33. Karla
KARLA
“This is going to be so fun.”
I was practically skipping down the sidewalk, Brayden’s hand firmly gripped in mine like I might float away if he let go.
The late-morning sun bounced off the bakery’s big front window, where an absurdly perfect display of cupcakes sat like tiny sugar soldiers, all pastel frosting and edible glitter.
A little sign in loopy handwriting read:
Life is short. Eat dessert first.
“I’m definitely ready to try some cakes,” Brayden said, giving my fingers a squeeze. For such a tough guy, he looked way too excited to walk into a pink-accented bakery with chandelier lighting and floral wallpaper. “If this is what baby prep looks like, I’m all in.”
He held the door open for me, and a wave of warm air hit us—all vanilla, buttercream, and fresh bread. It was like walking into a hug.
“How may I help you two today?” A sweet woman in her sixties greeted us from behind the glass counter, where rows of macarons, tarts, and cookies lined up like tiny works of art. She had soft gray hair piled into a messy bun and a pale pink apron smudged with flour.
“We have a noon appointment to try cakes for our gender reveal party that is coming up.” I started rubbing my belly out of habit, thinking about the little girl snuggled up inside.
Every time I thought the words our daughter, my heart did this ridiculous cartwheel that made me feel both giddy and nauseous.
“Congratulations!” she elated, her eyes lighting up as she walked out from behind the counter. “Please, take a seat over here. What are you having?”
Brayden’s chest puffed up with pure, unfiltered pride. He guided me toward a little round table draped with a pastel tablecloth, pulling out my chair like we were in some fancy old movie.
“A little girl,” he said, smiling so wide I thought his face might split.
It was still surreal, hearing him say it to other people. A little girl. Our little girl.
“That is so wonderful!” The woman clapped her hands once, then started handing us a few thick binders.
“I’m Susan, by the way. Here are the different styles you can choose from and, in the back, is a list of cake flavors.
You can pick as many as you want to try and just let me know whenever you’re ready. ”
She set a pitcher of water and a little bowl of palate-cleansing crackers on the table like we were wine tasting. Honestly, cake tasting was superior in every way.
Brayden flipped open one binder and immediately pointed to a cake shaped like a hockey jersey. “We should get this one. Tell me that isn’t perfect.”
I snorted. “Our daughter is not getting her first cake in the shape of a sweaty uniform.”
“It’s not sweaty on the cake,” he argued. “It’s festive.”
I kissed his bicep. “You’ll get to buy her all the tiny jerseys you want. Let me have this cake.”
He made a face like he’d been mortally wounded but turned the page. We went through layers, designs, frosting styles—ombré buttercream, watercolor icing, fondant bows. I circled a tiered cake with pale yellow frosting and raspberry swirls, with little sugar flowers on top.
“This one,” I said, tapping it. “It’s sweet but not too much. Like if a spring wedding and a baby shower had a love child.”
He leaned over the book, chin almost on my shoulder, his breath tickling my ear. “It’s very… you.”
“Is that code for ‘girly’?” I baited.
“It’s code for ‘I’ll eat three slices of that.’” He let out a low growl with a quick wink finisher.
After a little while of deciding and bickering and me vetoing a cake shaped like an otter, Susan returned with a tray that looked like the gateway to Heaven.
Tiny slices of cake lined up in neat rows, each with a little handwritten tag—lemon raspberry swirl, double chocolate fudge, funfetti, rum raisin, and a few others.
She left us to “experience the flavors,” which basically meant she’d just consented to watch two grown adults lose their dignity over sugar.
I dug my spoon into the lemon raspberry swirl and my eyes rolled back in my head. The cake was fluffy and bright, the lemon zingy without being obnoxious, the raspberry filling creamy and tart.
“I don’t know if this shit tastes better because I am pregnant or what, but I think I have died and gone to cake heaven.” I mumbled around a huge bite, shoving another spoonful into my mouth before my brain could yell chew, you maniac.
Brayden snorted. “Slow down there, tiger. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.” He winked at me from across the table, digging into the double chocolate like it had personally offended him and he needed to eat it out of existence. “I think this double chocolate is my favorite.”
I turned my nose up at him. “No. How boring is that!”
He froze, spoon halfway to his mouth, and raised an eyebrow. “Boring, huh?”
The devilish grin that spread across his face should’ve been my warning.
He scooped another bite’s worth of chocolate cake onto his spoon—but instead of bringing it to his mouth, he turned the spoon and flicked the cake right at me.
It splatted against my cheek in a soft, sugary smack.
I gasped, sitting there stunned for half a second before slowly wiping the cake off my face. “What the hell.”
Brayden lost it. Full hysterics. His big, tough-guy shoulders shook as he wailed, trying and failing to hide behind a napkin.
“Oh, it’s on,” I warned. I grabbed a chunk of rum raisin—which, frankly, deserved violence just on principle—and flung it right back at him. It hit him square in the collar of his henley shirt.
“Two can play at that game,” I yelled, already loading up more ammunition onto my spoon. Crumbs were everywhere, frosting smears dotting the tablecloth like confetti.
“Careful,” Brayden said between laughs. “You’re going to get us banned from the cake church.”
“You started it,” I reminded him, cocking my arm back for another shot.
I was mid–sugar assault, spoon ready to launch, when Susan came back to check on us.
“Do you two need a few more—” She stopped dead. Her eyes went wide, sweeping over frosting on my cheek, chocolate smudged on Brayden’s shirt, the table that looked like it had been attacked by a toddler with a vendetta. “What in the world?” she shrieked.
I slapped my spoon down and tried to look innocent. “Sorry. We were having a disagreement over chocolate or a more interesting flavor.” I bowed my head, biting my lip to keep from laughing. I probably looked like a raccoon caught in the trash.
“Did you make a decision?” she asked, trying valiantly to keep her composure. Her left eye twitched, just a little.
Brayden reached over, carefully dabbing at my face with a napkin. His touch was tender, thumbs brushing my jaw like I was something precious, not a woman wearing cake. “I think we’re going with the lemon raspberry.”
He said it easily, like there had never been any other choice. Like he’d known from the moment I circled it in the binder that whatever I wanted for this baby, he was on board.
Susan nodded, relief flooding her features. “Excellent choice. It’s one of our most popular flavors for little girls’ parties.”
For our little girl, my heart echoed.
Brayden took the clipboard she handed him, filling out the paperwork with that intense game-face concentration he usually reserved for pregame meetings.
Name, date, number of guests. Gender reveal—fill the center with pink frosting.
When he got to the “contact number” line, he wrote his and then added mine beside it without hesitating.
Our names. Together.
He gave Susan the deposit while I started cleaning up the mess we’d made—dabbing at the tablecloth, picking up rogue crumbs, apologizing at least three more times.
“I swear, we’re usually well-behaved,” I told her. “He just gets violent when people disrespect chocolate.”
Brayden slid back into his chair, arm wrapping around my shoulders. “You say that like you didn’t weaponize rum raisin.”
“Oh please,” I scoffed. “That cake did that to itself.”
Susan finally cracked a smile. “As long as the baby’s happy, I suppose I can forgive a little chaos.”
Brayden looked down at my belly, his expression softening in that way that still wrecked me. He placed his big palm gently over the curve of it, thumb stroking slow circles.
“Baby seems pretty happy,” he chuckled. “Her mom’s covered in cake and already planning her first party. She picked a good family.”
The words hit me right in the chest.
We weren’t perfect. We were messy and loud and impulsive. We got cake on our shirts and had sex schedules based around nausea and work shifts. But as he sat there, warm and solid beside me, I realized—this was exactly the kind of love I’d always wanted.
Not the kind that stayed neat.
The kind that stayed.