never had to rush for anything in his life. "We're here for the samples."
The woman beams. "Help yourselves!" She gestures to a platter laden with bite-sized pieces of fruitcake. Each one is stuck with a toothpick and labeled with a flavor tag.
I hang back as Jay grabs a handful. He stuffs a few in his mouth before passing me one. "You have to try this one. It's actually pretty good."
I take a piece of Berry Suspicious and reluctantly nibble the corner. He’s right. The fruitcake is moist. The spices are heavy but nicely balanced. It tastes like a bite of autumn. Overall, I’m disarmed by how not terrible it is.
"See?" Jay says. He pops another piece into his mouth. "Told you." I just shrug. He pulls out his phone and puts his arm around me. “Come on. Act like you like me,” he jokes.
You’re not the worst guy in the world. And you gave me multiple orgasms last night. That is very much the problem in this scenario.
Instead of saying that, I smile for the camera and kiss Jay’s cheek.
We work our way through the platter, commenting on each flavor like judges on a reality cooking show. Some have a nice tartness; others are overly sweet but bearable. Some flavors are so insane that it’s comical. The pickle cake is the actual worst. It’s the only one that makes me gag and I spit it out.
Jay insists on bringing an entire Pickle Me Fancy cake home with us.
“As long as I don’t have to eat it,” I shrug. “I just hope you give anyone that tries it fair warning.”
“Where would the fun be in that?” Jay asks.
When he looks at me with the biggest grin on his face, I’m pretty sure he is the devil incarnate. I suppose I should be happy that his devilry is not directed at me .
When we walk out of the store, a small crowd has gathered around the doorway. Someone waves, and Jay returns it with the easy familiarity of a politician on the campaign trail.
I forget, sometimes, that he’s a minor celebrity. Or maybe I just try to forget.
"So," Jay says, breaking into my thoughts as we step out onto the slushy sidewalk. "Do you really think love is all about being best friends? "
I frown. Where is this coming from? "That’s what the studies say. Friendship is the foundation of a lasting relationship."
"Studies.” He blows a raspberry. "I think love is more about excitement. Spontaneity. Keeping things fresh."
"Sure, in the beginning. But that fades. You need something deeper to sustain you. Ten, twenty, thirty years on? You can only white-water raft or go to Fiji so many times. By the time you’re getting up there in years, you have to have friendship to lean on."
He stops. "So, you're saying our whirlwind fruitcake romance isn't the epitome of true love?"
His tone is light and playful. He’s not searching for any real truths. He’s just making conversation to pass the time. That’s more than fine by me. He opens his mouth to continue our banter, but he is cut off when a voice calls out Jay’s name.
I turn my head to see Jay’s camera crew approaching. I guess the blown tire didn’t hold them down for long. My stomach tightens. I was sort of enjoying not being on camera constantly. But now his crew is ready to capture every moment on film. There’s no use being bitter about it so I just paste on a smile.
Jay jogs over to them, then turns back. "Calla," he says, beckoning me. "We need a few shots together. Let’s do this quickly."
I step in, and a member of the crew directs us to various poses. Each one is more intimate than the last: Jay holding me from behind, our hands intertwined around the fruitcake, our still brand-new tattoos stinging. Me standing on tiptoes, pretending to kiss his nose. The whole thing feels like play-acting. Yet there’s an undercurrent of awkwardness that makes me uneasy .
"That should do it," says the crew member after what feels like an eternity. “We can just follow you two around for the next hour to get the B-roll we’ll need.”
Jay turns to the crew. “Can I see what shots we have so far?” he asks, but it’s not a question. His demeanor has shifted in an instant. Gone is the laid-back jokester. In his place is a man of purpose, focused and precise.
I watch, wide-eyed, as he tells the crew what kind of shots they should be looking for next. His directions are clear and confident. This is a side of him I haven’t seen before. Honestly? It’s… impressive.
Jay’s not just coasting on his abundant charisma. He actually knows what he’s doing.
In the crush of crew members, I spot a petite woman. She has long reddish hair, big pink glasses that frame her blue eyes, and freckles upon freckles. I recognize her as Jay’s younger sister. She often appears in his social media posts. Jay likes to tease her for being nerdy.
Wren is standing a few paces away, scrolling through her phone. I take a deep breath and walk over to her.
"Hey, Wren," I say, summoning my most genuine smile. I don’t know if she’s in on the ruse or not, so I say, "We haven’t properly met. I’m, uh, your new sister. “
Wren pushes a heavy set of glasses up her nose. Her shy smile doesn’t scream I’m complicit in your scheme . She steps forward, offering me her hand. “Calla, right? I’m so pleased to meet you.”
Her voice is almost too soft for me to pick it up. She seems sweet and a little nerdy.
Yeah, this is awkward. “Would you like to join me for lunch while Jay finishes up?"
She looks up, surprised, then glances toward her brother. "Sure," she says, tucking her phone into her bag. "I'd love to."
We find a small café just off the town square, its interior a hodgepodge of vintage furniture and eclectic art. A space heater buzzes noisily in the corner, doing little to combat the day’s chill. We take a seat by the window, keeping our coats on, and a server hands us menus before wandering off.
“My apologies. I sort of just figured out that you’re Jay’s sister.” I glance at Wren over the menu. “I know who you are, but I don’t really have any details to fill in the sketch.”
Wren pushes her glasses up her nose and gives a dry laugh. “Same, I guess. What do you want to know?”
I narrow my eyes, considering her question. “Have you always lived in Greater?”
The server returns with our drinks, and we pause to take sips. Mine is a sweet tea, heavy on the sugar; Wren has a lemonade.
“Born and raised,” she says. “My parents actually live in Celtic Hills. Jay went to Emory, so I went to Emory too. I copied him for years.” She laughs. “Now I live on the same street as he does.”
“Wildflower Lane?”
She bobs her head. “Yeah. I live in apartment building way at the end. Jay owns the building.” Wren shrugs. “It’s a decent place to live while I try to figure out what I’m going to be when I grow up. I guess I’m still copying Jay a little.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two. My birthday is in a couple of months.”
The waitress returns and we both order. A bowl of white beans and cornbread for me, a roast beef sandwich for Wren.
“Well, let me tell you,” I say when the waitress is gone. “I didn’t have my life figured out right away. I’m twenty-eight, but I didn’t get my little bakery until six months ago. Before that, I was baking from home when I lived on College Avenue. There were always sheet pans of cookies cooling on every surface in my little studio apartment.”
“That sounds nice! I do love a good sugar cookie when I’m trying to clean my living room slash bedroom.”
“You would have been obsessed with my old place, then. It was so small! The rental agent kept saying it was quaint and cozy.” I laugh, rolling my eyes.
“Hey, if it had heat and AC, that’s all you really need.” Wren smiles.
Silence fills the space between us. I grasp for a new topic. Then I realize what I really want to ask. Wren probably has all the dirt on Jay. "So," I say, trying to sound casual. “Did you hate Blake and are glad the wedding was called off?”
“God.” She laughs. “I’m so glad. Don’t tell Jay, but I thought Blake was a self-important snob.”
Hearing Wren say that is like a balm to my soul. It’s not that I’m feeling competitive with Blake. It’s more like she is just a gorgeous, skinny, Instagram-perfect wife. And being placed side-by-side just makes me feel… less than .
I give Wren a secretive smile. “Good. I was hoping that you would say that. I haven’t met your mom, but I hope that she wasn’t on Team Blake either.”
“You probably won’t meet Mom until she and Dad are back from their trip. They weren’t at Jay and Blake’s wedding. They… aren’t exactly the warmest people.” Wren leans back in her chair, stretching her arms behind her head. "Our parents are busy people, very career-focused. We had a nice upbringing. But it was Jay and me against the world most of the time. We were inseparable. "
That explains a lot. "Sounds like you two had a solid childhood."
"We did," she says, though there's a wistfulness in her tone. "We were lucky. Jay made sure I was never lonely, even when our parents were off doing their thing."
I take another sip of tea, letting her words sink in. This is the background I needed, the context to understand why Jay is the way he is. He’s someone who’s had to create his own support system.
Wren continues, "When Jay started the company, I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. He offered me a job, and it just made sense. Working with him is like an extension of our childhood."
I tilt my head, curious. "And the company… it's doing well?"
She laughs, a short, bright burst. "You could say that. We all worked hard, but Jay was the driving force. He's built something pretty amazing."
I remember what Wren said earlier about Jay taking care of them. "It sounds like he’s more than just a boss. Like he’s a mentor."
"Exactly," she says, nodding. "He’s taught me so much, and not just about the business. He’s always been there for me, for all of us."
Our food arrives. My stomach audibly growls, making Wren giggle. We dig in, eating in silence for a few minutes.
Wren finishes half of her sandwich and sits back. She eyes me with a newfound curiosity. "You know, you’re not what I expected."
I freeze. "Oh? And what did you expect?"
She shrugs, but there's a slyness to it. "Someone more… I don’t know. Someone di fferent."
I laugh, though it comes out more nervous than I intend. "Different how?"
Wren breaks the silence. "I’m just saying, you seem more grounded. More real."
"Thanks," I say, though I’m not sure it’s a compliment. If she thinks I’m real, does that mean she sees through the ruse?
"Anyway," Wren says, her tone lightening. "It’s obvious that you care about him."
I blink. "What?"
"Jay. The way you look at him. Like he's a prime cut of beef. Blake never looked at him like that, you know."
I feel the blood rush to my cheeks. "I— We're just?—"
Wren waves a hand, dismissing my stammering. "It’s okay. I get it. My brother is a handsome dude. And it’s obvious that he worships you, too."
My eyes widen with shock. What is she talking about??
Before I can protest, Wren's eyes flick past me. She sits up straighter. I turn to see Jay walking toward us. He’s got this relaxed stride that belies the intensity I know lurks beneath the surface.
"How's it going?" he asks. He takes an empty chair from a nearby table and spins it around to sit down. "What’d I miss?"
I look to Wren, wondering if she’ll spill everything. My not-so-sneaky interrogation. Her observations about me. Her thoughts about Jay liking me. Instead, Wren just smiles, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Nothing important," she says.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Jay looks from Wren to me, then back to Wren. It’s as if trying to decipher a code. "O-kay," he says, "Be cryptic. The real question is, do y’all have room for dessert? "
“You’re having dessert?” Wren asks.
He looks at me meaningfully. “I sure hope so.”
My cheeks glow so red that I’m not sure they’ll ever cool down again.
Today was supposed to be a simple exercise in playing our parts. We were just doing our best to make the whole marriage look convincing.
Some wrap up line.
Should another chapter go here where they are not doing something wild? Where they are just hanging out or being interviewed?