“Okay,” I say. “What kind of cake?”
“You mentioned that bakery on the corner once,” he says. “And when I went in there, I got to talking with Hyacinth.”
“Oh,” I reply. “Yeah, I know her.”
“She told me you would love this,” he says, putting a small pink box on the table.
“Thank you, Owen,” I say, meaning it.
There is no problem that can’t be fixed by cake.
He goes to walk away, and I feel something turn deep in my chest. “Wait, Owen.”
“Yes?”
“We should eat it together.”
“Are you sure? I meant it as a gift for you.”
“And I want to eat it with you,” I reply, smiling. “Sit down with me.”
Owen is visibly pleased. He gets plates and spoons, then sits down next to me. I carefully open the box and slide it up, revealing a small but high circular cake with perfect pink icing and a white chocolate design on top.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, leaning over to smell it. “I think it’s raspberry.”
“Honestly, I didn’t know cake could be so pretty,” Owen laughs. “I’m even more scared of baking now.”
As I watch Owen cutting the cake, I realize that these gifts aren’t a ploy or a trap—Owen is genuinely trying to make me feel better, and essentially apologizing for what he did.
How to tell if you’re having a valid emotional reaction or a trauma response? I could write a book on it and still never know the answer.
Owen cuts me a big piece, and I see it’s a light, fluffy vanilla sponge with layers of cream and raspberry jam. My first bite sends shockwaves through me as my body reacts to the perfect, creamy sugar with the sweet, rich raspberry mixed in.
“Wow,” I mumble through a big spoonful. “Hyacinth outdid herself with this one.”
“She sure did,” Owen says. “I like cake, but damn. I can’t stop eating this.”
“Well, it’s not that big of a cake,” I say jokingly. “We should probably just finish it.”
“Yes,” he agrees sagely. “It’s our duty. To the cake. We wouldn’t want it to spoil.”
“Exactly!” I reply. “We have absolutely no choice.”
Owen cuts up the remaining portion and fills my bowl, and both of us exchange silly looks as we stuff our faces. The sweet treat has gone a long way towards making me feel better, and something deep in my chest eases.
Owen is not my abuser. He screwed up, that’s all. Everything’s okay.
Owen smiles at me, and the warmth in my chest continues to grow. I’m not ready to completely forgive him and pour my heart out, but I do trust that he never meant to hurt me.
While we’re still grinning guiltily and finishing an absurd amount of cake, Owen’s phone buzzes. He flicks it open, and immediately his face twists.
“What is it?”
“I’m sorry,” he replies. “I’ve got to go to the infirmary for a few hours. Don’t worry about the kitchen—I’ll clean it up later.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t mind. Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, you rest up. I won’t be too late.”
