2. Brooke
Brooke
The scent of melted chocolate and vanilla extract fills the apartment as sweat rolls down my back. The crappy oven I share with my five roommates always heats up the kitchen—and living room—every time I use it, but I have to get this done. The pop-up is tomorrow, and who knows when I'll get this chance again? I had to take two days off to get everything ready and another day to actually sell the goods.
"Did you forget to set a timer?" Janine, my best friend, idly asks as she scrolls on her phone.
"No, I don't think so—shit, I did. Do you remember when I put this batch in?" I wipe the sweat from my brow and instantly feel the gritty texture of flour clumping up on my skin. Five dozen cupcakes cool on wire racks across every available surface, waiting to be frosted. I only have two more trays to go before I'm finally done.
"Nope. But it's starting to smell a little burn-y rather than delicious bakery-style," she says, sniffing. With an inhale, I realize she's right. And it's not the usual burning smell that comes from this decades-old oven.
"No, no, no!" I shriek as I yank open the creaking door. A billow of smoke pours out, and immediately, the smoke detector beeps shrilly. "Turn that off while I get these!"
Janine hops up from the bar stool and pokes at the device with a broom handle. I quickly remove the (slightly blackened) cupcakes from the oven and try to wedge open the window, fanning the haze towards the outside. Unfortunately, the window only opens a few inches—the landlord special, as I like to call it—layers and layers of paint fighting against me every step of the way.
I know one of my roommates has a screwdriver in the junk drawer somewhere. With the baking tin balanced precariously on top of a soup pot, I rummage around until I find the tool and start attacking the painted-shut edges of the window. This is definitely not allowed by the lease, but I sublet, so I figure that's someone else's problem.
Just as I'm able to force the window open another handful of inches, Ricky—one of my roommates—stumbles in with a grimace.
"Yo, Brooke, what's with the noise? You know I need my sleep if I'm gonna attack the market when it opens in Hong Kong." He climbs on one of the bar stools and dislodges the smoke detector from the ceiling, quickly popping out the battery compartment. "There we go. "
"Sorry, I know," I say hurriedly. "Janine was supposed to—"
"Too short," Janine interrupts with a shrug. "And the broom handle is too wide to hit the button. We really should have taken the battery out a while ago."
"I always take it out," Ricky offers. "Too sensitive. I think the landlord just wants to catch anyone smoking weed."
"Isn't it pretty much legal now?" Janine asks.
"Janine!" I snap. "Does it matter? Can you please help me with the—"
Clang .
And just like that, my third-to-last tray of cupcakes topples to the floor. I throw my hands in the air. "Ugh!"
"Yo, party foul," Ricky laughs and opens the fridge, grabbing a yogurt cup— my yogurt cup. "Should be more careful, B."
I'm going to kill him. I really think I might. But he saunters away with my yogurt cup as I fume and try to salvage the cupcakes.
"No offense, babe, but you're really not gonna sell those at my shop, are you?" Janine grimaces as I pick up another steaming hunk of cake from the floor.
"I mean—no, not these. They're a loss," I grumble. She's right. But I don't have the ingredients or the time to make another round. "I guess I'll just have to make do with seven dozen instead of eight. "
"And your mountain of cookies," she says, gesturing to the carefully packaged sugar cookies. I cranked them out yesterday and frosted them earlier today, carefully piping the iconic red I heart NY on the plain white. Janine already put them in their cute little pink food-safe bags with a red bow.
"Yeah," I sigh. "But the cupcakes are the big draw. The cookies are an upsell."
"I just hope you sell out of all of it fast. If my boss—or god forbid, the health inspector—finds out we're selling food at a tourist shop…." she trails off, and I cringe.
I know it sounds bad. But this is just a cute little treat, and it works with the kitschy knickknacks on display. The customers get something to give their families and friends back home and pick up a little treat to eat on the go while they gawk at Times Square.
And, to be honest, I need the money. My job pays well enough, but I'm on a payment plan with my divorce lawyer, and I just need another thousand before I'm totally free.
My phone blares out the theme from Jaws . Like clockwork, Calvin, my ex, calls just seconds after I think about the divorce. He's been hounding me since the ink dried on our divorce papers. He swears up and down that I still have some baseball cards, but I know I don't. He just likes to mess with me .
"You still haven't blocked him?" Janine asks, craning her neck to see his stupid face flashing across my phone screen. "Girl, you've been legally divorced for six months. What could he possibly want?"
"Baseball cards," I mumble and wait for the phone to stop ringing. Dread slinks in my gut as I stare at the phone like it's a bomb.
He just can't leave me alone. He cheated. He filed for the divorce. He should forget about me already. But he still put up a fight. He wanted everything and had Mommy's and Daddy's money to back him up with the most cutthroat lawyer I've ever seen. He got the house in New Jersey. He got the car.
He got everything. I got to move in with five roommates in Brooklyn.
I breathe a sigh of relief when the screen goes dark again. Janine snatches it from the counter and taps in my passcode—how does she know it? You know what, it's better to not ask. She taps the details and hovers a finger over the option to block him.
"You want me to do it?" She cocks an eyebrow with a devilish grin.
It would be so easy to let her do it. Have him out of my life without raising a finger—literally. Truth be told, I don't know why I haven't blocked him. A part of me wants to pick up when he calls and give him a piece of my mind. Really just tear into him, let out all of my rage and aggression towards that asshole, and make sure he knows exactly what he put me through.
"No," I blurt out. "Let me."
"Do it, do it, do it, do it," she chants as she hands over my phone. I inhale deeply and close my eyes, pressing my thumb down on the block button.
"Woo!" Janine yells and jumps up and down. "You did it! You blocked the motherfucker!"
"I did," I say shakily. Why does this feel like such a big deal? We're over. Done. Splitsky. We were separated for a year before the divorce was finalized. Janine brought me champagne—real champagne, not sparkling wine—when we both signed the papers. Cutting him off from contacting me somehow feels more final than all of that, than all of the bickering and arguing through lawyers.
"B!" Ricky yells from his room. "Can it! Sleeping!"
"Oh my god, I hate him," Janine mumbles.
I huff out a chuckle. "Same, girl. Same."
With all the cupcakes lovingly frosted and boxed up, I finally plop down on the tiny loveseat in my bedroom. My cat, Huey, lets out a chirp and stretches out his toes .
"Oh, big stretch," I coo at my adorable little orange-striped boy. Huey was my first rebellion against Calvin. He hated cats. He wouldn't even entertain the discussion of possibly getting one sometime in the future. They're gross, Brookie-cookie; they lick their buttholes.
I always hated that nickname.
But Huey came along like most cats do, out of nowhere, showing up crying on the steps of the Brooklyn brownstone. He was bedraggled and looked more like a wet orange rat than a cat. I quickly shelled out the $500 pet deposit (exorbitant, if you ask me) and whisked Huey off to the vet. Another $500 later, he was vaccinated and neutered and given a clean bill of health. He's the most expensive free cat in the world. And I can't imagine life without him.
My silly little boy paws his way into my lap and circles a few times before settling down to quietly purr as I select something to watch on my laptop screen.
"What do you think, huh?" I mumble as I scratch behind one ear, just how he likes it. "Comedy? Drama? Dramady?"
Huey doesn't answer, as expected. I pick out something from the top row on my streaming app and let the sounds and colors wash over me, not really watching. Just something to have in the background so I'm not sitting in relative silence with my thoughts and my cat.
That would be too sad, honestly. Thirty-two and divorced, living with five roommates and a cat. This is not where I thought my life would be at this age. I always thought I'd have it all: a great job, a comfortable house, peace and quiet. Maybe a kid or two down the line, if it felt right.
But it never felt right with Calvin. Thank god for that. Drawing out a divorce with kids and custody schedules probably would have broken me. And finding a place to live—that I can afford—with enough bedrooms? Absolutely out of the question. Unless I moved to, I don't know, the middle of Ohio and found a really good remote job. But those are harder and harder to come by these days.
Maybe it'll happen. Maybe it won't. All I know is that I have a pit in my stomach as my thoughts drift back to Calvin again and his stupid phone calls. If he figures out he's blocked, I imagine he'll find another way to contact me. Anything to keep me under his thumb. Maybe I'll ask my lawyer about harassment.
Even with Huey kneading gentle biscuits into my thigh, I can't help but feel a little sad for the future I thought I'd have.