20. Coraline
20
CORALINE
My sister returns my call when my arms are full of ingredients, because that’s the kind of day I’m having. I juggle a few things, doing a weird skip-hop thing to the center worktable.
I balance a bag of flour on my hip and answer the phone with a muffled, “Hello? Abby?”
“Cora, hey, what’s up?” Her voice sounds far away, like she’s using Bluetooth in a SUV or something.
“Hold on one second, I just got inside the bakery.” I switch it to speakerphone and drop it in the middle of the counter. “Okay, I’m back.”
“You called?”
I fiddle with the edge of the flour bag, my gaze flickering around the room as I search for the right words.
If it were anyone else, I’d already be at Eve’s house, forty-five minutes deep into this conundrum. She’d have a pros and cons list going and bottomless snacks.
But she loves Nova, and he’s one of Jagger’s best friends. I’d have to ask her to keep everything to herself, and she would do it because she’s the literal best human. But I’d feel like shit for asking her to keep something from Nova, and then it’d turn into this whole big thing.
No, it’s better if I don’t go to her with this problem.
Which only really left one person: Abby.
My sister and I don’t have the kind of relationship Eve and I do. She wouldn’t roll out a snack and margarita train and let me talk myself into circles for hours.
But she loves me, and I trust her.
“Yeah, uh, I was hoping to catch up. I haven’t seen you in forever. And I guess I miss my little sister.”
“Oh, yeah, I have a couple minutes before I have to get back. We have an event in a couple weeks, so we're fine-tuning everything,” she says. “And I miss you too, Cora. I’ll be home after this though. At least for a month.”
I lean forward onto my elbows, bringing my face a little closer to the phone to hear her over the background noise. Guilt gnaws at my insides, and I worry my bottom lip a little. Maybe I shouldn’t bring her into this. She’s across the country, and it sounds like she has enough on her plate. The last thing she needs is me dumping my fake boyfriend and shitty new landlord problems on her.
I’ll just have to figure it out by myself.
I clear my throat. “Mom said you got a promotion or something?”
“Yeah,” she says.
Her tone sounds off though, almost like she’s disappointed. But that doesn’t make sense. Party planning huge events is her dream job. My sister senses start to tingle, and I’m on alert.
“Everything okay?”
“Yep,” she says, popping the p. “Just busy here, you know? Hey, how’s Sugarplum? Have you made anything fun recently? I’ve been following your socials, and I’m so disappointed I missed those ice cream sandwiches.”
I grin, rocking forward onto my toes. “I’ll make them for you when you’re home. Fair warning though: the pistachio one was the best dairy-free ice cream I’ve ever had.”
“Well as a dairy-free girlie, I look forward to trying it. My gut and I thank you,” she says with a small chuckle.
“You ever going to tell me what Nana Jo left you in her will?” Nana Jo had a reading of her will exactly one year after she passed away. She left something for her grandkids—with stipulations, but everyone had private meetings to go over the will. I still don’t really understand why she set it up that way, but Nana Jo usually had a reason for everything she did. Even if it was unconventional. She left Evangeline her house, Magnolia Lane. But for some reason, my siblings haven’t shared what they inherited yet.
She hesitates, her humor fading. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m just curious. You guys are all so secretive about it, but I told you right when I left the lawyer's office that day.”
“Ms. Carter, you’re needed in ballroom C,” a male voice calls from somewhere nearby her.
I hear some shuffling and her muted voice saying, “Thank you, Carl. I’ll be right there.”
There’s more muffled movement, and then her voice is clear again. “I’m sorry, Cora. I have to go.”
My gut tightens at the exhaustion in her voice. “No problem, sis. I know you’re busy.”
“Hey, wait, was there something else you wanted to ask me?”
Those older sister instincts kick into high gear, and I swallow down any words that might want to tumble out. She solves enough problems all day at her job, she doesn’t need to add mine to her pile.
“Nah, just wanted to check in on my favorite sister.” My lips curve upward slightly, a glimmer of a smile.
“I’m your only sister,” she says. I can hear the smile in her voice, and I’d be willing to bet she’s rolling her eyes too. It’s her go-to response every time I tell her she’s my favorite.
“Love you,” she says quickly before the call ends.
“Love you,” I mumble to an empty kitchen.
I lean back, staring at the blank screen with a frown creasing my forehead. Something was definitely off about that conversation. My sister sounded distant, not just physically, but emotionally too. I can’t shake the feeling that something is going on with her.
I tuck that problem away for later. Today, I have a much more pressing issue at hand.
Like should I fake date Jagger?
The warm scents of cardamom and vanilla envelop me as I stand in the center of the bakery’s kitchen, lost in thought. My hands move on autopilot, reaching for ingredients and measuring them out with practiced precision. The comforting rhythm of cracking eggs, mixing batter, and kneading dough soothes my racing mind.
It gives me the freedom to let my mind wander. I idly wonder what Nana Jo would say if I presented her my Jagger dilemma. She always had a way of cutting through the fluff and getting to the root of the problem.
She always led with, What does your gut say ? It was her go-to response, and it’s always served me well.
But right now, my gut is giving me mixed signals. And so is my libido. She’s a real needy bitch though, so I’m not surprised.
Part of me wants to take a chance on Jagger and his whole fake dating scheme. It would be amazing to have him as a buffer in case Grant tries to pull anything again. Or if my new landlord threatens me again.
But another part of me is hesitant because of our past. The very fact that we have a past probably means we shouldn’t do this, right? Right ? We’re gonna set ourselves up for epic failure.
God I wish Nana Jo were here. She’d know exactly what to do. The right things to say.
She’d probably ask me if I’d kissed him yet. She swore that you could tell a lot about a man just by the way he kissed you. Nana Jo had an alarming amount of mildly provocative idioms.
I’d most likely try to shrug off the question, but she’d see the answer as clearly if I’d written it on my forehead with eyeliner.
I’d reason that he could be an amazing kisser but still a shitty boyfriend. And then she’d say, but if he’s your fake boyfriend, then I guess it doesn’t matter if he’s a good significant other. Nana Jo’s voice echoes in my mind, filled with her trademark wisdom and wit. I can almost smell the hint of magnolia that always lingered around her.
She’d look me dead in the eye and say, Let that man park his shoes under your bed, Cora. You’re only young once. Don’t live with regrets.
I’d squint at her, wondering if she had some great big love affair with someone who wasn’t Grandpa Dalton.
She always talked about living that big life. Taking each day as it came, with love in her heart and fire in her eyes. If I close my eyes, I’m transported back to her kitchen. She’s standing at the kitchen counter with flour on her apron and a mischievous smile playing on her lips.
Nana Jo lived life on her own terms. Buried fake gold doubloons in her backyard like some kind of cosplay pirate, had the most impressive phallic vase collection, and took impressive notes on the comings and goings of Rosewood residents.
She did whatever the hell she wanted, never letting anyone dictate her choices. And she was always, always up for an adventure.
The oven timer beeps, snapping me out of the memories. I slide on the polka dot oven mitts and pull out the trays of golden biscuits. Setting the pan on a cooling rack, I blink into the warm glow of the kitchen. I take a deep breath, inhaling the sweet aroma of fresh strawberries.
As I gaze at the perfectly golden biscuits cooling on the counter, a sudden realization dawns on me—I had been so lost in my thoughts about Jagger that I hadn’t even realized what I had been making.
Strawberry fucking shortcakes.
Laughter bubbles out of me like a freshly uncorked bottle of champagne. I guess my subconscious knew what I wanted to do before I did.