ANNA
I hold the piping bag, squeezing and holding it steadily as I write “Happy Birthday” on top of the cake.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, setting the bag down and picking up the straight spatula to scrape the orange frosting off.
I attempt to write it, but again, I mess it up. I squeezed too hard causing more frosting to spill out, making the words thick and wobbly. “Dammit,” I say a little louder than I intended to.
Em peeks her head from the window on the wall that divides our bakery. “You okay, sweets?”
Blowing a breath, I drop the bag and turn, leaning against the stainless-steel worktable. “Yeah.” I shove my glasses up the bridge of my nose, then squeeze and release my hands, shaking out the cramps. “Just needed to stretch my fingers, that’s all.”
She pushes the swinging door, strolling in with a knowing look on her face.
“You have uttered the word fuck twenty-six times and you’ve been working on writing ‘Happy Birthday’ for twenty minutes now.
” She picks up the piping bag, pulls the tres leches cake toward her, and expertly writes out the two stupid words in perfect cursive.
“Thanks,” I mumble, dragging the pad of my thumb over my plain nails and noticing the orange food coloring staining them.
“So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or are you going to keep saying fuck?” She pads over to where the bakery boxes are and assembles one, placing the cake inside.
I head over to the sink to wash my hands, scrubbing them hard until they’re covered in foamy suds. I rub the tips of my fingers on my palm in circles, turning the soapy water orange. As I continue, I debate what I want to say and how to say it.
“Marc, the guy from earlier, played hockey for King’s Yard and now he plays for the Boston Arctic Owls.”
“Wait, so did you date him?” She zeroes in on my expression, eyes tracing over the features of my face knowingly.
“No, it wasn’t him. I dated his best friend.”
You’ve been warned. You come near Sylas again and he’ll make sure…
My throat thickens, and nausea threatens to slither its way up.
I try to burn the memory, bury the ashes deep beneath the part of my brain that keeps trying to keep it alive. But even on fire they remain, painful and heavy. They play on a loop, that moment and every other, alive and ablaze.
“Was it a…bad breakup?” she asks gingerly.
I smile, but it’s as empty as his promises were. “Worse.”
You’ve been warned. You come near Sylas again and he’ll make sure…
“Anna.” Understanding settles on her features and she stands straighter. “That guy, is he Rosie’s father?”
“Yeah.” I heave a sigh, picking at the dry butter cream and gold dust on my apron.
“The ‘fucks’ now make so much sense.” She fiddles with the strap of her apron tied around her waist. “Does he play with Marc too?”
“No, he’s living in Colorado, playing for the hockey team there.”
“I don’t know him, but I hate him. I hope he burns in hell,” she spits out. “If I ever see him, I won’t refrain from cussing him out.”
I laugh at her dramatics. “It’s fine, it was years ago. You don’t have to hold a grudge on my behalf.”
“Sweets.” She places a palm on my shoulder, voice condescending. “You think that’s a grudge? That’s nothing. I cut my father off years ago. He’s dead to me,” she states. “I mean it, Anna. Dead.”
A snicker sneaks past my lips. “Don’t hate on my behalf. It’s whatever.”
“Not whatever. I despise him, and what he did is unforgivable.” Her words burn with rage, and not an ounce of humor surfaces in her usual cheery personality.
I can’t imagine what she’d think of him if I told her what really happened.
When we hear the bell chime through the bakery, she pushes away from the table and walks backward to the sliding door. “If I ever see—what’s his name?”
“Sylas Lenoir Alves.” I can’t remember the last time I said his full name out loud.
“What a pretentious—” She comes to an abrupt stop with her hand on the door, eyes widening. “Sylas Lenoir Alves? Please don’t tell me he’s related to Clara Lenoir Alves?”
I nod, or at least I think I do. My neck feels too rigid, so I’m not sure whether I’m moving my head or imagining it. “Yeah, that’s his mom.”
“You dated Clara Alves’s son…” She staggers back, studying my face. “Holy…Jesus…” Em gapes. “Sylas is Rosie’s dad?”
I look through the window and paste on a smile, waving at Mrs. Dawson.
Unlike most bakeries where customers point and you give them what they want, we have all of our pastries on display for them to grab.
We have round wooden trays and tongs for the customer to use, making it a more interactive experience.
I got the idea from working in a Mexican bakery, but it also helps since there’s only two of us working here.
I draw my gaze back to Clementine, smile dropping as it does. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve watched every movie Clara has ever directed.
I’ve gone down some serious rabbit holes.
I saw his pictures from the premieres and found his Instagram and, well…
I hope that doesn’t sound weird. He’s hot, I couldn’t help myself.
” She shrugs, a blush tinting her cheeks.
“Anyway, she was the reason I wanted to study film in college and become a director. But that obviously didn’t work out, and thank God, or I wouldn’t have met you. ”
Can’t say I blame her. I looked him up a lot when we first started talking, when everything was good.
“Looks like she’s dead to me now too.”
“Clementine, you don’t have to—”
“Oh, I will. You think I’m kidding about grudges?
” She cocks a brow. “It’s been years, I tell you, years since I last spoke to my father.
I have his number blocked. Anyway, Rosie has all the love she’ll ever need.
I am more than willing to step up. Platonically of course.
You’re hot, don’t get me wrong. I’d be all over you in a heartbeat, but I’m sorry, I don’t ride that way or, like, scissor? Whatever, you know what I mean.”
The things that come out of her mouth.
I grin. “Go help Mrs. Dawson. I’m going to clean up. My next consultation is about to show up.”
Em and I both come in early to bake, but once we open for the day, she stays at the front and I in the back.
She deals with the customers, makes sure the trays and tongs stay sanitized, and does a damn good job of drumming up special orders.
Meanwhile, I decorate the cakes or other pastries, work on the consultations, occasionally test out new recipes, and clean up.
She salutes me and pivots, but glances over her shoulder. “Don’t forget I’m leaving a little early.”
“I’ve not forgotten.” I did once, but we’ve since bought a huge whiteboard calendar. It’s hung up on the wall.
“I’m happy we did this.” She smiles. “And hey, you’re a good mom. I’m proud of you.”
I dip my chin, feeling a wave of emotions. “Clementine, it’s too late in the day for this. Stop flirting with me.”
She blows me a kiss and leaves.
When she’s gone, I can’t help but feel a heaviness in my chest. The smile I was forcing slips, the tension in my head resurfacing.
He’s not here. I don’t have to be on edge. He’s not going to take Rosie away.
There’s ten minutes until closing and as much as I consider locking up now, I don’t. There’s a possibility that a new customer could come in and become a potential regular, like Mrs. Dawson.
They’ve all shown up right before closing because they were craving something sweet and then stuck around. So even if there’s only a few minutes left, it can’t hurt to stay open until then.
Either way, Em did a good job about cleaning before she had to go. I don’t have much to do but clean the tongs and trays, and dust the crumbs off the wooden countertop.
My gaze flicks to the door and large windows. Since no one passes by, I take the opportunity to check the bottom drawers, making sure we have enough brown paper bags, boxes, and business cards.
I’m crouched down, looking at the last drawer, when I hear the front doorbell chime.
Kicking it closed with my foot, I stand, shoving my glasses back up the bridge of my nose. “Hi, welcome to Everything Every—” The rest of my words dissipate, along with the air in my lungs.
I freeze, unable to move, but my heart beats into a frenzy. I’m almost afraid I’m experiencing cardiac arrest. Every hair on my body stands, goose bumps break loose on my skin, and dread courses through me.
“Hi, Anna,” Sylas says from the front door.