25. Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dacre
When class ends, I work on my end of the room, and she works on hers.
I can’t help but be a little curious about everything she’s doing, especially what she spoke to my grandfather about.
I didn’t know he was going to be here today.
She didn’t look upset afterward, either. More cheerful than anything else.
There’s still something off about her smell, though. It’s a hair’s difference that I can’t place.
Emma brings out the mixer, a few cake pans, some butter .
. . So she’s making a cake. For whom? A man?
No . . . I haven’t seen her with anyone.
Maybe it’s for her family. She’s still working when I’m finished with my prep work, and I pretend not to notice the noise she’s making in my otherwise quiet kitchen.
I linger longer than I should, cleaning my station slowly, until the air is saturated with sweet sugar and butter and her yellow cake is cooling on the rack.
“No party, I see. Or are you waiting for someone?”
“Just me.” She smiles while she whisks her buttercream into submission and motions to my station. “What do you do in here, anyway?”
“Just cook. Prep. Whatever needs to be done.”
“I thought you hated cooking.”
“I do.”
But it’s all I have. The only reason I stay late is because what else am I going to do?
So I do all the prep work I’d normally have someone under me do, make lessons, and work.
There may not be much enjoyment in it, but there is a certain numbness in the silence and repetitive motions.
It makes the day pass quickly and gives me less time to sit alone in my room.
“As usual, I’m riveted by your lack of conversational skills.” She wipes her hand on a towel before retreating to the pantry for something else.
I should probably go. She doesn’t want anything to do with me, and I don’t blame her.
Her phone screen is open and bright next to my hand, and a wall of text piques my curiosity. It’s open to a text thread titled “Mom.”
The cursor blinks behind the sentence: Happy Birthday, Mom. I really miss you.
A lump builds in my throat. The last bit of text I see is, conveniently, Dacre is still an asshole. I’ll fill you in later.
It’s her mom’s birthday. That’s why she’s here baking late. But why alone? Shouldn’t one of her sisters be here with her at least?
When she comes back, she’s surprisingly chipper as she sets out various dyes, mostly blues and greens.
“Who is the cake for?”
“It’s my . . . mom’s birthday, and every year, I bake her a cake. It’s silly.” She averts her gaze, keeping her hands busy with her piping bag.
“It’s not.”
“I spend all this time picking out the color and the theme. I try to think about what she would like right now . . . What women her age would like. This year, I decided on florals. Revolutionary, I know.”
“Is your family coming in to help?”
“Oh, no. This is kinda just my thing.”
“So you celebrate alone every year?”
She hesitates, picking her words more carefully.
“I know that makes my family sound terrible, but I don’t mind it.
I think grief is different for everyone.
For me, celebrating her birthday feels like celebrating her legacy and the fact that she was here once and made her mark on the world.
I put on her favorite music and just get lost in this feeling.
For my family, I think celebrating her birthday makes them really sad.
As if it’s a reminder of another year passing without her. ”
“I can imagine it’s complicated.”
Emma must have pleasant memories of her mother.
Our situations hardly feel the same. I can’t honor my mother’s legacy, because I barely remember who she was.
I can’t even remember if she was a good person.
But I do remember one good memory: a sunlit picnic with just me, her, and finger sandwiches of cucumber and cream cheese.
“It is . . . You know, Olivia just shut down when Mom died. Full wall. She stopped eating dinner with us, wouldn’t talk.
My dad fell apart and locked himself in his room and couldn’t say her name.
And Eva . . . She just checked out and went numb.
She carried on as if nothing was wrong. None of it bothered me.
I think we all cope how we can. I just try to keep us together.
I think Mom thought that was the most important thing.
We’d have these family dinners, and we were always together.
So, on the day of her death, I try to cook for them all.
No cake, though, so it doesn’t feel celebratory. ”
“Grief is complicated.” I nod, turning before she can reply. “I was about to head out. I can turn on the music if you want.”
“Oh . . . You don’t have to. I can do it.”
I don’t like the thought of her in the kitchen alone. She’s used to doing this by herself, but one of the many things I’ve learned about her is that she hates being alone.
I motion to the cake. “What’s your game plan?”
“Roses, I think . . . White. She loves those. A blue base.”
“Can I watch you?”
Her eyes dart to me, and I’m sure she’ll say no when the corner of her mouth tugs up.
“I don’t mind.”
I watch her apply the crumb coat and help her with the music by hooking up her playlist to the speaker. Once the cake is cooled enough, she frosts it in a cornflower-blue icing and then switches to white for the roses.
“Am I making you nervous now?” I ask.
“Oddly . . . No.” She smiles. “I kinda like the company.”
“Can I taste?” I motion to the frosting on her spatula.
“This is the icing you called too sweet, remember?”
“I was stressed. Let me give it a fresh taste.”
I reach for her hand, and she lets me take it, bringing the spatula closer. There’s a bit of icing on her finger that looks extra tasty, so I lick it.
She glares at me with pink cheeks.
“Yeah, I was wrong. This is perfect.”
There’s a spark in her eyes as she continues decorating. She pauses every few seconds to map out her rose placement.
“May I help? I’ve done about five thousand of these. I wish I were joking,” I say after watching her pipe a few.
“Yeah, sure.” She bites her lip as if she’s trying not to smile as I take the piping bag and finish the small, white roses covering the cake.
“I’m going to use green to add little vines afterward. Would you . . . want to try a piece with me? I usually eat a piece for her.”
“An Emma Osborne special? Can’t pass that up.”
There’s an extra bounce in her step as she completes her design, adding a dusting of edible glitter.
I grab a knife and a serving spatula. “Do you want to do the honors, or should I?”
“You can. You’re the first person I’ve ever let help me with her cake. I’ll have to tell her . . . I, uh . . . write to her literally every thought that comes through my head.”
“I bet she loves that.”
“I’m not sure about that.” Her laughter settles me.
Emma’s music plays in the background as we each take a bite of her cake. It’s . . . perfect. Not too dry, with a good balance of flavor to the buttercream. A little bit of almond extract.
“What do you think?”
“I think . . . you’re talented, Emma. Really talented.”
“Your humanity is showing. Be careful. I might expect you to be nice to me from now on. Can you stop calling me a thief now? I’m sorry about the notebook. I shouldn’t have taken it. You were right. I was being selfish.”
“You sure you’re feeling okay?” I ask.
“I just want you to keep calling me by my name . . . And I don’t like it when you ignore me.”
“You’ve been the one ignoring me this week.”
“Because I’m ignoring you before you ignore me. Isn’t that obvious? Keep up.”
I smile, and she does too. This is a bad idea, but I don’t think I can stay away from her anymore.
“I don’t know how to process you being nice to me, but please don’t stop.”
“I’ll be nice to you, Em. I promise.”
“So this is being friends?”
“I don’t have friends.”
“I would ask why, but I’m going to wait on the answer that I know I’ll have to wear you down to get.”
“Fine.”
I take another bite of cake, knowing without a doubt that it’s the best I’ve ever had.