Layla – Present
I stare at the old black stand mixer I dug out from the back of a cupboard in Dad’s kitchen.
There’s flour, eggs, and butter spread out over the marble counter top.
I get to work, adding the wet ingredients together in one bowl and setting it beside the dry ingredients I’ve already hand mixed.
Then I pull up the top of the stand mixer and start to slowly add in the wet and dry mixtures into the same bowl.
I miss my green mixer, this one is slower and louder.
I don’t think it’s been used since I moved out.
I turn the speed up to full and watch as the ingredients start to blend.
Once I’m happy with the consistency, I pour the batter evenly into the cake tins, then place them in the oven. I set my timer and start to clean up.
I practice writing “Warren” with some tempered chocolate on a bit of parchment paper.
When the cake is done, I set it on the cooling racks. I check it after half an hour, it’s cooled, but not enough, so I put it into the fridge. I don’t have much time left before Jacob arrives.
While the cakes are in the fridge, I start using the mixer to whip up the buttercream. Mabel texted me this morning and told me that Warren loves buttercream, but he’s not a fan of fondant.
I stack the layers, then apply a crumb coat and set the cake back into the fridge for another half hour before adding the final layer of buttercream. I picked a pastel blue. The cake is spinning on the turntable while I spread the buttercream evenly.
I start to pipe Warren’s name.
Music plays through the speaker by the window, and there’s this calmness I feel when I’m baking that I didn’t realize I’ve missed. There’s no room to think about anything but the cake. My mind is empty of all other thoughts beside what my hands are doing.
I get carried away piping little flowers onto the cake, I don’t even realize what I’m doing until there’s a knock at the door and I step back.
Daisies. I piped daisies.
I’m not sure eighty-two-year-old Warren is going to want daisies on his cake.
I take off the floral apron tied around my neck and wipe the bits of buttercream that managed to get on my hands, which are now stained blue from the food coloring.
“Ready to go?” Jacob smiles at me, and the way he does makes me feel all kinds of things I’m not ready to feel.
He looks good today. I’m not sure I’ve noticed how good he looks now that we’re adults, not that he ever looked bad before, but right now it’s all I can seem to think about.
The way his T-shirt contours to his body, the way he leans his tattooed arm against the door frame and his muscles flex.
He didn’t look like that when we were kids.
I drag my eyes up his body until I meet his gaze and realize I’ve been shamelessly staring at him this entire time.
He clears his throat, and then he does this half smirk thing he used to do when he was amused by something I said or did, and I start to feel a different kind of knot in my stomach.
I glance down at what I’m wearing, it’s not exactly lust worthy. My over sized white T-shirt is covered in flour and buttercream. My hands are stained blue and yellow, and I threw my hair up into a messy bun that probably looks like I spent the night in a field.
I fight the urge to close the door on him and run upstairs to make myself look halfway decent, but I’m too late.
I’ve already been standing here staring at him for way too long, and if I’ve had enough time to think about what he looks like, he’s probably done the same.
Though I doubt whatever he’s thinking about my appearance is anywhere close to what I think about his.
“Sorry.” I say. It comes out raspy, so I clear my throat. “I finished the cake for Warren, I just need five minutes to change.”
Really, I need a good twenty to try to improve what’s going on.
“You made it?” He pushes off the door frame and looks past me. “Can I see it?”
I pull the door wide open and gesture for him to come in. Then I lead the way into the kitchen.
“I hope it tastes okay. It’s been a while. I’m out of practice.”
“I don’t think you’d ever be capable of making something bad,” he says.
“You didn’t taste the cookie disaster of my eighth birthday.”
I walk around the island and pull open the fridge. Jacob is on the opposite side.
“What happened with the cookies?”
“I accidentally used milk that was out of date. They were so bad my dad threw up.”
Jacob starts to laugh, and I turn to look at him.
“I was heartbroken,” I say, holding back a smirk. “It took Dad years to try my baking again.”
“You were eight. Most eight-year-old’s can’t even turn the oven on, let alone attempt to bake cookies.”
I shrug. “I should have checked the date on the ingredients first. Lesson learned.”
I set the cake down on the counter and turn it toward Jacob. He doesn’t say anything at first, which makes me panic.
I didn’t think it looked that bad. I mean, it’s not the best cake I’ve ever made, but it also isn’t the worst. It’s been over a year since I baked anything, so it’s entirely plausible I’ve had some sort of regression in skill.
The longer the silence stretches, the more I regret even attempting to make the cake.
I exhale. “Please say something. If it’s horrible, tell me. I’ll make up an excuse and stop by the gas station and pick up a chocolate cake. Or donuts. Or brownies. Or–”
He walks around the counter and stops in front of me. Then he reaches for the cake and turns it so it’s facing us.
“Stop,” he says. “Look at how good it is, Layla. It’s amazing.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
He looks at me, his eyes narrowing for a second like he’s thinking over his next words. Then he exhales. “Because I was stuck thinking about how damn talented you are. And how, after a year of not baking anything, this is what you come up with.” He gestures to the cake. “you’re incredible, Layla.”
I roll my eyes. “Anyone can bake a cake, Jacob.”
“Yeah, sure they can. But it wouldn’t look like that, and it wouldn’t taste anywhere near as good as I know it’s going to.”
“You’re extremely optimistic.”
“And like I’ve told you before, you don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“It could taste worse than the cookies,” I say. “Would you still tell me I’m the best baker in the world then?”
He smirks, then shakes his head.
“I never said you were the best.”
I narrow my eyes. “Yes, you did.”
He sticks out his bottom lip and shakes his head again. “I think you’re getting a big head,” he says, tapping the side of my head. “I said you’re amazing, incredible, talented…”
He leans in, his breath a whisper on my neck.
“But not the best.”
Shivers run down my spine, and my stomach does that knotting thing again, but this time, it’s not because I’m embarrassed.
He pulls away slowly, holding eye contact with me. I’m the one who finally breaks it, by glancing at the clock hanging on the wall behind him.
“I better get changed.”
I open the fridge and grab an orange soda, setting it down next to where his hand rests on the counter top beside me. As I walk out into the hall, I stop and turn back to look at him.
“You did tell me my baking is the best in the world,” I say. “Just… not today.”
***
Jacob is still in the same spot I left him in. I feel a little bad for taking so long.
He turns, then smiles at me.
“Ready?”
“I just need to grab the cake.”
I carefully adjust the cake into a box. I take one last look at it, happy with everything apart from the daisies. Jacob opens the front door, takes the spare key from underneath the plant pot, locks it, then puts it back into place.
“You remembered.”
He smiles.
When he opens the passenger door for me, I’m careful not to drop the cake as I get in.
He pulls off from the sidewalk, his window rolled down, his arm resting against it. I keep looking at him, and he keeps noticing. I shift my focus to the road in front of us.
The town turns into fields, and then we pull up to a large house with a wraparound porch. Some elderly people are sitting in rocking chairs, others out on the grass in deck chairs with glasses of iced tea in hand.
“Do you want me to carry that?” he asks.
“Yes, please.” I slowly pass the box to him.
“Layla, Jacob, I’m so glad you’re here. They keep treating me like I’m old.” Mabel hugs me.
“Doesn’t Layla look lovely, Jacob?”
Jacob clears his throat. “Yes.”
“Is this the cake?” Mabel points to the box Jacob’s holding.
“I hope you like it. It’s been a while since I made anything, so I can’t promise it’ll taste any good.”
She waves her hand. “Please, dear, I’m sure it’ll be perfect.”
I hope so.
The worst part of baking is you have no idea what it will taste like until it’s done.
With cakes, you can’t even properly taste test them, just a few crumbs of sponge.
It’s a hope for the best kind of thing. When I baked almost every day, I didn’t worry as much.
I was gaining more confidence in my skill.
But when Ben died, doing anything that made me feel like me again felt impossible.
She takes us inside and sets the cake down on a table. “Warren is out back,” she tells us, then leads the way.
“Warren, these are my friends, Layla and Jacob.”
Warren is sitting in a rocking chair on the decking, looking out over the fields. He has a crossword puzzle in front of him with only one word filled in. He reaches for his glasses sitting on a tall side table beside him, puts them on, then smiles.
“Do you work here too?” he asks.
Mabel sighs like she’s frustrated, but I catch the faintest glimpse of sadness in her eyes.
“I have a daughter a few years older than you,” he says, and Mabel’s head lifts.
“Do you remember her name?” she asks.
His eyes move like he’s searching every corner of his mind. Then he shakes his head.
“No.”
He rubs his knee and gestures to the seat next to him. “Please sit. I’d like some company.”
I look to Mabel, and she nods.
“Sit, I’ll get us some drinks.”