I can’t afford something messy like dating my best friend’s sister right now, or even entertaining thoughts of it.
But I need to do the right thing and let her know.
Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss.
6
BLACK AND WHITE AND BRIGHT PINK
MABEL
I can’t say my usual way of shaking off a day of debacles has worked.
But I spend the evening making batches of cookies at the ghost kitchen I rent with other virtual restaurants and bakers. A couple of Ding and Diners, as well as customers from other food delivery apps, ordered some of the chewy pistachio cookies I’ve become weirdly known for. Weird because pistachios are gross.
Still, the time mixing and baking helped me temporarily forget my bad luck streak. Maybe because of the solitude. No one else was cooking or baking here tonight, which was odd. As I leave, flicking off the lights and locking the door to the empty space, the day’s bad news slams back into me.
I can’t believe I was so desperate to catch a rice-paper butterfly and make my creation perfect that I fell into the very cake I had painstakingly, patiently prepared. Neither can I believe that I was so desperate to bleach the embarrassment from my brain that I kissed the face off a guy I once crushed on.
These thoughts nip at my heels as I walk a few blocks through the bustling streets of the Mission District, passing a trendy music club with pop anthems floating out, and then a vibrant mural of birds fluttering in a lush tree, painted by local artist Maeve Hartley. I turn onto my street, where I promptly weave away from a skinny guy on a building stoop, bent over and barfing. I wish the neighborhood weren’t such a mix.
But beggars can’t be choosers.
As he hacks up…well, everything, I unlock the front door to my building, then head up three flights to my tiny apartment above a taco shop. I push open the creaky door, and my gaze swings immediately to the blue-tiled antique mirror. It was my grandma’s, which she left for me, and the postcard tucked into the corner was one of many she sent to me over the years, even when we lived in the same town.
I tap the postcard once, and it makes me feel a little less sad. After I lock the door behind me, my phone buzzes and sparks something inside my chest.
I hate that I’m irritatingly hoping it’s a text from Corbin. What do I even want him to say?Want me to come over after my game so I can fuck the bad luck right out of you?
Um, yes. I would like that very much.
Grabbing the phone from my back pocket, I glimpse the preview pane as I set my bag down on the floor.
Great. It’s my mom.
Another message comes in too.
I push my pickleball paddle out of the way on the futon couch that doubles as my bed—and triples as my desk since my laptop’s on it—then flop onto the cushion. Against my better judgment, I open the group text with my parents.
Mommy Dearest: Sweetheart. Can we please talk about your hobby?
It’s not a hobby, Mom. It’s a job.
Daddy Dearest: We could also talk again about impulse control. Perhaps you should see someone about that.
Mommy Dearest: But first, let’s talk about you getting a real job.
Daddy Dearest: One where you don’t need to…talk so much.
It’s great having such supportive parents. I grit my teeth, but at least I don’t have to wonder if they heard about what went down today.
I don’t answer them. There’s no point.
They don’t think baking things named Sweet Cinnamon Crumble and Lemon Berry Temptation is part of a real job.
I’m twenty-seven.Thisis my job. This pays my bills, even if I don’t have quite as much cash to spare as I’d like. I have a business. It’s just—I always imagined flinging open the doors to a bakery in the morning—mid-morning, ideally—and then greeting customers all day. Chatting with them. Asking how their days are going as I serve toffee brownies and orange habanero chocolate chip cookies.
I can picture it all so perfectly, my bakery in rose pink with soft sage green accents, or a dreamy lilac shade with hints of Tiffany blue, like the color of the mirror grandma left for me. I touch my hair clip at the base of my braid, blow out a breath, and open the next message.
