Chapter 3
three
JAY
Empty tables and a cavernous silence fill the Tin Shed Pub. It’s a stark contrast to the earlier mayhem. I planned to have the wedding reception’s afterparty here. Now, I am surrounded by platters of French bread, plates of fine cheeses, tiny cups of Brunswick stew, miniature burgers, and Shepherd’s pie bites. Bennett watches me out of the corner of his eye as he wraps the platters in plastic wrap.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, for maybe the fourth time.
As one of my best friends, Bennett had the pleasure of seeing Blake dump me in front of everyone earlier tonight. Now, he’s keeping me company in the restaurant he owns while I brood. So he probably knows as well as anybody that I’m not really okay .
Cutting my eyes at him, I grimace. “I could use another drink. This IPA is just not hitting the spot.”
“Mi casa es su casa,” he says. “Have whatever you want. There are forty beer taps at the bar and every kind of liquor you could ever want. ”
“Thanks.”
He hefts a stack of platters and heads into the back with them. I hop up from my barstool and go behind the bar, rooting around until I find the perfect thing. “Ahhh, tequila. My sweet, sweet friend. You’ll do.”
Grabbing a shot glass, I settle myself back at the bar. Bennett comes back twice for more platters, shuttling them to what I assume is a big refrigerator in the kitchen. Then he disappears into the back hallway. He’s always busy; I can’t remember the last time I saw him at rest. He’s always cutting orange wedges, stacking menus, or passionately waving his hands as he dives into the history of beer through the ages.
Bennett doesn’t date. Instead, he runs this bar like a precision instrument, constantly fiddling with things and making changes so small that they’re almost unnoticeable. He may have it right: it’s much easier to pour yourself into your business than it is to feel the way I feel right now.
The cap spins idly between my fingers before I shrug and pour a healthy shot. The burn as it slides down my throat is a welcome distraction from the ache in my chest. Blake’s dramatic exit replays in my head, a silent movie on an endless loop, mocking me.
How did I get here?
Where did I go wrong?
Pondering that, I help myself to another shot. The creak of the door pulls me from my thoughts. For a split second, hope flickers. Then, just as abruptly, it dies, because it’s the sweet cake baker, Calla, poking her head inside.
"Well, if it isn’t my cake angel," I say, my voice rough. The joke surprises me. I guess when I’m feeling blue, it’s easier to let her see my sarcastic side. "Come to frost my wounded ego? "
She steps inside, shutting the door against the cold January night air. "Just coming to see if you’re all right," she says.
Her tone carries the faintest edge pity. I frown. I don’t want it. I stare at her, belligerent thoughts forming. She doesn’t deserve them, obviously. But the last thing I need right now is someone being tender and charitable toward me.
The idea of it makes me queasy.
“If you’re wondering how I knew where to find you…” Calla slides onto the stool next to me, dropping her oversized tote on the bar. She’s still wearing her blush pink dress and sneakers. "I followed you from the venue."
I snort and gesture to the cake box on the counter. "If you’re looking for the top layer, I have it right here. It’s still intact if you want to rescue it. I was planning to destroy it later."
"No thanks. What would I do with it, anyway?" Her eyes narrow as she studies me. "If you don’t mind me saying, Jay, you look like hell."
I raise my shot glass in a mock toast. "I didn’t realize that you were the called-off wedding police.”
"I’m not.” Calla wrinkles her nose. “Why are you alone right now? Don’t you have family and friends to keep you company?”
“I sent them away.” I down the shot, the tequila smoothing the edges of everything. "Anyway, your timing is impeccable. I was just drowning my sorrows."
Her head tilts. Her eyes rake over me like she’s trying to piece together a puzzle with half its pieces missing.
"I can come back," she says softly, but she doesn’t move.
I wave her off. "Stay. Misery loves company." I pour another shot and push the bottle her way. "Want some? It’s top shelf. Probably. It’s whatever Bennett keeps in stock, which is undoubtedly some amazing stuff.”
"I don’t think so. I don’t drink while I work." Calla’s expression pinches.
I bleat out a laugh. “You’re not working. In case you didn’t notice, the wedding is off. The guests have gone home.”
Her face softens in a way that I can’t stand right now. “Yeah. I’m really sorry about that, Jay.”
It’s cool. It’s not like I’m not drinking so I don’t cry or anything. Scrubbing a hand through my hair, I sigh. "Why are you still here, Calla? The wedding’s over. If you’re not here to keep me company, and you’re not working…."
She fidgets, looking down at the bar. "I was hoping for some exposure. Photos of the cake, a mention in the press. ‘Local baker creates masterpiece for Rustin wedding.’ Something to help the bakery."
"Ah. I’m sorry. We’ll still post something on Insta and TikTok. It’s not the same, I know. But it’s all I can do now. Blake vanished without a word."
“Can I ask you something?”
I lean on an elbow. “I live to answer your mildly intrusive questions.” I frown. “That came out sounding more sarcastic than I meant it. What I meant to say is, go ahead. I’m not going anywhere.”
Calla stares at me for several beats. This close, I notice that her eyes are an intriguing shade of hazel. She leans forward on the bar, closer to me. "Did you really not see this coming?"
I shrug, the motion heavy with resignation. "Blake loves a good spectacle. I figured she’d wait until the honeymoon to pull something like this, though. Make it a reality show intervention or some crap." I rub my temples, the tequila doing little to dull the pounding in my head. Putting my head down, I mutter, "Why did I even propose? I knew what I was getting into."
Calla doesn’t say anything. For a second, I wonder if she’s left. I don’t have the energy to check. Then she speaks, her voice softer than usual. "People do stupid things for love."
I laugh, but it comes out quiet, almost gentle. "Love. Yeah. Something like that." I look at her again. This time, I see that she’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. "I’m touched that you’re sad for me, Calla."
"I’m not sad for you," she says, sitting up straighter. "I’m sad the wedding didn’t happen. I needed the exposure."
She stands up, and I think she’s going to make excuses and leave. But then, to my surprise, she sits back down, moving slowly, like she’s testing the water.
"One shot," she declares. "For research."
My eyebrows shoot up. "Research?"
"That’s what I say when I am doing something sketchy." Her eyes twinkle.
I chuckle. Standing up, I fish another shot glass from behind the bar. Then I slide the clean glass her way.
"It’s an acquired taste. Like poison." I pour the shot and watch as she picks up the glass, sniffing it cautiously.
"This smells awful. To your health," she says.
Before I can stop her, she throws it back in one go. Her face contorts through a series of expressions: shock, disgust, and a little confusion. Then she makes a strangled noise and slams the glass down.
I burst out laughing. "Oh my god, that was priceless. You looked like you were giving your first blowjob."
Her eyes widen at the same time as her cheeks flush a deep, mortified red. Her mouth opens and then snaps shut. She’s speechless . It’s… adorable.
The wicked grin that breaks out over my face is irrepressible.
"I mean, not that I’d know what that looks like. But I can imagine." I lean in closer, watching her squirm. "You going to be okay? Need me to pat your back? Get you some water?"
"You’re an ass," she mutters, glaring at me. But it’s half-hearted, and we both know it.
"Probably," I admit, still smiling. "But you’re the one who walked in here. So what does that make you?"
“That was truly vile. The worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”
The chaos of a few hours ago, Blake in her ridiculous peacock dress, the hurried preparations. It feels like a lifetime ago, the memory bleeding away.
"You know," I say slowly, an idea forming in my tequila-soaked brain. “We could still make something of the day. We could at least make this wedding disaster memorable."
She looks back at me, suspicious. "How?"
I grab the tequila bottle and stand, swaying slightly. "Come on. I promise it’ll be more fun than sitting here wallowing."
Calla hesitates, her eyes flicking between the bottle and my face. "I really should get home."
"You should. But will you?" I extend a hand to her. “Keep me company, Calla."
She stares at me for a moment, then takes my hand. I pull her to her feet, grinning.
"You’re insane," she says. But there’s a note of curiosity, maybe even one of excitement, in her voice .
"Probably." I lead her toward the door. "But you’re coming along for the ride."
For the first time in hours, I feel a flicker of something other than despair. Maybe hope. Or maybe it’s just the tequila. Either way, I’ll take it.
I lead Calla into the back of the restaurant. It’s deserted. Bennett has gone into his office or run out to get something. Either way, I pull her toward the walk-in refrigerator.
“Where are you taking me?” She wrinkles her nose, distrustful.
“You’ll see in a second.” I pull open the walk-in. The wedding cake is sitting there on a wheeled cart, swathed delicately in cling wrap. It was brought here by Bennett, who offered to keep it in the restaurant’s fridge for guests to enjoy during the reception.
Only now that the reception is called off, there is no need for a huge five tier wedding cake. I’m not getting married today.
With some difficulty, I pull the cart out of the walk-in, showing Calla what I’ve rustled up. “Voilà!”
“Okayyyy…?” she says, eying me. “The wedding cake. Why are you showing me the wedding cake?”
“Like Marie Antoinette said. The people are starving. Let them eat cake!”
My announcement makes her blink several times. “Where are you planning to serve cake?”
I shrug. “Wherever there are people. We have a cart. We can go anywhere we want. Let’s start outside.”
Calla takes a deep breath and says, “If you want to….”
“I do,” I say quickly, cutting off whatever else she was going to say. “Help me get this out front.”
I shrug off my tux jacket and convince Calla to help me wheel the massive cake out onto the street. At first, she hesitates, probably imagining it toppling over and creating a sugary avalanche. But my enthusiasm wins her over.
The night air is wintry. The streets are quieter now too, but there’s still a trickle of people moving through the town square. I peel the cling wrap off, letting her use a chef’s knife and a stack of bar napkins to make little cake bundles. Together, we start slicing the cake and offering pieces to anyone who’ll take them. College students, people leaving restaurants, a pottery class that has just let out.
I hand out samples for a while before I realize that I have a smoking gun left unused.
“Hold on,” I say, pulling out my phone. Angling it towards us, I catch Calla instinctively ducking, but I keep her in the frame anyway. “Hey everyone, it’s Jay. So, the wedding didn’t quite go as planned, but we’ve got a ton of cake here. Come get a slice! Oh, and prepare to have your taste buds blown away by the one, the only, Calla!”
I turn the camera to her. She freezes, awkwardly waving. “Hi?” is all she manages to say.
I turn the camera back to me and encourage my fans to come down to the Greater town square, where we will give out cake until we succumb to hypothermia.
“Seriously?” Calla whispers harshly as I hit the upload button. “I look like a deer in headlights.”
“You look adorable,” I say. Even I can hear the warmth in my voice. Maybe I had too much tequila, but I don’t really care. “Trust me, this will be good for you. For the bakery.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but it’s too late now. The video is live.
“See? My followers are already liking and commenting at a furious pace.” I show her the screen, and a few familiar names from the community pop up. One person writes, “On our way!”
I see Calla tense with a mix of fear and excitement.
“We’re turning this into a party,” I say, grinning.
As we continue handing out cake, I film little snippets, each one more ridiculous than the last. I make exaggerated yummy noises, interview random people about the cake, and even try to start a chant of “We love Calla!” which mercifully doesn’t catch on.
Through it all, Calla laughs, her reservations melting away. There’s something liberating about it all.
Not caring for a moment, just letting the chaos unfold.
A young couple walks by. I practically tackle them with my enthusiasm. “Have some cake! It’s free, and it’s amazing!”
They take a slice each, and the girl asks if this is the cake from the video. I nod. “Sure is!”
The girl squeals, taking a selfie with me and the cake. I make sure to mention You Butter Believe It again, catching Calla’s soft smile out of the corner of my eye.
“Okay,” she says, grabbing the knife. “If you’re going to make me a star, it’s time for you to enjoy some cake. I insist .” She cuts a huge piece and holds it out to me. “Berry Gentilly Lace, just like you wanted.”
My eyes light up. I take the plate with almost reverent care. “You really made a whole tier in this flavor? I thought you were just humoring me.”
“I aim to please,” she says, her voice lighter now. “And I would like to point out that I actually made the base layer Gentilly Lace, so the cake is more this flavor than any other. Go on, try it.”
I take a bite. My initial reaction is damn, Calla can bake . I already sort of knew that, but this taste of heaven confirms it. My eyes roll back and I give an exaggerated moan. “Calla, this is… I have no words. It’s perfection.”
I stuff more into my mouth, grinning as she laughs at how ridiculous I look. Cake isn’t my thing, but this cake is heavenly.
“I’m in love,” I declare, mouth full of cake, words all but indecipherable. “In love with this cake.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Her words are belied by her grin.
I swallow and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Sometimes it feels good to be bad,” I tease.
Before Calla can respond, a group of my fans arrives, drawn by the allure of free cake and social media fame. They cluster around us. I find myself playing the gracious host, dishing out slices and taking more selfies. I pull Calla into a few shots, ignoring her half-hearted protests. She puts on her best unimpressed face, but I can see the hint of a smile she’s trying to hide.
The crowd thins eventually. I notice that Calla is shivering. I drape my coat over her shoulders without thinking. “I think that’s enough charity,” I say. “Thanks for keeping me company tonight, though.”
“No problem,” she says softly, her eyes meeting mine. “Tonight was actually fun.”
“Yeah, it was,” I reply.
The street is quiet as I wheel the decimated cake back into the Tin Shed Pub. I try to judge her mood so I can figure out if she’s up for more. “So, what’s next for you?”
She exhales, her expression thoughtful. “Back to reality, I guess.”
“Reality can wait,” I say, almost pleading. “Stay a little longer. ”
She hesitates. For some reason, I find myself holding my breath. When she nods, relief washes over me.
“Maybe just for a bit.”
“I’ll take it.” I grin at her mischievously. “How about another shot?”
The night stretches on. And for a while, reality does wait.