I can’t get to my camera fast enough to capture every moment.
Flour dusts every surface, and brown sugar sparkles like confetti. Skewers are neatly arranged, and he guides everyone through the process of rolling, slicing, and wrapping.
The women dive into it like a sport.
They’re unfazed by their fancy dresses and high heels. Flour dusts their hair. Sugar smudges their fingers and cheeks. At one point, Nettie accidentally flicks a blob of dough onto her daughter’s sleeve. It lands with a wet splat. Everyone howls.
I snap photo after photo, documenting the chaos and joy.
“Hey. Come here.” Jaclyn waves me over, cinnamon sugar smeared on her wrist.
I hesitate, camera clutched tight. Too slow. They drag me into the fun, rolling dough, laughing when I burn the first one over the fire.
We dip the warm dessert in cinnamon sugar, then drizzle chocolate and caramel over it.
“So good.” I lick the sticky sugar off my knuckles.
As the night deepens, a small dance floor takes shape beneath the wide branches of a mesquite tree.
Twinkle lights sway above us. Zoe and Zara start a playlist.
The music is made for us. Alanis. Shania. The Chicks. Avril. Loud, unapologetic, sing-at-the-top-of-your-lungs songs that shake the leaves overhead.
Wine spills here and there, heels pile at the edges of the dance floor, and no one cares.
Cash hangs back on the deck, wiping tables, tending the fire, watching us with that sexy smile of his. He’s made the night about them. Not him. And they love every second.
Somewhere between songs, even I lose track of time.
I was so wrong about them. Not a cult. A community. Women lifting women. Kindness and chaos and acceptance all tangled together.
The hostesses retire first, then Nettie, and then, one by one, the lights click off, and the laughter fades until it’s just him and me.
He crouches by the fire, poking at the embers with a metal rod. Sparks float up like fireflies.
He looks up as I approach.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.” His eyes soften the second they land on me.
I hold out my hand. “Will you dance with me?”
A smirk curls his lips. And my heart stutters at the way his face lights up.
He slides his hand into mine. “Always.”
We move beneath the twinkle lights, our bodies pressed close. His hand hooks at my waist, drawing me flush to him. My fingers bunch the fabric of his shirt.
One song fades into another. Silence drapes over us between tracks. It’s comfortable and intimate. But it’s our last night, and the weight of that lingers, unspoken.
“What are your plans after this?”
“Back to the restaurant.” His voice is low. “We’ve been setting up for five months, and with me gone this weekend, I’m sure my partner’s probably losing it.”
“Is he a chef too?”
“No. He’s the money-and-everything-else guy. And my brother.”
