4. Chapter 4
Chapter four
Lina
The smell of butter and cinnamon drifts through the air, curling around every corner like a promise.
Baked cinnamon rolls are out, with more proofing. Cookies are cooling, and the first batch of Mexican Concha’s are ready to be devoured.
Out front, Kay and Joey finish restocking the coffee bar while Donna balances precariously on a stool, arranging books on the highest shelf of the Romance section.
Our mornings are habitually like this.
“Ten minutes until doors,” Val calls, pulling a tray of rolls from the oven.
Steam billows outward, rich, and sugary. “God, that smell should be illegal.”
Some mornings, we open to silence—the street outside still yawning awake. Other days, there’s already a line down the block, a sea of sleepy faces craving caffeine and sugar.
Today is one of those days.
We recently dropped a new monthly flavor—Ube Magic—and the anticipation outside is unmistakable. People are practically pressed against the glass, phones ready for Instagram stories.
Ube Magic is our little experiment: soft, lavender-tinted Ube-flavored rolls topped with cream cheese icing and sprinkled with Ube powder. It’s vibrant and delicious.
Val grins as she sets the tray down beside me. “That’s it, Lin. That’s the scent of rent getting paid.”
“Rent, payroll, and maybe a new espresso grinder. If we sell out before noon, we might also splurge on more gloves,” I add.
“Don’t get reckless,” she says mockingly. “Save that energy for your love life.”
“Ha!” I shout.
“So,” Val begins, her tone casual, but I already know that tone. Its girl talk disguised as work chatter. “Your date last night ended with you paying half the bill and telling him never to call again?”
“Yup.” I respond, as I continue frosting.
“He was such a douche. So arrogant. Like he expected me to sit there drooling over his crypto portfolio. We spent nearly the whole date talking about his workout routine. He never once asked anything about me.”
Val cackles. “Oh, God. A gym bro. You have a type.”
“I have eyes,“ I correct her. “Big biceps. Dimples. Tall enough to reach the good shelves. I was optimistic. Hopeful. But mostly horny.”
She snorts. “Do tell me more.”
“He gave me the impression that I was trying out for the part of a Stepford Wife. He also told me he could work with me since I didn’t quite meet his body type expectations.”
Val pauses, wide-eyed. “Work with you? Like you’re a project?”
“Apparently,” I say dryly, “I’m under construction. I need fewer opinions and more salads.”
She signals disapproval, anger. “Fuck that dude! You are gorgeous. Just because you have a fat ass doesn’t mean you are fat. What a dick! You either attract weirdos or flat-out idiots.”
“Excuse you, my taste is eclectic.” I flick frosting at her, and she dodges.
“Besides, I wasn’t expecting love. I only wanted a good lay. I ended up going to the gym and then reading a book. And I will not get started on what I was reading.”
“I guarantee it was something dark and morbid,” she says.
I smile at the thought.
It’s easier to date for fun and keep it light. Temporary. Uncomplicated. No quiet negotiations over who I’m supposed to be.
I’d spent so many years doing what someone else wanted—what someone else decided was right for me—that once I was single, I refused to perform again.
Fun is safer. Detaching is easier.
And if that meant the occasional bad date and a good book waiting for me at home, I could live with that.
I’m done being the woman people approved of. Done being measured against someone else’s idea of proper.
My divorce had already made me an outcast in the eyes of others. It took time, but I eventually stopped caring. If they wanted to call me reckless, fast or promiscuous, let them. I’d carried other people’s expectations long enough.
Dating casually wasn’t rebellion—it was relief. No more proving myself or shrinking myself into something palatable.
I’ll admit. At first, I was terrified.
The idea of sex with a stranger felt impossible. For fifteen years my body had only ever known one man. Damage accompanied it—or so I heard. Pregnancy ruined you. No one else will want you. Those words lived under my skin longer than I want to admit.
The first time I took a chance, my body shook. The second time, less. And eventually, I realized something that changed everything: real men don’t catalogue stretch marks or scars. To them, it’s not damage.
Real men want confidence. And at some point, I quit being afraid of being wanted. I became comfortable wanting back.
Val smirks. “You and your distractions.”
I sigh, my shoulders loosening a little. “It’s hard to find anything worthwhile Val. Finding connection. Or even great sex. There are some major weirdos, and small dick energy is abundant…as well as small dicks.”
Val bursts into laughter, “Oh my God. The way you are so good at escaping those dates as soon as you get a glimpse at how small they are should be studied. The guys call you back without hesitation. Wild.”
“Easy. I always claim as much as I want to, I can’t because I’m on my period, and I got carried away.”
“Freaking genius,” she says.
“You know, I didn’t know how bad my sex life was with Cole. I thought I just…didn’t enjoy sex.”
Val gives me a sympathetic look. “Because you didn’t know any better. You got with that douche when you were sixteen. And now you’re making up for lost time.” She says.
“Apparently,” I laugh. “I read all of these books about earth-shattering, soul-melting orgasms and think, is that real? I’ve had good sex, but not that good. I need one of those orgasms.”
Val nearly drops her spatula. “Okay, ma’am, it’s not even eight in the morning.”
I grin. “What? You started it!”
She nods her head, smiling. “You know, maybe the sort of connection, or the mind-blowing orgasms you want, don’t come from quick flings. Maybe it comes from someone who actually slows down for you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Slowing down sounds…awful. Like work. And I’ve already had one unpaid full-time job where I did everything.”
Val laughs. “With the right person, it’s not like that.”
“Val,” I say, smoothing frosting with exaggerated care, “the dating pool is a nightmare. Men our age are still stuck in this weird millennial gender-role limbo where they say they want an independent woman, but then expect her to cook, clean, organize their life, manage their emotions, and still be grateful for the opportunity.”
She snorts. “Ah yes. Equality, but make it selective.”
“Exactly. I’m not auditioning to be anyone’s mommy ever again,” I add lightly. “Eventually, when I’m ready, I want a partner. Someone who sees responsibility as shared. No invisible labor.”
Val tilts her head. “Tall order I assume?”
“Yup,” I shrug. “But I’ve earned picky.”
She smiles knowingly. “So what you’re saying is…”
“I want my version of Mr. Darcy,” I cut in, grinning. “Emotionally intelligent. Romantic. Capable of making coffee and a plan. Someone who knows how to be gentle without being boring, if you know what I mean.”
Val grins. “A gentleman who can respectfully ruin the fuck out of you.”
I laugh. “Yes. That’s the dream.”
She taps her spatula against the frosting lid. “So you’re not settling unless he’s got yearning.”
“Correct,” I say. “Deep, slow-burn yearning. Otherwise, he can exit stage left with the other emotionally unavailable gym bros.