Four. Checking WebMD to Find Out If Visions of Sugarplums Are Fatal #2
Of course Corey Hartwell is a baker. And not only because he took over his family’s business.
Corey was designed to make an apron look manly, to be forever with a daub of flour right where his smile cleaves into his cheek, to smell faintly of vanilla extract and sugar like he was inviting you to take a little nibble of him.
Or at least that’s how I remember him. Corey was the guy I’d crushed on—the unrequited crush I’d cuddled up on the couch to watch Heartfelt movies with Mom over.
He was genuinely sweet in high school, no pun intended.
For all of sophomore and junior years, I was his writing tutor.
He’d struggled with organizing his thoughts, but his brains went far beyond the playing field.
He was the rare football star who volunteered to be Santa at the high school’s toy drive.
He even told me things he’d probably never told his football buddies, like how he preferred romantic comedies to Adam Sandler movies—even if it was devastating when he said that he and I proved When Harry Met Sally wrong.
(“See? We’re a man and a woman and we’re friends!
” Why not just bludgeon me and my teen heart with a rolling pin, Corey?) Corey and Christina Dawkins started dating early their junior year, and I held out hope they’d break up until that spring, when Corey confessed that all my tutoring would come in handy when he one day wrote his vows to her.
As much as I craved a romantic moment with Corey—the nearest I got were the cookies he sometimes brought me, which, to be fair, came close to sex—there was no one more perfect for Corey than Christina.
She was his Mrs. Claus. Literally. I can recall the image of her at the toy drive, looking unfairly cute in her Mrs. Claus costume, curling up alongside Corey like it was an iconic moment—Buzz Aldrin walking on the moon, marines raising the flag on Iwo Jima, Marilyn Monroe standing over a subway grate, her white dress whipping up around her—the two of them somehow more themselves dressed in costumes and bringing delight to children than when they were crowned prom king and queen.
Of course they went to college together and got married right after graduation.
I pull open the glass door and step into the heat generated by dozens of people clustered along the bakery counter.
Behind it, baker assistants pull items from inside glass cases and pack them into boxes or take cakes and cupcakes out of a double-door refrigerator against the back wall.
“Stay warm out there!” I hear someone call out as a man drops a five in the tip jar, and sure enough, it’s Corey ringing people up.
He’s got a cinematic smear of flour across his prominent cheekbone—see?
?—and his teeth gleam as white as the royal icing on the neat rows of snowman cookies.
There’s a framed photo of Corey, Christina, and two kids—a boy and a girl—behind the counter.
They’re so perfect I would think it was the photo that came with the frame if I didn’t know better.
What is with suburban families wanting to lean against trees in matching sweaters?
Uncharitably, I tell myself that Corey and Christina probably have as much depth in real life as they do in the (admittedly very flattering) photo.
I keep my head down and put up the fuzzy hood of one of my mom’s old parkas.
Catching sight of myself in the mirror running down one side of the bakery, I see that, in this light, my skin is the same worn-out gray as the dirty slush shoved up against the curb.
My hair is matted on one side, and my expression, when I briefly pull down the sunglasses for a peek, is worse than tired.
I look haunted, like I’ve seen things I can’t unsee.
LAX will do that to a person. Sunglasses are staying on.
My phone chimes. I peer at the screen to see a message from Lacey that begins, TL; DNRead .
I open it for the whole thing, fizzing with anticipation.
This is how it happens. I’m at my lowest point, jobless, home for the holidays and feeling like a fraud, staring at my disappointing reflection while standing in line at a successful business run by one of my old classmates, but then whoosh!
My agent—who sounded done with me a few days ago—is writing with news she sold my script.
As is, no notes. Or a reasonable amount of notes—let’s be realistic.
But when I see the rest of Lacey’s message, it’s not that at all. When will I ever learn?
I know I said to take a few days re Heartfelt, but I really need an answer, and I really think if you’re serious about this business, that answer should be yes.
Some people would kill for this opportunity.
They’re setting up meetings immediately after the new year and I’m booking one for you. Your choice if you decide to take it.
It’s far more coherent than usual and has none of the caps that Lacey normally uses, so reading it feels like she’s here giving me an extremely dirty look in person. Actually, I can barely remember what Lacey looks like, it’s been so long since I’ve seen my agent. Not a good sign.
I glance up from my phone and back at my deadened complexion, noting that the panic I feel at Lacey’s message has caused my jaw to clench involuntarily, when a deep voice asks, “And what can I get you today?”
Corey is smiling expectantly and brushes imaginary crumbs off the shoulder of his SweetHart’s coverall.
Nothing about him has gone to seed, the fate of other high school heroes.
If anything, he’s gotten more handsome. There are a thousand wannabe leading men in LA who wish their lats could fill out a baker’s uniform like Corey’s do.
I’m counting down in my head for him to say, “Oh my gosh—JILL JACOBS?” But instead, he casts a glance across the cases of cookies as if to note the vast selection and tilts his head at me.
“Do you need some help choosing?” he asks.
He doesn’t recognize me. I’m floored. I spent two hours a week with him for two years.
I taught him the difference between independent and dependent clauses.
I showed him how to unleash similes like a motivational speaker shows you how to tap into your hidden potential.
Except I did it for free. Sure, it’s been more than a decade since I’ve seen him, but where’s the love?
“Um, so, uh, two dozen of an… assortment,” I say. “Gotta make sure I get something for everyone.”
A man with a Santa belly behind me chuckles. “Heh, I could eat two dozen all by myself,” he says.
“Hey, Roger.” Corey waves him off. “I thought we talked about you watching your cholesterol.”
Roger nudges me with his elbow. The assumption he can touch me like we’re old friends is a Powell Park thing. Though I can barely feel it through the thick parka. “He’s always keeping an eye out for me,” he says and pats his stomach. “Not that he can miss this.”
Corey is putting together my assortment of cookies and laughs at Roger like he’s the funniest guy he’s ever met.
I’m sure some of it is a customer-service smile, but the way his eyes twinkle, I feel smacked with a reminder that Corey is truly kind.
He’s genuinely tuned in to Roger and not waiting for the next customer to appear.
He’s nothing like some of the LA guys I’ve dated, who might actually take classes in how to stare at one woman while surreptitiously scanning the room for a better one. He’s the whole package.
“Roger, I’ll be right with you, and I’ve got some treats for the grandkids,” he says. “Let me just finish with this customer.”
I’m “this customer.” God, and here I thought I’d at least get to lie to Corey about how fantastic LA is.
I drove here crafting fabrications about all the projects I’m working on, plotting how I’d maybe toss in a “I’ll be coming soon to a streaming service near you” joke, even if that’s incredibly lame.
I figured I deserved at least for Corey to see me as the same Jill he always knew but better.
To maybe give him pause—like, what if he’d taken a chance on the bookish girl with the obvious crush instead of Christina, Miss Perfect?
“So, are you all set?” he asks me, tipping the filled box forward so I can see the array inside.
What I am is totally embarrassed, but I can’t let Corey know that. “Can you throw in two of your chocolate long johns?” I ask.
You know what they say—if you can’t beat them, eat two of their homemade donuts while blasting Metallica in the front seat of your parents’ car.