Astrid smiled. “I like smashing shit too.”
“I remember,” Jordan said, winking at her.
Flutters. All through Astrid’s belly.
“Really though,” Jordan said, “I loved creating. Bringing something to life like that, something other people will love? Magic.”
Magic. That’s exactly what Jordan’s design for the Everwood felt like.
“Okay, so,” Jordan said after another swallow of her beer, “I’ve divulged my squandered dreams. It’s your turn.”
Astrid shook her head, smiling as she sipped her wine. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t you dare tell me you didn’t have any,” Jordan said, pointing a finger Astrid’s way. “Let’s start simple. Did you always want to be an interior designer?”
Astrid opened her mouth, the right answer right on the tip of her tongue.
Yes, of course.
But it wasn’t true. Not even close. And she didn’t want to lie to Jordan. She couldn’t.
“No,” she said softly, “I didn’t.”
Jordan nodded, as though this information didn’t shock her in the least. “What did you want to be?”
“I wanted...” Her thoughts trailed back to a little girl, a tween, a teenager, who dreamed of being not only one thing, but many things. A journalist. A teacher. A baker.
She thought of those lovely lavender scones she and Jordan had at the Sotheby flea market, how they reminded her that she’d loved baking with Claire and Iris when they were growing up—trying out new recipes, laughing when something came out horribly, squealing when a batch of cookies or a cake was just right. She loved creating something people could enjoy too, something warm and impractical and fun.
She supposed she still did love it, though she hardly ever baked these days. It had been years. Ruby’s eighth birthday, if she remembered correctly. The bakery in town had screwed up Claire’s order for a strawberry cake, so Astrid had stepped up to the plate, needs must and all that.
The cake had been delicious. And she’d loved making it, especially for Ruby, whom she adored with her whole heart. That had been a sort of magic, she supposed. There was no better feeling than someone tasting something she made and loving it. She hadn’t felt that in a long time. She was always satisfied when a client loved her work for them, but somehow, it didn’t ring quite as... well, as magical.
“I wanted to be a lot of things,” she said now, honestly. Then she told Jordan about how journalism—writing facts in beautiful ways—had always intrigued her, how her junior year English teacher made her think teaching could be fulfilling. She told her about baking with Iris and Claire, the strawberry cake for Ruby.
“So why didn’t you?” Jordan asked.
“Why didn’t I what?”
“Do any of that? Teach? Bake? Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your wealth of lavender sugar knowledge.”
Astrid shook her head. She should simply say her dreams changed, but had they? Or had they just dimmed as the years passed, as Isabel’s expectations tightened like a noose. She didn’t even remember choosing business administration as her major in college. That was simplyThe Plan,what she was always going to do.
She went for honesty again, meeting Jordan’s eyes. “I don’t know.”
Jordan tilted her head, eyes searching Astrid’s. Astrid felt raw, naked even, but she couldn’t look away.
“Maybe one day I’ll sing for you,” Jordan said.
“You will?”
Jordan nodded. “If you bake a cake for me.”
Astrid held her gaze, and she couldn’t have stopped the smile that settled on her mouth right now if she’d tried.
“Maybe,” she said.
Jordan grinned back, and that first-crush, effervescent feeling bubbled through Astrid again—her chest, her fingertips, her toes. Finally, she turned back toward the shelves and pressed the rim of her wineglass to her still-smiling mouth.
