54. Eden
EDEN
The kitchen smelled like vanilla, raspberries, and regret.
I stirred the pastry cream slowly, watching it thicken in the pot like muscle memory had taken over… because it had.
I didn’t need a recipe anymore. I didn’t need Alana standing beside me, biting back laughter while I completely butchered my first attempt at folding dough.
I knew how to make Mille-Feuille now, knew how long to chill the puff pastry, how to layer everything just right so it didn’t collapse the second someone tried to slice into it.
They didn’t look perfect, but far better than my first fifty attempts.
But none of that made this easier.
The spoon scraped against the side of the pan and I could hear her voice in my head. “Not like that. Gentle, like you’re massaging it, not beat into submission.”
I chuckled to myself, then blinked the sting from my eyes.
The kitchen was quiet today. Usually, Mom would be hovering around by now, trying to sneak tastes or suggest last-minute additions, but she knew I wanted to do this part alone.
It felt like the only way to honor it.
Honor her. Alana.
God, she should’ve been here.
I pulled the pastry cream off the heat and set it aside to cool. Then I moved onto the fruit tarts. Kiwis, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries. I even had those tiny mint leaves she liked to add for decoration, not that I was going to use them.
They felt like Alana’s thing. I didn’t have the right to replicate it.
As I arranged the fruit, I kept thinking about how she’d hover beside me with her eyebrows furrowed in that way she always did when she was focused. She had this way of biting her lip without realizing it. And she’d hum when she was happy with something.
I missed that hum more than anything. I hadn’t heard it since… God, since before she cut me off. Before I messed everything up.
“I think she still likes someone else.”
That’s what I told my mom. But the truth? I didn’t know what to believe anymore. I didn’t even know if it mattered. She was gone. And she wasn’t coming back just because I missed her so much that my heart was in physical pain.
I’d spent hours this week getting everything ready for Brooke’s baby shower. Running from store to store to get the best ingredients, perfecting the dough, freezing batches ahead of time.
It wasn’t about impressing anyone. I just wanted to make something that felt meaningful. Something she would’ve been proud of.
But the more I worked, the more it hurt.
Every step felt like a reminder.
Rolling out the puff pastry? I remembered how we laughed until we cried when mine ended up shaped like Texas.
Cracking eggs? I remembered how she dared me to crack one single-handedly and I got it all over my sleeve.
Making cupcakes? She’d told me they were the easiest thing in the world, then teased me when I somehow managed to burn a whole tray anyway.
Now, there was no laughter. Just the ticking of the kitchen clock and the low hum of the fridge. No jokes, no sarcastic comments, no hums. Just me and the memories.
I piped buttercream onto the cupcakes like Alana taught me, and it was like my hands were on autopilot. I didn’t even realize I was whispering her name under my breath until I caught myself.
I stopped piping.
My hand trembled slightly, and I set the piping bag down before I ruined the next swirl.
She should’ve been here. Not just because she helped me learn all this, but because…
she would’ve liked it. The decorations, the effort, the way Brooke had been buzzing with excitement every time I updated her on my progress.
Alana was sentimental like that. She loved when things were done with heart.
And I’d done all of this with heart.
With her in my heart.
God, I wanted to call her.
Even if she didn’t answer. Even if she blocked me. Even if she deleted the voicemail the second she heard my voice. I just wanted her to know.
I wanted her to know I still remembered everything she taught me. That I cared. That I was sorry.
But mostly, I wanted her to know how much I missed her.
I missed her when I opened the fridge and saw the little cartons of cream she always insisted I buy from the expensive store, because apparently the cheap stuff “didn’t whip good enough.”
I missed her when I looked at my playlist and skipped every song we used to play on loop. I missed her when I woke up and didn’t have a single good reason to check my phone anymore.
I missed her now. With every cupcake or tart I filled. With every damn swirl of icing. With every breath I took in this kitchen.
I pulled out the Mille-Feuille layers from the fridge and stacked them with careful precision. Pastry, cream, jam, repeat. My chest felt tight with each layer, like it wasn’t just dessert. It felt like a countdown to some kind of emotional implosion.
She’d helped me make this the first time. She said it was ambitious for a beginner, but I told her I didn’t care. I wanted to learn. I wanted to impress my sister, my parents, everyone with what Alana taught me.
God, I was such an idiot.
Back then, I didn’t realize I was falling for her until it was already too late. Until her laugh became the best part of my day. Until I started making excuses to see her outside our “deal.”
Until I ruined it.
I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve explained better. I should’ve stayed longer at her apartment and made her listen instead of walking away like a coward. But what was I supposed to say when she looked at me like I was just another disappointment?
“Well, what am I supposed to think about someone with a reputation like yours?”
That sentence haunted me more than any insult ever could. Not because it was cruel. But because it meant she never really saw me. Not the way I saw her.
And still… here I was. Making pastries like she taught me. Putting my heart into something I wished she could see. Still loving her in the quiet moments when no one was looking.
By the end of the day, I slid the finished Mille-Feuille into a box and started placing the tarts beside it.
The cupcakes were perfectly frosted and decorated with tiny edible flowers I’d spent way too long arranging.
The fruit tarts looked like a work of art, which was really surprising considering my baking skills.
All of it was ready.
Except it didn’t feel like a win.
It just felt like… a reminder of everything I’d lost.
I leaned against the counter, wiping my hands on a towel and staring at the lineup of desserts like they could give me some kind of answer.
They didn’t.
I knew tomorrow would be filled with laughter and love. Brooke would cry happy tears. Mom would take way too many pictures. Dad would sneak extra cupcakes when he thought no one was looking. It would be beautiful. A good day.
But it wouldn’t be whole.
Because the person who made me want to care about things like this in the first place wasn’t going to be there.
And maybe she never would be again.