Icon Cartier
Stepping into Saint’s house, I was ready to chill, and not hear anything but music, ice clinking in a glass, and one of my brothers talking shit.
I’d been in the streets all day handling business, and I needed a minute to relax.
Legend wasn’t an option because the last time I called him, all I heard in the background was kids, Aria fussing, and a baby hollering.
My son was with Livia, Ava, and Zahra shopping for last minute baby things for Zahra, so I already knew I didn’t want my little bit of peace interrupted by crying, baby throw-up, or a shitty diaper.
As I came through the foyer, I heard Saint muttering to himself in the kitchen.
Entering the kitchen, I stopped in the doorway. Saint was … baking.
My head tilted dramatically to the side as I took in the island covered in flour, mixing bowls, piping bags, sticks of butter, sprinkles, parchment paper, and enough baking shit to make it look like a Food Network bomb had gone off in there.
Saint had on a tee, some sweats, and an apron tied around his waist.
I stood there for a second and just looked at him. “What the fuck are you doing?”
He glanced up at me, unbothered. “You blind?”
“I can see. That’s why I’m asking.”
He grinned and went right back to whatever he was stirring. “I’m making treats for the baby shower.”
I barked out a laugh and walked farther in. “You?”
“Yeah, nigga. Me.”
I looked around the island again. “Why?”
“Because Zahra wanted certain treats, and I couldn’t find anyone to do them the exact way she wanted in time. So, I’ve been on YouTube and TikTok for two days learning how to make this shit myself.”
I stared at him. “Weren’t you just at the railroad tracks a few hours ago with Big A and Reek?”
“Yep.”
“And now you in here baking?”
He shrugged. “Yep. And?”
I laughed again, harder this time. “You a sick nigga.”
I walked over to the island and picked up one of the little cookie cutters. “Why didn’t you just have the chef do this?”
“Because I wanted to do it after I saw how easy it was.”
“It’s easy for people who’ve baked before. Have you ever baked anything?”
He paused, then shrugged a shoulder. “It can’t be that hard.”
I looked down at the counter where he had somehow managed to get powdered sugar on the marble, the floor, and all over his arm. “It looks hard… for you. What exactly are you making?”
His whole face lit up in a way that would’ve been funny if it wasn’t also kinda touching to see on Saint.
“I’m making those little decorated sugar cookies with the royal icing.
The theme is moon and stars and the colors are cream, gold, and beige.
So, I’m doing clouds with ‘Baby’ written in gold script, little onesies with gold stars on the chest, moon cutouts, striped stars, and them footed pajama cookies with stars all over them.
I’mma flood the base in white and cream, let it set, then go back in with the detail work, gold dust, edible shimmer, little lines, bows, all that.
” He shrugged like this shit made perfect sense.
I blinked slowly, just staring at him. “This is what your life is now?”
He looked down at the mess in front of him, then back at me.
“My wife wanted some shit I couldn’t find.
So, I’mma make it happen. I saw on TikTok how they do it.
All I gotta do is outline the cookie first with the thicker icing, fill it in, let it dry, then go back with the details and gold dust. It’s really just patience, a steady hand, and not rushing the layers.
I used to draw, remember? This ain’t nothing but edible art. ”
I continued to blink owlishly, taken aback.
When Saint was younger, he was hardheaded and reckless.
But ever since he met Zahra, that fire slowly found somewhere else to go, somewhere good to go.
He was still a monster in the streets, but watching him stand there trying to make cloud-shaped cookies for a baby shower was enough to make a nigga proud of him.
As I rolled my sleeves up, Saint looked at me. “What you doin’?”
“Helping before you poison everybody. You got flour on the floor and shit.”
He glanced down, chuckling, “Aw damn.”
I laughed and moved beside him. “A’ight. What you need?”
He handed me a piping bag. “Fill these.”
I took it and started working while he kept talking, telling me which treats still needed drizzle, which ones Zahra said had to be perfect, and how she wanted the dessert table to look “soft and expensive.”
I found myself smiling proudly. I was proud of him and how easy he had fallen into being a husband, father, and man who could go from standing over death to piping icing on baby shower treats because his wife wanted something special.
I hoped me and Legend had shown him enough of that to be what was influencing him now.