I take a bite of the cupcake, thinking about how to explain. If I even want to. It has a slight strawberry flavor that complements the vanilla buttercream, reminding me of strawberry shortcake—a fitting summer treat.
I should’ve seen the writing on the wall when, early on in our relationship, he was all about himself. Then, when I told him about my business idea for the mobile cupcakery, he was fully on board—probably seeing dollar signs. Otherwise, our conversations usually centered around him. Not much haschanged. He seems unable to wait for me to finish chewing and launches into an account of what has been going on in his life—true to form.
I roll my eyes and continue to enjoy my cupcake as he rattles on about his various schemes for making money. The latest is a football tailgate service to bring sports fans some kind of spice condiment I’ve never heard of. He calls himself “Sly the Spice Guy” now.
Nearly choking on a cupcake crumb, I realize Sylvester must’ve seen me online with Declan and wants me to make an introduction to the football player. I haven’t gone online in days, fearing what I’ll see because we’re all over the internet. I have no doubt my parents are having a field day, splashing my photos and foibles all over the place for everyone to see. I can imagine the headlines.
Cinderella over the moon for football Printz, who left her before half-time,orLooks like football prince ends things with Cinderella before midnight.
I brush my hands together. “Good luck with your business, Sly. When you start rolling in the dough, or spice, as it were, remember you owe me—” I’ll never forget the amount of the van because it had been all my savings, but I should add interest. “You owe me thirty-four thousand dollars and fifty cents. When that’s been paid, maybe then we can discuss your spice.”
His brows pinch together. “What?”
“For taking off with the van I’d invested my life savings in to create a mobile cupcake shop.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d need that now that you’re?—”
“Now that I’m back here, without a place to live, and with my heart—” I stop myself from saying more. I don’t owe Sylvester an explanation, and he’s the last person I want to talk to, but the whole situation weighs heavily on me because he interfered with my dream.
“So, you’re not with Declan?” He scratches his temple.
I shake my head and wipe my eyes.
“But the internet says?—”
“The internet needs to get a life,” I practically growl. “My parents can spew whatever lies they want about him, but I know the truth. Declan is a good man. He’s had tough times and came through them, stronger and better than most people would’ve.”
Sylvester leans on the back of the chair. “Maggie, I hate to say this, but your parents agree.”
“What?” I ask, echoing his previous question.
I tear my phone from my pocket and open up the search engine. Sure enough, there are numerous articles and posts about Declan, where and how he grew up, the trouble he’d gotten into, and the incident with the O’Mealleys, but it paints him as a hero—because he is. He also made a huge donation to an organization to help at-risk youths.
My mouth hangs open as I skim the article. At the bottom, next to a photo of my parents, is a text box that readsWe hope you like our new segment about Hunks, Honeys, and Heroes. Real-life stories of celebrities who’ve defied the odds and do good in the world. Dedicated to our daughter, Maggie, who you may also know as Honey Holiday from the hit show Friends of the Family.
The sounds in the bakery fade as I sit, stunned by what I read. “Wow,” I whisper.
Sylvester’s voice comes back to me. “So, do you think you could introduce us? I’m guessing number forty-four will love our spiced pickled egg relish mayo combo.”
I squish up my nose and give my head a little shake. Then again, Declan does secretly like pickles and peanut butter. Mayo, not so much.
The density of the burden I’ve carried lifts and the light of forgiveness toward my parents enters my heart. But that doesn’tmean I’ll forget the debt Sylvester owes me. I still have to find a place to live, a new job, and have bills to pay.
“Sylvester, number forty-four, aka Declan Printz, thinks that you’re a real—” I whisper the unpleasant words in his ear so I don’t disturb the other customers. But saying the football player’s name twists my stomach in knots. I miss him and considering what Sylvester is up to, I don’t regret using the Boston Bruiser’s clout against my ex.
“I, uh—Declan Printz? You told him about me, us?”
“I told him how you disappeared with the van,” I clarify. “You dashed my dreams. Left me high and dry.” I cross my arms in front of my chest. It feels good to face him finally and tell him how he hurt me.
“So, you’re not going to see if the team would endorse my condiment truck?”
I sigh in exasperation because I shouldn’t expect a guy like him to apologize. “Absolutely not.”
If I were truly vindictive, I’d have my parents claim his products had caused food poisoning or something disastrous and splash the breaking news online. Instead, I get up and say, “Good luck, Sylvester. I hope you, uh, sell some spice, and I expect that check soon.”
I stride from the bakery, feeling like I have a little taste of justice—it’s faintly like a strawberry velvet cupcake. I doubt I’ll ever see that money, but perhaps Sylvester will find success in his spice company.
37
