The Awkward Path To Getting Lucky

I frown. “They know you’re only twenty-six, right?”

“I don’t think logic is crazy important when it comes to familial shame,” she says with a flick of her hand.

“Ooh.” I turn back to Shannon. “What about a delivery van? We’ve been looking into that for over a year, man.”

She starts poking her notebook with the pen. “We can do a van now, actually. I just hate making the commitment for that kind of expense when we’re getting by just fine with what we have.”

Butter snorts. “No offense, but your minivan isn’t exactly the pinnacle of rides.”

“Hey,” Shannon scoffs. “It’s got a DVD player in the back. Don’t hate on my minivan.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’ll never get over you driving a beige minivan. If we get a delivery van, you don’t get to pick the color.”

Rolling her eyes and straightening her apron, Shannon ignores me. “Okay, the presentation is on the twenty-second, so we need to get to work. It’s focus time, people.”

“Isn’t your lady bits deadline on the twenty-seventh?” Butter asks me.

I frown. “Yeah. But that’s okay. I can multitask my major life events.”

Shannon looks amusingly unconvinced as she tucks her notebook into her apron and goes to wash her hands. Butter winks at me and returns to her cakes.

I turn back to the laptop and stare at fondant and buttercream chesticles of varying quality. There’s a surprising number of boob-cake images online. But then, I’m always surprised when we get odd cake requests and discover we aren’t the first to tackle them.

The four-foot edible mermaid last year was particularly shocking. To think there could be more than one of those in the world.

Just under a month until the presentation. A month and change until my deadline. I can absolutely handle this.

7

Everyone is setting up their stations before the Monday morning rush in silence, as per the usual. No one has had time to let any coffee take effect by this point, so the most we usually muster is a grunt or two in recognition of the other humans in the room.

We’ve got only a few minutes until the hordes come crashing in, so I am trying to chug as much caffeine as I can while I tie on my apron and get my station in somewhat working order.

“So,” Butter says, breaking our unwritten code of silence. “How’d the stuff work over the weekend?”

Liz pops her head up, and Shannon stops in her tracks, holding a tray of brownies she’s taking to the display case out front.

I yawn. “Pretty good. I’ve got some preliminary sketches done. I think I’ll come up with some solid ideas for the presentation.”

Everyone is looking at me like I’m maybe the stupidest person they’ve ever encountered. “The stuff,” Shannon parrots. “Like, vagina stuff, lady.”

I slowly blink at her. “Oh. I didn’t get to that. I was working on the Coopertown ideas until really late every night and was too tired. I’ll break it all out tonight.”

Shannon looks personally offended. “Kat! You have to do it every day! Otherwise it won’t work. While I appreciate your dedication to the contract, you can’t put therapy off! That’s how you got into this whole two-year mess in the first place.”

My nature is to be indignant and sassy back to her, but even in my sleep-deprived state, I know she’s right. I take another swallow of coffee and say, “Fine. You’re right. I promise I’ll work on it tonight, okay?”

The front door bell jingles, letting us know our first customer of the day has arrived, and we know a whole gaggle isn’t far behind. Shannon races off with her brownies, and I grab a tray of orange muffins with warm cinnamon glaze and follow her.

The rush hits, and Shannon and I are working hard to take care of all the customers while Liz and Butter make sure our display shelves are fully stocked.

An hour or so in, I see a face in line I recognize—a coworker of Ryan’s whose name I’m pretty sure is Alice. I smile as she reaches the counter and say, “Hey! Good morning!”

“Hi, Kat!” she says, all sparkling teeth and perkiness, despite it being so early. “How are you?”

“I’m great,” I say, keeping my customer service face on, despite the caffeine in my system being severely underwhelming to combat her level of cheer. “What can I get for you, Alice?”

She points at the blueberry muffins and says, “One of those, and a large drip coffee to go.”

I grab a to-go cup and start pouring her coffee. I find most customers like to get that to their lips as fast as possible. Hell, I’ve known people to finish their cups before they even get to the cash register. I admire that kind of dedication.

“How’re things?” I ask Alice as I pop a lid on her drink.

“So good!” she says, taking the coffee from me. I reach down to bag up the muffin when she adds, “I was sorry to hear about you and Ryan!”

My head snaps up, muffin clutched in my hand. “What? What about me and Ryan?”

I notice that she holds her coffee with a raised pinky. Who does that?

“That you guys split up,” she says, eyeing the other confectionary offerings behind the glass.

“Oh,” I say, fighting to keep that professional smile intact. “Right, that is true.”

He’s telling people we split up? It’s been less than five days. And did we really split up? Is that what I should be telling people while we’re on this break?

“I know this sounds weird,” Alice continues, “but I wanted to come and make sure you were okay with everything before our date. I didn’t want to step on any toes, or get involved in something that’s still messy, you know?”

My hand clenches on the muffin, and it crumbles into chunks on the floor around my feet. “You’re...you’re going on a date with Ryan?”

Shannon’s head whips up from a few feet away. She can sense danger the way police dogs can sniff out weed in an old station wagon.

Alice looks at her mangled muffin. “Yeah,” she says cautiously. “When he said you’d broken up last week, I asked him out to dinner. I hope that’s okay?”

Shannon is hovering in her spot, waiting to see if she needs to tackle me to the floor before handing her customer a scone.

I blink wildly at Alice for a few seemingly endless seconds. “Oh, sure!” I trill. “I mean, totally! How great for you both!” I reach down into the case and pull up another muffin, carefully placing it in a bag. Handing it across the counter to her, I say, “Really, that sounds awesome. I hope you both have a great time!”

Shannon comes over, puts her hand on my shoulder, and in her most friendly-sounding tone, says, “Hey, Pumpkin, can you go trade places with Butter and finish up those cookies for the next round of rush? And have her bring up another tray of the coconut cuppies?”

I smile benevolently at her. “Absolutely.” I turn to Alice and keep the look alive. “It was so nice to see you again,” I say, moving out of Shannon’s way. “Have a great time on your date!”

I scurry into the back room and relay the cupcake message to Butter, who rushes out with a tray in hand.

Flopping down on the stool at my station, I stare off into the void for a moment. Five days. It’s been less than five days. How in the damn hell did he find someone to go out with in less than five days?

“Are you okay?” Liz asks, cutting another batch of scone dough. “You look a little pale.”

I look up and feel a blank expression plastered on my face. In the background, the sounds of a busy morning rush register in the one part of my brain that’s not sitting here repeating the Five days? mantra.

“I’m fine!” I say, willing it to be true. I grab my mug and quickly dump the now-cold coffee in the sink, reaching over and filling it again with the pot we keep back by our stations. “I just needed another little jolt to keep me conscious.”

She takes this as a suitable response and gets back to her scones, now loading them on a sheet tray for baking.

Shannon sticks her head back through the door. “All right?” she asks me as I chug coffee that’s only half a degree below molten lava in temperature.

Liz looks up at me again, suspicious now.

“Super!” I say, raising my mug. “Just super!”

I take another sip and head back out into the front room. The line isn’t any shorter.

“You can take some time,” Shannon whispers beside me. “Seriously, I’ve got it under control up here.”

I shake my head. “I’m good, really.”

And I have to mean that. This was my idea. I told him to go date other people. I’m not sure what I initially thought that would entail, but I can’t fault him for doing the exact thing I insisted he do.

Admittedly I didn’t assume he’d make progress this soon. He’s a pretty quiet dude, and I don’t think I pictured him out there getting his mack on, bringing home a caravan of eligible concubines.

Then I remember that Alice said she asked him out. Was Alice standing around lusting after my boyfriend all these years?

While that thought should probably make me want to punch Alice in the face, all I can focus on is—Why haven’t I been lusting after him for years?

It took Alice five days to ask him out. It’s taken me nearly two years even to attempt to have sex with him again.

Wait. She said when he told her about us splitting up last week. That means she probably asked him on Thursday or Friday.

Less than forty-eight hours and he found a date.

My cheeks feel numb.

“Good morning,” a voice says in front of me.

I look up. It’s Ben Cleary, holding a to-go cup and wearing a friendly smile.

The last time I saw Ben, he was splattered with coffee, red in the face from laughing to tears, and being a really good sport about an absurdly awkward situation.

His teeth are very white. But not, like, too white. I hate when they’re too white.

I’m not sure why it hits me, really. Maybe it’s just the reaction to hearing about Ryan moving on in the world. Maybe it’s because I’ve known Ben for so many months as a customer. Maybe it’s because I accidentally sexually objectified his admittedly impressive jawline the other day. Maybe it’s because he should have looked a little pitiful all splattered with coffee, but he managed to appear endearing.

Whatever the reason, I find myself struck with the urge to offer Ben Cleary my last dumpling.

I mentally jump away from the thought as if it’s physically burned me. I can’t ask Ben out. I shouldn’t even be thinking about asking someone out.

Just because Ryan is going out with someone, maybe several someones, doesn’t mean I should. The whole point of this is to fight my way back into the relationship I let myself be too busy to tend.

But if that’s the point, maybe Shannon and Butter are right. Maybe I really do need to know for damn diggity sure that my equipment works properly before I go back to Ryan.

How’s it going to look on our anniversary—after I’ve assured him I’ll fix all the ills—if it’s another false start?

I don’t think I could handle that. I honestly think it would break my brain or my soul or what little shred of dignity I’ve got left.

I can’t fail. I refuse to.

“You know,” I say, sounding a thousand times more confident than I feel, “I still feel really bad about the ambush yesterday.” I tilt my head back toward the kitchen of chicken entendre and rubber penises. “I was wondering if I could take you out for a drink to make it up to you?”

The words are out of my mouth before I’ve had time to properly consider them, and I have to pinch my wrist underneath the counter to keep from exploding with hysterical, nervous laughter.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Really?” He looks down at his shirt and pulls on his tie. “Um, that’s not necessary.”

Ouch. Wow. I’m on a fucking roll. I force a smile anyway. “At the very least, this week’s order is on the house.”

“No, wait! I mean, I’d love to go for a drink with you. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to out of responsibility.”

“What?”

He frowns at me and shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. What?”

I press my forefinger into the squishy spot between my eyebrows and wiggle it around for a second. “Dropping the subtleties, I was trying to casually ask you out for a drink using the pretense of yesterday’s embarrassing coffee and sex toy kerfuffle. But really I’m just asking you out. In case that isn’t translating.”

He stares at me and pulls on his tie again. “I’m...accepting?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Neat. Ernesto’s, tonight, say sevenish?”

“Okay.”

“Awesome.”

I’m only slightly aware of the throng of people standing around the two of us. Butter is statue-still at the register, holding someone’s twenty over the cash tray. Shannon is standing beside me, grinning as she stuffs some cookies into a bag.

The older man she’s prepping that bag for points at Ben and me and announces with a grin, “I’ll take one of what he’s getting.”

Ben turns a bit pink and scoots down toward the register. I arch an eyebrow and smile at the old man. “Sorry, sir. We just sold out.”

8

I get to Ernesto’s a little early, and I’m sitting at the bar, stomach flopping, ignoring how bizarre this entire situation of mine is by sketching tiny Coopertown Ravens on a bar napkin, when Ben comes walking in. I set my pen down on the bar top and smile. “Glad you could make it. I wasn’t sure the translation stuck.”

He grins and rolls his eyes as he takes the seat next to me. “In my defense, I find your shop a very difficult place to keep any wits at hand.”

“Fair enough,” I concede. The bartender comes by and Ben casually orders the same beer I’m drinking. My curiosity is piqued, so I channel my skin-twitching anxieties into Q and A. “Did you order that because it’s what I’m drinking, or is this what you usually drink?”

“Excuse me?”

“The beer. Is that your usual drink?”

His eyes narrow slightly at me, considering. “No, it’s not. And yes, I ordered it because it’s what you had, and it was easier. I didn’t really think about it.”

“If you’d gotten here first, what would you have ordered?”

His lip twitches. “Why do you ask?”

“The drink of choice can say a lot about a person,” I suggest, morphing my nerves into theories. “It’s not an exact science, but I think there’s something to it. Like, if you ordered a whiskey, but made a sour face with each drink, I’d say you were trying to impress me with your manliness. If you ordered a martini, I’d wonder more about what kind of business you do. If you ordered a fancy martini with lots of specifics, I’d say you might be a little pretentious. If you had a beer like this on your own, I’d say you were laid-back. But see, you ordered it because I had it, so now I don’t know much at all.”

Somewhere in my mind, a voice reminds me that Ryan always orders whatever’s on tap.

Ben laughs and rubs his hand over his forehead. “You get all of that from a drink order?”

I take a sip of my beer and try not to imagine how Ryan’s date with Alice will go as the bartender sets Ben’s glass down in front of him. Ben stares at the drink and chuckles to himself. He twists a bit in his chair, and I point to his chest, exclaiming, “Hey! You changed your shirt!”

He looks down, then back up at me. “Yes?”

“Did you change your shirt because we were having drinks, Ben?”

He laughs loudly and rubs his hands roughly over both eyes this time. Reaching over, he grabs his glass and takes a very long drink.

“You are...” He sets his beer back down and stares at me, grinning as he searches for the appropriate word. “Very intimidating. Do you know that? I honestly can’t tell if this is your personality and I should be really intrigued, or I’m being punished for the other morning.”

I sit straight up, mortified. “What? No! I’m not punishing you! Why would you think that?”

He leans forward and puts one hand on the bar. “You’re just really forward. Not that it’s a bad thing,” he clarifies. “I just kind of feel like I’m making a poor showing, you know?”

Running a hand through my hair, I huff. “I’m sorry. I think I’m so used to being Little Miss Sassypants with everyone at the shop, I don’t know when to shut it off. But I swear this isn’t a deliberate thing.” A horrible calculation of the sheer volume of time I’ve been with Ryan pops into my head. “And...um. Wow. This is probably an overshare, but I just realized it’s been an age since I’ve been on a date, so it’s possible the etiquette has escaped me. Really, I’m sorry if I offended you.”

He smiles kindly and leans back in his chair. “You didn’t. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t reading you wrong. And how long is an age?”

I do the math in my head and try not to visibly shudder. I don’t have the stones to say I haven’t been on an actual date in probably three years. Nor do I have the stones to say that technically I’m only on a break from the person I went on those last dates with.

I’m an asshole.

I finally say, “Longer than a while, less than an eon?”

He studies me for a moment. “I get that. This is actually my first night out in a good minute.”

“Life, am I right?”

“I will cheers to that with my questionable drink choice,” he says with a wink.

“Aww.” I laugh. “I really am a jerk. I’m sorry. I just think it’s interesting! Really, what would you have ordered if you’d gotten here first?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Let’s see. I have to be in the mood for a martini, but when I am, I order it dirty and with gin. Garner whatever information from that you can. Also, I’m a dreadful Irishman, and my father is forever disappointed, but I don’t generally care for whiskey, so my manliness will have to remain in question. So if I’d ordered first? Probably a Guinness or a gin and tonic. Those are my regulars.”

I giggle into my glass. “Those are good regulars. Guinness will be my next order if we make it to drink two, just FYI.”

“If?”

“Well, it’s all very up in the air, isn’t it? I’ve managed to intimidate you, we have translation issues and I’m kind of a dick. I mean, the cards are stacked against us, Mr. Cleary.”

“See, now we have to make it. It’s a challenge. We must conquer this mountain.”

I take in a dramatic, shuddering breath. Reaching out, I take his wrist and squeeze it defiantly. “You’re right. We can do this. Success will be ours.” Thankfully he laughs, so I let him go and take a drink. “We need to keep our momentum going.”

“It’s crucial,” he says with a wink and takes another sip of his beer. “Tell me something fantastic you did today.”

My hands feel suddenly hot as I remember Alice and her info-bomb. She’s very pretty. Red hair, freckles, a perkiness I don’t possess. I wonder if Ryan has told her about our situation. Maybe they’re going out fully knowing the endgame is sex.

I gulp my beer and push the images out of my head.

I think about telling Ben that the most fantastic thing I did today was ask him out because my business hasn’t had company in two straight years, and at the moment, the prospect of a trial run is starting to seem very appealing, but that seems slightly inappropriate. Slightly.

I sigh. “I feel like I’m letting down our cause to say all I really did today was plot how to make ravens out of fondant. Although, on Friday, I got to design a boob-cake. That was a highlight.”

Ben splutters on his beer. “Boob-cake?”

“It’s a cake shaped like a breast.”

“Your job is obviously better than mine.”

I consider this as I take a long sip. “Probably fact.”

Reaching up and loosening his tie a bit, he asks, “So, how did you get into the business of boob-cakes to begin with? If I’d been given that pitch on career day in high school, I don’t think I could have resisted the lure.”

“The boob-cake siren song is a mighty one,” I agree. “And it just sort of happened. Shannon and I went to State together. She was a business major, and I was dicking around in communications with an art minor solely because my mother refused to have a child planning to base her life off an art degree.

“Shannon graduated and got married, had her son, and I met Butter during my senior year on campus. She was part of this bake sale that was trying to raise money for the culinary arts majors to take a trip to France, and she sold me the best goddamn cupcake I’d ever had in my life. To this day, nothing has ever tasted as good as that crème brûlée cupcake.

“We became pals, and after we’d all graduated, we tried our hands at various crap jobs. A few years ago, Shannon had a moment where she realized that she hated watching her degree gathering dust but couldn’t see herself schlepping in an office somewhere. I was working as the lowest level assistant possible at a horrible radio station that aired nothing but aggressive talk radio, and I had exactly no desire to move up the ranks. One night we were ranting about adulthood, and Butter brought cupcakes. Lightning struck, and that was it. Cup My Cakes was born.”

“Butter’s kind of the lynchpin, then?”

I nod. “Indeed. We owe all our baking know-how to her. Well, and her Noni back in Hawaii, who taught Butter everything she knows.”

“I feel like I need to send her a fruit basket or something.” He laughs. “My team is obsessed with those cupcakes. And to think it all started because you ladies realized how much adulting truly sucks.”

I take another drink. “I’m pretty sure that’s how Charlie’s Angels formed.”

Before I can turn the conversation to the fantastic parts of his day, he turns in his stool to face me, leaning one elbow on the bar. “Kat, in the interest of keeping this second drink dream alive, I’m going for gold here. I have a confession.”

I make my eyes go wide. “Oh, my. Okay.” Turning dramatically in my seat, I place my hands in my lap. “I’m ready.”

“Yes, I did change my shirt because I was meeting you for drinks. And I actually let myself fret about it for a while, too. So when you noticed, I almost fell out of my chair. And I ordered what you were drinking when I came in because I was so nervous, I honestly in that moment forgot what it is I normally drink. And, Kat, I have been buying from your shop for five months, and every week for five months, I’ve thought about how I might someday work up to asking you out. When you said someone was getting married at the shop the other day, for a second I thought maybe it was you and I’d missed my window.” He grins at me, and I take special notice of his white-but-not-too-white teeth. “Now, I’m not saying I’d ever anticipated those particular circumstances bringing this date about, but I’m glad they did.” He holds his hands up in front of him. “Our glasses are almost empty. So. That’s my Hail Mary for a second drink.”

I tilt my head to the side as he takes the last sip from his glass, setting it back down on his napkin with an ominous clink.

This is wrong. Ben isn’t here because he’s emotionally confused by his significant other dating someone new. He’s not here because he’s debating whether or not to try practice sex with me. He’s not here on the whim of a bad mood and a semi-joking idea.

Here’s here because he likes me. Because he has been thinking for some time of being here with me.

I feel genuinely sick to my stomach with guilt at the thought of what’s unfolded in this bar. I want to come clean with him about the reality of my current romantic entanglements—but more than that, selfishly, cowardly, I want to keep feeling what it’s like to be on a first date with Ben Cleary.

“That was a pretty solid Hail Mary,” I offer.

“I went for it,” he says. “Although, to sweeten the pot, I will say, were there to be a second drink, I would also be willing to throw in dinner, because I’m a gentleman like that. And because I’m hungry.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Wait. Unless...you don’t study people about their food the way you do with their drinks, do you?”

I shake my head. “God, no. That’s not okay. Drinks are drinks. Food is for eating and magic and shutting the hell up. You don’t mess with food.”