Chapter 4 #2
I laughed when she brandished the lopsided cake.
Brandished it so wildly that it almost slid off the plate, which wouldn’t have made it any uglier, at least. Mom and Sam liked to troll me with ugly cakes made from store-bought mixes, and since they tasted okay I didn’t complain.
They didn’t just use the frosting from the mix, though.
They added all sorts of coloring. This one was orange and green.
It looked radioactive. Definitely winning in the ugly stakes.
Sam was wearing her usual uniform of pajama pants and a hoodie.
She and Mom fought about it at least once a week, though never seriously.
Mom always reminded Sam that the school had sent out an email saying kids couldn’t wear pajama pants—it was such a trend that yeah, they’d had to address it—and that she’d get in trouble, and Sam always said they weren’t going to yell at the girl who had cancer.
Pretty sure she was going to milk that as long as she could, and who could blame her?
Chemo wasn’t exactly a fun time, so we were all pretty fucking relieved she could joke about it now.
Mom and I still couldn’t, but we weren’t going to tell her that she had to be all serious about it.
She’d been through hell over the past year.
She’d earned the right to troll her teachers over pajama pants if she wanted.
“That is a fuck-ugly cake,” I said and gave her a hug.
She grinned. “I made it especially for my fuck-ugly brother.”
“Bitch.”
“Asshole.”
“Language, you little shits,” Mom yelled from inside the house.
I followed Sam in and hung my jacket by the door.
Mom stuck her head out of the kitchen door, and I smiled at her.
She wasn’t really pissed at our language—it would make her the biggest hypocrite in the world, obviously, and she knew we didn’t mean it when we called each other names.
Also it felt good to call Sam a bitch again.
Mostly because there’d been a time when I’d been scared to do it, in case it was the last thing I said to her.
But now it felt like things were getting back to normal, the way they were supposed to be.
There wasn’t a cloud hanging over every conversation we had, or every hug we shared.
The future was something to look forward to again.
“I made chicken,” Mom said. “With some sauce from a jar.”
Yeah, I hadn’t inherited my love of the kitchen from my mom’s side, that was for sure.
“And fuck-ugly cake for dessert,” I said.
“It’s got green frosting,” Sam said. “That makes it a vegetable, right?”
“Taste the rainbow,” I said, laughing.
Dinner was good. We sat around the kitchen table, all the bills and junk mail shoved to one side, and I told Mom and Sam all about my plans for opening day tomorrow.
Mom caught us up on the drama from her workplace—one of the workers at the salon was screwing the manager from the mortgage broker place next door, and now she was pregnant and had invited everyone to her baby shower, except nobody was brave enough to ask whether the kid was the manager’s or her husband’s.
“I mean, I’d quit, but I have to find out how it ends,” Mom said.
“Don’t screw the crew,” I said. “That’s the saying, right?”
“I think it’s don’t shit where you eat,” Mom said. “Both work.”
“And speaking of, how’s Bradley?” Sam asked, a wicked gleam in her dark eyes.
Mom arched her brows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Poor Bradley. The guy couldn’t catch a break with Mom.
They’d been on a few dates before Sam got sick, and Mom had broken up with him because “shit is fucked up right now.” But Bradley had stuck around as a friend, and now Sam was better, he kept dropping Mom invitations to coffee.
I thought Mom was surprised he was still open to a relationship after so much time had passed, and she wasn’t sure how to handle it.
Sam and I both thought she should go for it, but we weren’t going to push.
Well, I wasn’t. Sam was still hinting hard, clearly.
“I’m just saying,” Sam said, “he’s a nice guy!”
“Don’t buy into this,” Mom told me. “She’s just trying to distract me so I don’t tell you she got sent to the principal’s office today.”
“What’d you do?”
“I told my chemistry teacher to go fuck himself.” Sam held up her fork, and a piece of chicken landed with a splat on the table. “But it was technically before school, in the parking lot, so it was totally unfair that I got in trouble for it outside of his jurisdiction."
“You can’t tell teachers to go fuck themselves,” I said, looking at Mom helplessly. “Not to their face anyway.”
“Okay,” Sam said, “but one of the jocks slapped Marissa on the ass, and Mr. Fine was right there, and he saw the whole thing, and he didn’t do anything.”
“How many weeks until graduation?” I asked Mom, and she laughed. “Jesus, Sam. Don’t get expelled before you get to walk.”
She grinned. “Cancer kid, remember?”
And fuck, but it felt good to say, “Not anymore, bitch.”
“Asshole,” Sam said, with a wide, delighted grin, and Mom smiled at us both across the table and then, when she thought I wasn’t watching, turned her face away and quickly wiped her eyes.
She pretended not to notice when I had to do the same.
When I pulled up to Gobble de Goose the following morning, Tyler was already waiting for me in the parking lot out back. He got out of his car, ran a hand through his hair, and said, “So you decided to turn up, huh?”
“Screw you,” I said. We walked around to the front and I fished the keys to the bakery out of my pocket and unlocked the door.
It was cool and dark inside, a stillness hanging in the air that I knew from experience wouldn’t last. I flicked on the lights and headed to the back, where I turned the ovens on to preheat.
While we waited I pulled out the cupcakes and started up the stand mixer, making a batch of frosting. Tyler disappeared to the front and a minute later he called, “Hey, you want an Americano?”
Fuck yes, I wanted one. I followed the sound of his voice and found him tipping beans into the grinder beside the space-age espresso machine. “Wait, you know how to work this thing?”
He shrugged. “My in-laws gave us a machine for Christmas and I can work that. How much harder can this one be?” He pressed a button and the air was filled with the beautiful sound of the death of a thousand dried beans.
I looked on, impressed, as he loaded up the grounds and tamped them down, then hit various other buttons, and a minute later handed me my drink.
I inhaled deeply and took a sip and holy shit, it was good.
“Okay, new rule, you’re in charge of coffee every morning when we arrive,” I said before swallowing another rich mouthful.
“Yes, boss,” Tyler said, grinning, and walked me through what he was doing as he made a second cup. He was right—despite all the buttons, it was pretty simple to work out.
Tyler set to work frosting and decorating the mini cupcakes while I baked the sourdough loaves and got the pastries ready, and time flew by.
The air filled with the scent of fresh bread and warm Danishes as we prepared to open, and Tyler grinned at me and we exchanged a look. We were really doing this.
Tyler headed to the front to load up the display cabinet as I was slicing into a tray of fresh brownies, and something about his tone caught my attention when he called, “Hey, uh, Lee?”
I slid the brownies onto a tray and carried them out to him—and okay, maybe Bobby Merritt was smarter than I’d given him credit for because there was already a crowd gathered under the awning in front of the store.
For a split second I was convinced we’d lost track of time, but a quick check of the hideous goose-shaped wall clock showed that we didn’t open for another hour.
Apparently, the people of Goose Run were just really fucking enthusiastic about fresh baked goods.
And having seen what was on offer at the gas station, I couldn’t blame them.
“Cookies,” I said to Tyler, already calculating. “We’re gonna need a lot more cookies. And start another two brownie mixes. I’ll get more Danishes ready.”
Tyler gave a sharp nod and headed to the back, and a minute later I heard both the stand mixers start up. I slid my tray of brownies into the cabinet and flashed a smile at a middle-aged woman who practically had her nose pressed against the glass doors and then escaped to the back to help Tyler.
We worked our asses off for the next while, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t riding a high in anticipation of opening the doors. I really wanted this to be a success, and if the crowd gathered out front was any indicator, it looked like we might be.
Of course they might all be here for the free samples, but I didn’t think that was the case. I mean, were people really that broke they were willing to line up for a mini cupcake?
Besides, they seemed like they were in a mood to shop, pointing to the various display cases and nodding to their neighbors. Some of them had even brought folding chairs for the wait. It looked like the opening of Gobble de Goose was set to be the big social event of the day.
I checked my watch and my jaw tightened.
It was ten minutes to opening, and my barista wasn’t here yet.
I hadn’t met the guy but Bobby had assured me that he was “a true craftsman,” whatever that meant.
I didn’t care if he was a craftsman. I only cared if he turned up on time, made a decent espresso, and was halfway civil to the customers.
And right now, he was failing at the first one.
Just as I headed to the back to call Bobby and see if he knew where the barista might be, someone rattled the door handle.
I ignored it and kept walking, but then it rattled again.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. I knew that if I opened that door so much as an inch, people would assume we were open for business and start coming inside.
It was best to pretend I was temporarily deaf and blind.
There was a furious rapping on the glass, and the door rattled again.
I looked at Tyler and he shrugged. “It’s probably our barista.”
Yeah, that made sense. I stepped back through to the front of the store—where I was greeted by the sight of Chase from Goose Run Gas rapping on the door frantically.
He froze when he saw me, and I did the same. Then he tapped his wrist, pointed at the espresso machine, and pointed at the locked door, rolling his eyes.
The message was clear.
Gas-station-asshole Chase, can’t-make-a-coffee Chase, rude-as-hell Chase, was here to start work as my new barista.
Well, fuck.