Chapter 7 #2
The overwhelm of the last few days must be getting to me because I could have sworn the cat wore an eye patch and a bow tie.
I might need a nap.
Then again, one thing I’ve noticed since moving here is that Sheet Cake definitely seems to be competing against itself for the title of quirkiest town in America.
There is the current mayoral race between two brothers: one, who is the poster child for why so many people hate lawyers, and the other, who has a bar somewhere out in the boonies as well as a rumored bunker in which he lives.
There is a woman who walks a possum on a leash, telling anyone who looks at her sideways that it’s a cat with narcolepsy.
I’ve heard about an invite-only ladies book club of sorts that meets in the library and is more of a town hall meeting.
Just to name a few of the unique Sheet Cake things.
I find the whole town delightful. I’ve started cataloging the cute, strange Sheet Cake things in a tiny notebook I keep in my handbag.
Even if it was a hallucination, I can now add an eye-patch-and-bow-tie-wearing cat to the list. The only downside is that my ever-growing list includes many things—like Wolf Waters’s legendary bar and the book club—that I haven’t gotten to experience.
Either because I haven’t been invited (which is sad) or because I wouldn’t have time if I were invited (which is also sad).
The thing about owning a business, especially one like a bakery that requires so much physical labor, is that you don’t have time for things like book clubs and bars.
Or making new friends.
Earlier, I found myself standing a few feet away from Kalli, watching her with the hunger of a ravenous lion eyeing a frolicking gazelle. Which is not how you’re supposed to look at potential friends.
If friend-shaped, why not friend? I thought to myself.
And the very meme-worthy thought assured me that I am spending entirely too much time on the internet.
My loneliness must have reached an epidemic level if I’m thinking in memes and if my best current option for a friend is the same age as my daughter.
Is that weird to consider it? Would Kalli even think of me as a potential friend? (Or friend-shaped?)
Something I’ve noticed as I’ve gotten older is that it’s very easy to forget how far removed I am from younger people.
Not with my own daughter, for obvious reasons, or with someone like Violet, whose maturity is still …
maturing. Despite Kalli’s age, our conversations have been easy.
We’ve had whole moments in the last day or two when I completely forgot that I’m probably a good twenty years her senior.
I think it’s because I’ve lived the age she’s living, which makes it easy for me to sort of slip back in time. There’s a kinship and understanding of where she is, even if it’s been a long time since I was a twentysomething with so much life unlived. How it felt still feels fresh enough for me.
But my age is right there on the surface of my skin for Kalli to see. And one thing I can’t remember from being in my twenties is if I would have considered someone who just hit fifty last year to be a potential friend. Or … like some nice lady who’s over fifty.
I head up Tank’s steps for trip number seventeen thousand and one, my thoughts circling back to why I’ve sold twice as much between yesterday and today out of her coffee shop as I usually do in a single day at the bakery.
I’m still pondering this when I walk into Tank’s loft only to find the man himself standing at the kitchen counter, eyeing the rows of cupcakes on his counter. It shouldn’t be so surprising to see him, given that this is where Tank lives, but I come to an immediate halt.
“Hello,” I say, only just now realizing that there is a cop standing there as well. Technically, I think he’s a sheriff or deputy, but I can never remember, so cop will have to do.
In Sheet Cake, law enforcement wears the most Texas of Texas uniforms. Boots. Worn jeans. Belt with buckle. Cowboy hat. Pearl-snap button-down shirt with a little gold star on his chest. This man also wears a very amused smile.
“Howdy,” he says, which is so completely in character that I wonder if he’s really law enforcement or an actor dressed for a part. There is a movie studio in Sheet Cake, after all.
“Sorry to barge in like this,” Tank says, straightening and taking a step away from the cupcakes.
“You can’t barge in when it’s your own place. I think it’s called coming home.” I finally manage to free my feet from where they’ve planted on the floor and keep moving forward to join them at the counter, setting the baking trays down.
Be cool, Rose, I tell myself, not wanting to immediately fall back into the dreamland of wild hopes.
Tank chuckles. “I guess you’re technically correct. But it’s temporarily your place, so I think this constitutes barging. I did knock first.”
“He did,” the other man says, then holds out a hand. “I’m Chevy. I’ve seen you around but I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced.”
Oh, the charm on this one!