“Husband number two owned a bakery,” Ruby says between bites, not even breathing hard. “I learned to pace myself for the long haul. Also, spite is a powerful motivator.”
May tries her best to keep up, but I can see the exact moment when her competitive spirit overrides her spiritual composure and her better judgment. She starts cramming malasadas into her mouth with abandon, powdered sugar flying everywhere like a pastry snowstorm, her phone forgotten as she focuses entirely on beating Ruby and proving something to herself or her followers or possibly the universe.
“This is getting out of hand,” I mutter to Lani.
“Should we stop them?” Lani asks, though she sounds more amused than concerned, like she’s watching a nature documentary about humans behaving badly.
Before I can answer, Ruby suddenly stands up, holding her last malasada like a weapon. “Victory malasada!” she shouts and hurls it into the air.
The world slows down as the malasada arcs through the tropical air, powdered sugar trailing behind it like a sugary comet marking its path across the sky. May, in her competitive frenzy and probably suffering from a dangerous sugar high, jumps up to catch it and misses spectacularly, her hands grabbing nothing but air while her momentum sends her own plate flying in the opposite direction.
Malasadas start raining down around us like some kind of biblical plague designed by a pastry chef with a delicious sense of humor. The cats leap into action, catching airborne pastries with ninja-like precision that’s honestly pretty impressive. The chickens charge in like they’re storming a beach in some kind of poultry war movie, pecking at fallen dough with military efficiency.
May’s phone is still livestreaming the entire disaster to what I can only assume is a horrified and delighted audience, and it captures every moment of the chaos as she tries to catch falling dough while maintaining her spiritual influencer image and also not falling on her face.
“My followers!” May shrieks, diving for her phone as a malasada lands directly on the screen with a wet splat. “This is going viral for all the wrong reasons! This isn’t authentic, this is catastrophic!”
The food truck owner emerges from her window like an avenging angel, face red with fury that looks genuinely terrifying. “That’s enough! You’re disturbing my other customers! Out! All of you! Out!”
“But we might be in the market for more—” I start.
“Just GO!” she shouts, waving a spatula at us like it’s a sword. “And take your circus animals with you! You’re banned! Permanently! And tell everyone you know we serve the best treats in town!”
Ruby, covered head to toe in powdered sugar and looking like she’s been attacked by a confectionery monster, tries to tip the angry woman with a wilted hibiscus flower from her hair. “For your trouble,” she says solemnly, like this is a perfectly reasonable form of payment.
The woman slams her window shut with enough force to rattle the entire truck.
May storms off toward the resort, her designer athleisure now looking like she’s been in a flour explosion, her phone clutched to her chest as she tries to explain to her livestream audience that this was all part of the authentic island experience and a lesson in embracing chaos with grace, which is frankly that’s just inspirational levels of spin.
“Well,” Lani says, brushing sugar off her muumuu with the resigned efficiency of a woman who’s cleaned up worse, “that went well.”
“Speak for yourself,” I say, looking at the carnage around us—scattered malasadas, traumatized chickens, cats looking simultaneously satisfied and judgmental. “We’ve been banned from the best food truck on the island, and we didn’t even get useful information.”
“It was worth it, though,” Ruby says, grinning through her sugar coating like a deranged snowman. “Did you see her face when I threw that malasada? Pure magic.”
We start the walk back to the resort, leaving behind a trail of powdered sugar and confused poultry. The morning heat presses down on us like a rebuke, and I can already feel the sugar crystallizing in my hair like some kind of tropical punishment.
“Those cinnamon rolls, though,” Ruby sighs dreamily, having recovered from the malasada incident with remarkable speed. “I could marry those cinnamon rolls.”
“Get in line,” Lani says. “I saw them first.”
“We could have a triple wedding,” I suggest because the sugar has gone to my brain. “Very progressive.”
We look at each other, covered in sugar and regret, and a thought hits us simultaneously like lightning striking the same spot three times.
“Weshould sell them,” Ruby says.
“At the resort,” Lani adds with her entrepreneurial wheels clearly turning despite the sugar crash that’s definitely coming down the pike.
“Cinnamon rolls that good could single-handedly save our bottom line,” I finish, and for once, I actually believe something might work.
“Do you think the food truck lady would give us the recipe?” Ruby asks hopefully, like she’s forgotten the last five minutes.
“After what just happened?” Lani snorts. “I think she’d rather give us food poisoning.”
“Details,” Ruby waves dismissively, sending a small cloud of powdered sugar into the air. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
As we trudge back through the grass, trailing cats and powdered sugar and the faint scent of shame, I can’t help but think our next stop at Savannah’s community garden is going to feel very tame after this morning’s excitement.
