16. Pumpkin Cookies
Courtney
Iinhale a deep breath as I enter the bakery, the warmth and sweet smell of the shop greeting me affectionately. The tinkling bell above my head draws Agnes’ attention to my arrival, her old chocolate-brown eyes taking me in. I squirm under her gaze; despite the benevolence of her stare, I wish she would look away, afraid if she looks at me too long, she might somehow find out what just happened between me and her adopted son.
“Hello, sugar,” Agnes beams. She pops her tray of pumpkin cookies into the oven, their earthy autumn smell wafting towards me as she approaches. She wraps me in a tender hug, not seeming to mind the layer of dried sweat on my skin. Her smile is still bright as she releases me.
“Hey, Agnes. I came for advice, I guess?” I say as I take a seat on one of the counter stools. The baker stifles a knowing look as she returns behind the counter, beginning to prepare her ingredients for another bake.
“You guess?” She echoes, raising an eyebrow that tells me I’ll have to be more forward if I want her help. I’m grateful that she keeps her gaze on the condensed milk she’s measuring out as I formulate what I’m going to say next. How do I tell her that her son just finger fucked my soul out of me and that I don’t want to lose him but I haven’t healed from my last breakup.. in a roundabout way? I scratch the back of my head below my ponytail, debating on my delivery.
“It’s, um, boy stuff.” Is the only way I can even think to begin to broach the delicate conversation. Agnes eyes me, taking in my obvious distress before putting down her supplies and pulling up a stool on the opposite side of the counter to face me.
“Having two boys, I never had a child to have these boy talks with, so forgive me if my elocution is a bit rusty.” Agnes ticks her tongue, dipping her head to one side before correcting herself. “Well, Milo likes men but he never comes to me for this sort of thing.”
A small smile splits across the tense surface of my face. I feel the fear and anxiety evaporate as Agnes quickly reminds me why I chose to come to her for advice. Agnes is a strong force, she reminds me of the local oak trees that refuse to bend or sway to anyone or anything. Yet she manages to stay comprised of a maternal and gracious presence just below her protective bark. She’s the kind of woman I assume all women want to become one day.
“Okay, well, here it is, buckle in. I got burned in California by this guy I’d been with for a while, and I thought I had sworn off men. They’re manipulative, they hurt you, they lie. But then I met someone,” I wince. “Who is the complete opposite of that. He’s amazing and dedicated, with a heart of pure gold. He’s the kind of guy you can only dream up in a fairy tale.” The words fall out before I can even process them.
“But?” She encourages me as I pause.
“But I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship again. I’m still so afraid to get hurt and I don’t think I can open up the way he deserves. I don’t want to lead him on or ask him to wait for me to heal, but I want him so badly, and he deserves everything. And… and… what if I just can’t be everything right now?”
Agnes offers me a thoughtful look. Her expression briefly resembles one of pity as she rolls her lips together, she folds her hands between us before she speaks again.
“My late husband passed six years ago, God rest his soul. We met when we were thirteen and got married the instant it was legal. Some people would say we weren’t ready.” Her knowing gaze falls from the ceiling and lands on me. My stomach tightens in remorse at the mention of Agnes’ deceased husband, the knowledge only adding to the strong image I had of her.“If I could have started our love and our life together even five minutes sooner, I would in a heartbeat because moments, opportunities, people, they’re gone before we know it.” I see her waterline fill before she blinks away the forming tears.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Agnes.” I reach out across the counter and squeeze her hands. The baker responds by patting mine to assure me she’s okay, but she doesn’t speak.
“I understand what you’re saying, I really do. Seize the moment because it’s ever-changing. I’m just afraid to be hurt again, or worse, I’m afraid to hurt him.”
“You will,” she says as if it were a matter of fact. My expression twists into one of confusion as I stare at her from below my creased brow. I thought this was supposed to be a pep talk?!
“Love is painful, child. Everyone has these bad or deceptive sides you’re afraid of but they’re not something to hate or fear, they’re something to grow from. Sometimes you can help your partner grow through them; other times you just have to call them out on that bullshit, and they need to do the same for you.” I audibly cackle over hearing Agnes swear for the first time. As we had sat by my fireplace last night, Finn told me stories about how, as a boy, Agnes would make him and Milo hold bars of soap in their mouth if she heard them cursing. Something told me that she’d probably inflict the same punishment today.
“By the way,” I watch the baker rise slowly from her seat, weighed down by her age only physically as her brown eyes gleam with a mother’s knowing. “I hope this little boy you’re torn up over is my son or else Finn is going to be very disappointed.”
My jaw almost smacks itself on the counter with how fast it drops. Agnes is an intelligent woman, of course, she isn’t blind to spark the between Finn and I. And clearly, she has some insider knowledge.
“You’ll catch flies,” Agnes circles her grinning mouth with her finger, prompting me to snap my mouth shut.
“That reminds me,” After the shock runs its course and allows me to regain control of my motor functions I pull out my phone from my sports bra, opening it to my notes app. “I’m starting a little project, can you tell me about Havenwood’s folklore? Including all the bedtime stories and all the witchy woo-woo stuff you can.” I pose my thumbs over the small, glowing letters on my phone’s keyboard, ready to pad away any stories the old baker has to share.
“Where to even begin.”
* * *
After an hour or so of listening to Agnes’ tales, full of mythical forest creatures and pestilent house elves that plague Havenwood homes, I say my goodbyes and thank Agnes wholeheartedly for her stories and advice. I make my way back to 2213 Queens Avenue, grateful that the sky has begun to clear and allow small streams of sunlight through the moody clouds.
My notes app is contently filled to the brim with helpful half-truthed histories and fables. Most of Agnes’ stories correlated with a period in Havenwood’s past that could help explain where these urban legends originated but I’d have to cross-check all of my info with Milo before concreting it into my guidebook.
“Hey, cutie!” The chipper voice drags me from my thoughts and I turn to face the source. Micah stands a few feet away from me, an unfairly attractive smile on his chiseled face. Suspenders hang on his bare shoulders because, despite the unpredictable weather, he isn’t wearing a shirt.
“Hey, Micah. Are you going for a sexy Johnny Appleseed vibe?” I question playfully. He chuckles and jogs to catch up to where I’m standing.
“One of our turkeys got loose,” he informs me. “I was taking a nap when mom woke me up to go chase it down, didn’t have enough time to grab a shirt but you called me sexy, so I think it was a win in the end.” Being this close to Micah allows me to take note of his pointy canines as he grins down at me; honestly, I’m trying to look anywhere but at his tanned chest that is on full display.
“It’s really cool that your family raises turkeys,” I say, smirking at Micah’s disappointment at the change of topic, knowing he’d prefer to continue talking about how sexy he is.
“They sell well around Thanksgiving. Helps us make some extra cash in a dying town.” He shrugs his muscled shoulders, his traps looking extra beefy weighed down by the straps of his suspenders. I try to ignore his comment about Havenwood dying, not wanting to think of this place fizzling out of existence. Not right now.
“Do you save one for yourselves for Thanksgiving dinner?” I ask, glancing up into his hazel eyes. He shakes his head, sunlight shimmering off his black hair.
“Not quite; we’re Indigenous, so Thanksgiving isn’t something we celebrate.”
“Oh, that’s cool. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” I feel the heat rise to my cheeks, a bit embarrassed and hoping I didn’t offend him. Micah elbows me playfully, his handsome smile never leaving his face. “But yeah, we do save one or two for ourselves.” I beam back at him as we hit a crossroads.
“I’ll catch you later, beautiful. Holler for me if you find my turkey?”
“Promise.” I give him a wink before we split paths. Micah follows the gravelly road back toward the apothecary shop and I take the more paved one leading to Havenwood’s one suburb.
My run-in with Micah was a nice distraction, but now that I’m once again alone with my thoughts, I’m fighting to ignore the nauseating feeling of guilt that accompanies my memories of today. If Agnes is right, and relationships are a matter of growing together, why do I have these feelings of self-condemnation for giving into my desire for Finn? I have so many questions and no answers, I’m pulled in so many directions and have no resolution. I’m driving myself mad trying to balance what I want and what I think is right by him.
As I let out an exhale of confused frustration, the wind whips in tandem with my breath, swiping my hair across my face and blinding me momentarily. The eerie feeling of being watched settles deep in my bones and I swear I can almost hear the sound of breathing coming from behind me. I desperately swat my hair from my face, feeling suffocated in the darkness of it, half expecting to see a face pressed to my own once my vision is cleared. But as I whirl around, my gaze darting around the empty street, I don’t see a single person watching me or any cause for the feeling, which is gone just as fast as it arrived.
My heart is still pounding as the uneasiness dissipates, leaving a strange feeling of clarity in its wake. The message is crystal clear and coming from within my own head: Everything will be okay. It feels as though it isn’t my own consciousness speaking the words, but nonetheless, they bring me comfort and a strange feeling of peace.
I rush the rest of the way home, my conscience feeling lighter but the rest of me feeling majorly weirded out by that experience. As I step onto Queens Avenue a wrinkly face glowers at me from three feet off the ground, the displeased scowl distracting me from what had just happened.
“Someone is looking for you,” I remark as I walk past the rusty brown-colored turkey. The animal garbles out a gobble at me as I near it, ruffling its plumage and fanning out its white-tipped tail feathers in an attempt to intimidate me. I chuckle at the ridiculous display as I hop the few steps up onto my porch and let myself into the rental.
I kick my shoes off in the entryway and retrieve my cell from its spot my bra, intending to call the apothecary shop and let Micah know I found his rogue turkey, but a text notification on my lock screen detours me.
It’s from Kashvi. I tap my passcode in and read her message.
Kashvi: No. Effing. Way.
I click the link attached to her message, prompting a YouTube video to load on my small screen. The title of the video informs me that it’s the official movie trailer for this year’s best-selling fantasy book. For a brief second, I question why Kashvi is so concerned about the book receiving a movie adaptation until unnecessarily dramatic music overtakes my phone’s speakers, and a familiar face appears on my screen.
There, in all his chiseled, blond glory, is Carter reciting some sappy sonnet in pointy prosthetic ears. He had done it; Carter had finally convinced his uncle to give him a leading role, and he was acting his little black heart out.
“No effing way..” I echo Kashvi’s sentiment as I watch Carter kiss and caress the face of his rising B-list actress co-star. The sight causes a pinprick of anger to jab into my side as I realize that I am watching Carter act for the first time. He’s playing pretend, yet the way he’s delivering his lines feels so familiar because he was acting the entire time he was with me. He had pretended he cared about me to get me to be his damn booty call, and somehow, it had worked for so long.
I feel ire now as I watch him perform because I fully understand that that’s what our relationship was: performative. I want to slap myself even harder now that I can clearly see Carter isn’t even a good actor, I was simply too naive and trusting. I was a means to an end for him; I was an easy fuck who looked good on paper, I helped elevate his social rank in the L.A. scene, and once I was no longer useful to him, I was tossed out.
I’m fuming by the time the short trailer ends on a melodramatic beat. The credits roll after announcing the film’s release date and my eyes snag on Carter’s uncle’s name as it flies by, confirming what I already know.
“Son of a bitch,” I scoff as the puzzle pieces magnetize to one another inside my head. It’s all making sense now. Carter had dumped me knowing he was going to land this main role and he couldn’t have any of the focus landing on his striking screenwriter situationship. That would highlight the fact that he’s crossing picket lines and is a scab. What a strategic, manipulative motherfucker.
I’d done a great job ignoring Carter and the pain he’d caused me, thanks in part to a certain mayor, but I can’t keep the emotions at bay at this moment. A growl of anger rumbles in my chest as I clench my fists, my acrylics digging into my palms. I’m angry that Carter never truly cared for me, I’m angry that he landed this role that he doesn’t deserve, I’m angry that I still have such an adverse reaction to him and I’m angry that I didn’t see through him from the beginning.
I storm into my bathroom, cranking the faucet and splashing the cold water onto my face. The refreshing sensation allowed me to calm down enough to regard my reflection in the mirror. I see my messy, windswept caramel hair and angry chocolate eyes, the clenched muscles of my jaw. But more importantly, what I don’t see is myself. I’m not this angry, hurt person Carter has made me. I don’t want to be, not anymore.
My thoughts flick to Finn, I don’t ask or wield them to but he appears anyway. Finn doesn’t invoke anger or pain, he makes me happy, he genuinely listens, and he gives me flowers for crying out loud! I’ve been shutting him out and punishing myself in the process for Carter’s mistakes. I decide that that ends here and now. I close my eyes, inhaling a deep breath and banishing the angry woman in the mirror.
On the exhale, I tell myself, I’m expelling every feeling I’ve ever had for Carter. The good, the bad, the painful, it’s all getting out of me. From here on out, Carter is evicted, and I’m making room for Finn.
I let my breath out in a slow stream, opening my eyes to examine myself once again in the mirror. Just like a maple tree, which has shed her angry, red leaves and is left with bare branches, ready to begin new growth, I see a familiar yet changed woman in the reflection. Looking back at me is messy caramel hair, calm chocolate eyes, and a hopeful grin. Now that I’ve officially expunged the disease that is my ex, I want to see Finn again. I want to tell him about my idea for a guidebook, I want to tell him to stop running away, and I want to tell him that I want him.
My gaze tracks back to the messy mop of hair on top of my head and I decide a shower is definitely necessary before going anywhere. I let the shower warm up as I undress, the steam fogging the glass of the mirror and filling the small room. Once the temperature is right, I lather up quickly, rushing in an attempt to minimize the time before I see Finn again.
I bend down to clean my legs and flinch as my calf muscle tenses, a side effect of being a runner. Many of my muscles are tight or achy from my morning jogs around Havenwood, and thanks to my extracurricular activity this morning I’m extra tight. I consider Googling a nearby massage parlor once I’m done bathing but a more enticing thought overtakes me. What would it be like to get a massage from Finn? How long could I possibly last with those long fingers kneading into my skin before I become overwrought with horniness and fuck him on the massage table? Were his other appendages as lengthy as his sexy fingers?
During my intermission my hand had somehow found itself between my thighs, playfully swiping my enlarged clit. The little strokes of pleasure fueled my desire to see Finn’s face.. and hands, once again. I pull away from myself and lodge my fingers into my shampooed hair, locking them in my tresses before my shower gets steamier.