Chapter 4 SmashPass
Chapter four
Smash or Pass
The next morning, Jen waddled to my room with a fresh plate of buttered toast. “Want some? I made too much.”
No one made too much toast on accident.
“Thanks.” I bit into a slice, the sweet crunch dancing on my tongue. It needed something. Honey, maybe? Or chocolate-hazelnut spread. Strawberries.
Why’d I crave dessert first thing in the morning?
Crumbs spilled to the floorboards. I gasped and covered my mouth. “Oh no. I’ll get the vacuum.”
She shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ll clean when everyone’s at work.”
Huh. I wondered if that was her way of making up for the potato chip crumble last night.
Jen munched on another slice. “I told Mom I’d pitch in for one of those robot vacs, but she wants to wait until that shopping channel has a flash sale.”
“Ah, that makes sense. Until then, we should probably eat at the table.” I took the plate and supported my sister’s elbow as we painstakingly went downstairs.
Each stair took a while.
Four seconds, to be exact. And a long way to go.
“So, how are you doing?” I asked, mulling over a few old family pictures on the wall.
Kat often slung her arms around us or goofed at the camera, whereas Jen would pose more formally, even as a kid.
But we had a few shots over the years where Kat’d made us all laugh or reigned it in to match others’ energy. Could we find that middle ground again?
Jen offered me a tentative smile. “We got a new ultrasound.”
“You did? That’s great.” I restrained myself from shaking her with excitement. No shaking babies. Or pregnant ladies.
“Yeah.” She huffed.
Was it not great?
“Baby’s healthy?” I confirmed.
“Yep,” she said, placing her palm over the curve of her belly as we got to kitchen.
Dad glanced up from his newspaper and tipped his coffee cup to us in greeting. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” I grinned, gesturing to my face.
His cheek bore a hint of Mom’s lipstick from when she must’ve said goodbye. He rubbed it into his skin, unbothered.
Jen handed me the newest ultrasound and visit summary for me, presumably so I could analyze it for her while I ate.
The scan showed her baby curled up, all fingers and toes accounted for. Amazing how fast we could grow.
“This looks great.” I tried to share a smile with her, but she wouldn’t make eye contact, so I focused on her, per her request last night. “Your due date’s getting close. Are we going to throw a baby shower?”
She set the documents aside. “I don’t know who I’d invite.”
The same people she’d invite to any party. “What about your friends?”
“We haven’t been hanging out as much lately.” She twisted her lips to one side.
I guessed it’d be harder to get around in her state. Maybe things had slowed in her social circle before that. It was hard to tell, since she’d lied about who she was going out with and hadn’t been posting online as much.
“You’ll still have family,” I said.
“It’s too far for most of them.” She turned to Dad. “Do you think your sister would come?”
“Uh, I don’t know about that.” He flapped out the newspaper to shield himself from the conversation.
“What about Kat?” I suggested. After all, she was our sister.
Jen shook her head. “I don’t know about that.”
“Oh, come on. It’d be a nice olive branch. The baby could use another auntie,” I said. And she could use another friend—or something like it.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, picking at the toast.
It wasn’t much. But it was progress. A silver lining in all this mess.
***
Mom would probably handle any decorations or bigger gifts for the baby, but I still wanted to do something to celebrate the incoming addition to our family. My only advantage was medical knowledge and a discount at The Closette.
During a lull in my shift, I perused the nursing bras. We had a few variations: clips or pull down, supportive or soft. Soft seemed like the obvious choice, but Jen had already complained about feeling ‘huge and saggy.’ I tested the clasp for ease of use.
“What are you doing?” Giselle demanded from my left.
I jerked back so fast the hanger spun. “Ah, just trying to figure out which version to recommend.”
“Try them on,” she said, grabbing a few bras off the rack.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t.” Whipping my shirt off at work seemed like a bad idea.
“Experience is the best education,” she said, matter-of-fact.
“It can be.” Clinical work had always stuck with me better than anything I’d read.
Giselle fixed the display, her chin held high. “I studied fashion in France. They had us model for each other between drafts to develop empathy for the clients along with our artistic visions.”
“That’s smart,” I said. Hopefully, that meant more comfortable material and useful pockets for everyone.
She stroked the lace trim on a bra. “We got a better idea of what felt right and what was going to fall apart the first time we tested it. I started keeping body tape in my bag so I never had to walk out naked due to someone else’s foolishness.”
There had to be a metaphor in that.
I smiled at the mental image of young Giselle strutting down the runway in nipple tape, a thong, and heels, owning it like the boss she was.
“It sounds like that program really boosted your confidence,” I said.
“Ha!” The force of her laugh nearly blew me back before she said, “Most dropped out within the first three weeks. They couldn’t handle the deadlines and critiques.”
“But that didn’t bother you?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I rose to the challenge, threaded every stitch with conviction. Pivoted, when needed. I trusted my intuition to decide when to dig in and when to listen. Besides, you learn from failures more than any success.”
“That’s what I’ve heard.” It didn’t always feel like that, though. Especially in medicine. I started flipping through the bras for my size.
Giselle pushed a chunk of them aside at once. “Another lesson: always go up a cup size for nursing bras. Tenderness.” She gestured to her breasts with sage warning.
I took the suggestion, trying not to think about chafed boobs, especially my boss’s or Jen’s. It was kind of weird to try something on while on the clock, but at least I had Giselle’s approval. In the dressing room, I started to strip, but laughed at my exposed reflection.
This was ridiculous.
I was at work. Nipples out. For what?
Jen wouldn’t want to talk about her bra size. If she was still smaller than Kat, she’d throw a fit. It’d taken Mom a whole afternoon and a sugary treat just to get Jen to accept a size up in shoes.
I’d be better off getting them a cake. Mm…cake. It was hard not to think about with that vanilla-infused perfume on display.
After work, I called Mom for a ride and arranged for her to pick me up at The Cake Warehouse in another part of the mall. I followed my nose to the sweet aroma of frosting near the dessert case, wondering which flavor would be best for a baby shower.
Strawberry surprise. Chocolate cherry bomb. The dessert case glimmered with the reflection of a man with white, fluffy hair. I gasped and turned toward him.
Angel?
He slipped through the dinner crowd before I could get a good look at him. I hurried past the hostess desk, sticking close to a party being seated in a vain attempt to follow without being stopped or seen.
Was he here on a date? Did my perfume help him woo his beloved?
What kind of women would he fall in love with?
I stopped short in the aisle about ten feet away from him. He leaned on a table hosting a pretty woman in her forties.
“Hello, beautiful. Can I get you a drink?” he asked.
She gave him a sultry smile and shrugged out of her silk-lined coat. “I’ll take a sea breeze.”
“I’ll be right back with that.” He tapped the table as if he was playing himself off on a piano.
This was all too bizarre. Who picked someone up at their table in a restaurant? The waiter hadn’t even been by yet.
He turned, untucked a pencil from behind that arrow-pierced ear, and procured a small notepad from a short apron tied around his waist to write down her order.
Oh. My heart thumped in bewilderment.
He was the waiter.
How long had he been juggling work and school, like me?
He glanced over, perhaps because I was openly staring, then did a double take, his eyes flashing in recognition.
Was he happy to see me? Or just in shock?
I managed an awkward smile and wave, my cheeks hot as I whispered a bashful, “Hi there.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but crashed into a passing waiter and their tray of cakes.
I gasped at the immediate clatter of plates and kneecaps. Was he okay?
Cursing, Angel scrambled to catch the meals, accidentally sticking his fingers in a few desserts.
He trembled with a broken laugh and faced the waiting table. “You ordered a smash cake, right?”
The customers chuckled and shook their heads.
“Ah, my mistake. I’ll get you a new one to smash yourselves, if you wish.” He cleared the plates, then sucked his thumb free of whipped cream, his gaze dark and fixed on me.
My insides turned to molten jelly.
Was he mad? Aroused?
Ah, don’t go there, Tori.
This situation was already messy.
I followed him to a clearing station by the dessert table. “Sorry. I didn’t mean do distract you.”
He shrugged and slid the imperfect pieces of cake across the counter. “Should I be flattered or concerned you’re following me around like a cute little puppy?”
Pigeon, I almost corrected.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” I said. I didn’t think he worked anywhere.
“Gotta pay for school somehow, right? I’m not sure The Closette would’ve hired me to handle such delicate matters,” he teased, glancing at my chest.
I flushed at the idea of him measuring my—or anyone’s—bust. “Yes, well, I’m sure that silver tongue of yours helps with tips.”
“It helps with a great many things,” he said, wetting his middle finger with his tongue.
I rolled my eyes, trying not to imagine him licking whipped cream off any other appendages. “Can’t we have a nice moment without you sexualizing it?”
He sidled up to me, all meringue and musk. “I think we have too much chemistry for that, pigeon.”
I bet he said that to all us ‘pigeons.’ My heart fluttered with frustration.
“I think you need to have your head examined,” I said. I plucked a chunk of the ‘ruined’ cake, then made a show of sucking my fingers clean without miming anything even remotely sexy.
He laughed, a warm, rich sound that drizzled delightfully down my ears, sweeter than the strawberry syrup on this cake.
I couldn’t help but grin, which made him smile wider.
Did I have something in my teeth?
I quickly covered my mouth and swiped my tongue across the crevices within.
He got the fresh desserts ready and shook his head at me. “Naughty. You just violated food safety and our restaurant protocol. That dessert is supposed to go in the trash.”
“I only took a bite.” Not even from the part he’d touched. Still, it was a bit cheeky. I didn’t know what had come over me. “Sorry,” I said, sucking my lower lip.
He chuckled, maneuvering easily around the counter with a swish of his hips. “Don’t let anyone else see you eating from other people’s plates. I recommend taking all this to-go.” He jerked his chin where the takeout boxes were stacked. “But you didn’t hear it from me. Got it, pidge?”
“Oh, thanks.” I bowed my head, his pet name tickling the fine hairs on my body.
He strode off with purpose. With passion. He charmed customers with his off-handed jokes and casual seduction.
Plus, that short apron framed his butt nicely.
Noooo, don’t notice his body.
I blushed and packed the cake.
For years, I’d thought he’d fallen asleep in class and buttered up girls for study guides because he was a horny mooch.
But he worked on weekends. He was on his feet, catering to people’s needs. Just like me.
I sucked my fingers clean of tart juice and sweet cream.
Maybe we had more in common than I’d ever dreamed.