Sometimes they recognize me, too.
Today, my lavender-honey connoisseur tilts her head like she’s trying to place me.
“You look familiar.”
I just smile. “Must have one of those faces.”
It’s easier this way.
My NDA is technically up now that the season has aired, but I really enjoy not having the spotlight on me when I’m here. The show still plays in the background of people’s lives, and every now and then I’ll catch someone watching it on their phone while they wait in line.
It’s surreal.
But it’s not my whole life anymore.
By the end of my shift, my arms ache and my hair is half falling out of whatever attempt I made to tame it when I first arrived. Before I head out, I slip into the bathroom to freshen up. There’s almost always a smear of something on my cheek, and a lingering scent of toasty bread and espresso that follows me everywhere.
I’ve never felt more like myself.
And I sing alongside Sabrina Carpenter the whole way home, dancing in my seat like nobody can see through my un-tinted car windows.
Heating up a plate of leftovers from Mrs. Delgado, I drop into a chair at my tiny kitchen table. Chewing thoughtfully, my fingers open my laptop and navigate to the Google form I set up for all the custom order requests flooding in.
I initially tried to manage it all by hand, keeping a log of all inquiries from DMs across every social media account in acomposition notebook but it quickly became too overwhelming for that.
Custom cake orders with specific theme or flavor requests are the most common, but there are some event inquiries and open-ended requests asking about pricing, timelines, and availability.
I’ve gotten good at saying no when I need to, and even better at knowing my limits.
Some nights, I sit cross-legged on my kitchen floor, sketching out designs with an extra pencil tucked behind my ear. Other nights, I’m elbow-deep in buttercream, music playing in the background while I lose track of time completely.
It’s not glamorous, or easy, but it’s mine.
“Okay, but hear me out,” Kara says, kicking off her shoes the second she steps into my apartment without knocking like she owns the place. “What if we start a tradition where we only go out for drinks if we have a reason to celebrate something.”
I glance up from the cake I’m smoothing frosting onto, one eyebrow lifting. “That feels like a slippery slope into finding reasons to celebrate everything.”
“Exactly,” she says, grinning. “You get it.”
I huff out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “We don’t need a reason, Kara.”
“Wrong,” she counters, hopping up onto my counter and swinging her legs. “We always need a reason. Today’s reason is that you turned down three orders because you’re fully booked for the next two weeks.”
I pause for a second.
“Okay,” I admit, setting the spatula down. “That might be worth celebrating.”
“Thank you,” she says, like I’ve just proven her point. “God, I love being right.”
We end up at the same bar we always go to, tucked into a corner booth with drinks we didn’t really need but ordered anyway.
We talk about everything and nothing.
All the new drama with The Trunch atElite Connectionsand the weird guy who tried to flirt with her at the gym by asking if she believed in fate. Still laughing, I regale her with a retelling of the customer who asked me if I could make a cake shaped like their dog and then sent me seventeen reference photos.
As the night winds down and the drinks settle me into a warm, sleepy stupor, she nudges my foot under the table.
“You’re smiling at your phone.”
