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?”
