Chapter 36 Maggie
MAGGIE
Never mind hot mess. My life has become a humid disaster.
Returning to Florida is like a step backward.
There, I reunite with my inner troll while I fully embrace the Goblin mode life.
Haven’t showered in three days. I’m pretty sure the hair tie fell out while I was lying on the couch, yet the messy bun on top of my head remains in place.
Let’s not discuss the state of my fingernails, toenails, or other parts of me that routinely get groomed.
Cateline would fail me out of the Blancbourg program if I were a client. I haven’t heard from her and most certainly lost my job at Blancbourg. I’d liked to have explored Concordia, eaten some of that chocolate cake. I could look for an opportunity to work at a bakery or open one of my own.
No one there seemed to connect me to the Cinderella Spill viral video...or my parents. I could be anonymous. Drift into the sunset like Declan sailing off in his yacht.
My inner troll has an opinion on everything, including him.
Troll: You need to ditch him like yesterday’s news.
Me: No, I should ditch these hole-filled sweatpants and empty food containers.
Troll: Pfft. Don’t be ridiculous. Goblin mode is totally trending right now.
Me: I find that hard to believe.
Troll: That’s just it. You’re so out of touch. You prefer living your life instead of gossiping about others. Didn’t your parents teach you anything?
Me: Yes, but without meaning to. They taught me that I value real friendships over undermining other people’s relationships, publicly.
Troll: Well, are you all that different? *Cough, Declan, Cough*
Me: Yes, that was different.
Troll: Well, it didn’t work out anyway, so who cares? Come on, go get some more chips and some of that cake frosting. We can dip them and turn the television back on.
While I try to ignore my inner troll’s demands, it lists all the reasons Declan and I can never be a couple and shouldn’t even bother being friends. Most of the reasons involve how I’m an ugly liar pants and how he’s the swooniest, which reminds me of my swoon list.
Despite my troll’s protests, I think about how Declan has always been a refuge, a source of laughter and comfort. A home I never truly had. Because it’s not four walls, gilded mirrors, silk sheets, and expensive items. Although home is a noun, it isn’t a place or a thing.
It’s a person.
When I’m with Declan, I’m not lonely.
The troll cackles at this like I’m the ignorant one who didn’t go to school.
Me: Who made you an authority?
Troll: You did.
Oh.
Before I can pick myself up and brush myself off, Sylvester calls for the third time.
He’s also texted, asking if we can talk and try again.
That ship, er, van sped out of the parking lot, leaving my life in a cloud of dust, heartache, and financial woe.
But aside from my payment from my now-defunct coaching job, I need cash.
Maybe he had a guilty moment and wants to pay me back.
Reluctantly, I agree to meet him at what had been my favorite bakery in Orlando, hoping by some stroke of good fortune, he found a decent bone in his body and decided to do the right thing.
Etta Jo drops me off before heading to her new studio.
“I hope you get your set of wheels back,” Etta Jo says.
“Unlikely. I’ll just take the bus back to your place. Thanks again for everything.”
“You can call Giselle to pick you up. I think she’s covering the dinner shift later, so she’s probably free. Still dating the football player and still working at the restaurant.” Etta Jo snorts. “Call me old-fashioned, but I’d have him set me up for life.”
In my deepest, most secret daydreams, I’d thought about a future with Declan and marriage. Of course, I’ll never be Mrs. Printz, but had the opportunity arisen, I’d keep a job—I need to have my own thing.
But what could it be?
Cupcakes and baking. That’s my thing. I love them, but even more so the smile people wear right before (and after) they take a bite.
But there are bakeries everywhere. That was why I had the clever idea to have a mobile unit. I glance up and down the street, wondering if Sylvester had finally decided to return what is rightfully mine. Just a few work trucks, a sedan, and an economy car fill the parking spaces.
Stepping inside the bakery, the sweet scent loosens my frown. Row after row of cupcakes, pies, cookies, cakes, tarts, and more line the display case.
“What can I get for you?” the salesgirl asks.
I point to a pink velvet cupcake with buttercream icing and rose gold sprinkles. “I’d like one of those.”
She rings me up. “That will be—”
Someone slides beside me. “I’ll take one too, along with your number.”
The salesgirl wrinkles her nose.
I turn sharply to find Sly standing beside me. From under his hat, his hair is longer than it was the last time I saw him and he’s either going for the ape-man look or is in dire need of a shave. He could stand to attend Blancbourg for a month.
He startles when he sees me. “Maggie. Whoops. Already have your digits.” He swoops in to kiss me, but I back away.
“Hi.” A deep furrow forms across my brow. I go to an empty table and sit down. What had I ever seen in this guy?
He grabs a chair and spins it around, sitting backward on it. Without needing to see the logo on the other side of his hat, I can tell it’s Boston Bruiser’s football merchandise, given the black and blue design.
“So, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie. It’s been so long. Where have you been? What have you been up to?”
I take a bite of the cupcake, thinking about how to explain. If I even want to. It has a slight strawberry flavor that complements the vanilla buttercream, reminding me of strawberry shortcake—a fitting summer treat.
I should’ve seen the writing on the wall when, early on in our relationship, he was all about himself.
Then, when I told him about my business idea for the mobile cupcakery, he was fully on board—probably seeing dollar signs.
Otherwise, our conversations usually centered around him.
Not much has changed. He seems unable to wait for me to finish chewing and launches into an account of what has been going on in his life—true to form.
I roll my eyes and continue to enjoy my cupcake as he rattles on about his various schemes for making money. The latest is a football tailgate service to bring sports fans some kind of spice condiment I’ve never heard of. He calls himself “Sly the Spice Guy” now.
Nearly choking on a cupcake crumb, I realize Sylvester must’ve seen me online with Declan and wants me to make an introduction to the football player.
I haven’t gone online in days, fearing what I’ll see because we’re all over the internet.
I have no doubt my parents are having a field day, splashing my photos and foibles all over the place for everyone to see. I can imagine the headlines.
Cinderella over the moon for football Printz, who left her before half-time, or Looks like football prince ends things with Cinderella before midnight.
I brush my hands together. “Good luck with your business, Sly. When you start rolling in the dough, or spice, as it were, remember you owe me—” I’ll never forget the amount of the van because it had been all my savings, but I should add interest. “You owe me thirty-four thousand dollars and fifty cents. When that’s been paid, maybe then we can discuss your spice. ”
His brows pinch together. “What?”
“For taking off with the van I’d invested my life savings in to create a mobile cupcake shop.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d need that now that you’re—”
“Now that I’m back here, without a place to live, and with my heart—” I stop myself from saying more. I don’t owe Sylvester an explanation, and he’s the last person I want to talk to, but the whole situation weighs heavily on me because he interfered with my dream.
“So, you’re not with Declan?” He scratches his temple.
I shake my head and wipe my eyes.
“But the internet says—”
“The internet needs to get a life,” I practically growl. “My parents can spew whatever lies they want about him, but I know the truth. Declan is a good man. He’s had tough times and came through them, stronger and better than most people would’ve.”
Sylvester leans on the back of the chair. “Maggie, I hate to say this, but your parents agree.”
“What?” I ask, echoing his previous question.
I tear my phone from my pocket and open up the search engine.
Sure enough, there are numerous articles and posts about Declan, where and how he grew up, the trouble he’d gotten into, and the incident with the O’Mealleys, but it paints him as a hero—because he is.
He also made a huge donation to an organization to help at-risk youths.
My mouth hangs open as I skim the article.
At the bottom, next to a photo of my parents, is a text box that reads We hope you like our new segment about Hunks, Honeys, and Heroes.
Real-life stories of celebrities who’ve defied the odds and do good in the world.
Dedicated to our daughter, Maggie, who you may also know as Honey Holiday from the hit show Friends of the Family.
The sounds in the bakery fade as I sit, stunned by what I read. “Wow,” I whisper.
Sylvester’s voice comes back to me. “So, do you think you could introduce us? I’m guessing number forty-four will love our spiced pickled egg relish mayo combo.”
I squish up my nose and give my head a little shake. Then again, Declan does secretly like pickles and peanut butter. Mayo, not so much.
The density of the burden I’ve carried lifts and the light of forgiveness toward my parents enters my heart. But that doesn’t mean I’ll forget the debt Sylvester owes me. I still have to find a place to live, a new job, and have bills to pay.
“Sylvester, number forty-four, aka Declan Printz, thinks that you’re a real—” I whisper the unpleasant words in his ear so I don’t disturb the other customers.
But saying the football player’s name twists my stomach in knots.
I miss him and considering what Sylvester is up to, I don’t regret using the Boston Bruiser’s clout against my ex.
“I, uh—Declan Printz? You told him about me, us?”
“I told him how you disappeared with the van,” I clarify. “You dashed my dreams. Left me high and dry.” I cross my arms in front of my chest. It feels good to face him finally and tell him how he hurt me.
“So, you’re not going to see if the team would endorse my condiment truck?”
I sigh in exasperation because I shouldn’t expect a guy like him to apologize. “Absolutely not.”
If I were truly vindictive, I’d have my parents claim his products had caused food poisoning or something disastrous and splash the breaking news online. Instead, I get up and say, “Good luck, Sylvester. I hope you, uh, sell some spice, and I expect that check soon.”
I stride from the bakery, feeling like I have a little taste of justice—it’s faintly like a strawberry velvet cupcake. I doubt I’ll ever see that money, but perhaps Sylvester will find success in his spice company.