She would also hear the lie in my voice and hex me. I’d end up with a forehead pimple or something equally unpleasant.
If I so much as lifted the lid on the Tupperware and stole the teensiest spec from within, her inner alarm bells would bang and clang, informing her of my deception. Diem’s tardiness would not be an acceptable excuse.
Where the fuck was he?
I eyed the thick slab of cream-cheese-frosted deliciousness through the clear sides of its unfair prison, wanting nothing more than to help the poor, lonesome piece break free. The shreds of carrot, bits of pineapple, and crunchy walnuts made my mouth water and stomach growl.
“I can’t take it anymore. In ten minutes, I’m eating you. What am I supposed to do? Starve to death? I’m a growing boy. I need sustenance. I need sugar.”
I broke out in song, crooning the chorus to Lifehouse’sLove of a Lifetime, a far-outdated band that sometimes played on the classic rock station Diem listened to in the Jeep. The cheesy love song fit the moment.
I glanced at the door to the records room, then at the wall clock above. My boyfriend was fifteen minutes late. For a man who was perpetually on time, it was unusual. Maybe I should have been concerned, but I wasn’t. After the debacle that was dinner at my parents’ the previous night, Diem had been quiet and distant. Those moods could last for days and often distracted him. He became forgetful. Thinking too much and too hard was never good for Diem. The man would think himself into stage four liver or lung cancer one day, and I wasn’t sure I could stop it.
“Thank you, Mother, for mentioning weddings.” I huffed, staring longingly at the cake again. Cake would make it better. Cake madeeverything better. For me. Maybe not for Diem, which was why I should eat it now and not worry about saving it.
I wasn’t surprised when Diem used the first available excuse to fly out the door during dinner. Although the phone call he’d received was real, at the time, I’d figured it was a clever con.
When I chased him down—after giving my mother the what-for—I half expected to find the Jeep and my boyfriend gone. I wouldn’t have blamed him. I had promised he wouldn’t get the third degree, and then my mother had gone and spoken the wordwedding.
Did her seemingly innocent questions mess with Diem’s head? Abso-fucking-lutely. Did he doubt my claim that I didn’t need to get married and was perfectly content with what we had? I had no doubt.
I touched the ring that hung on a chain around my neck, remembering the day Diem gave it to me. The awkward exchange had been sweet torture. He’d stumbled over his words more than once. My poor emotional wreck. God, I loved that man. The ring symbolized more to me than a wedding ever could, but I wasn’t sure Diem believed it.
Especially now.
I pulled up our texting thread and shot him a message.
I have cake for you. It’s the trial birthday cake for Nana’s party. I ate my piece this morning, but I swear to god, I’m going to eat your piece if you aren’t here in the next five minutes. Did you forget me? Should I arrange an Uber?
When I didn’t get an immediate response, and the message remained unread, I hopped onto the counter with a sigh. The bank of overhead fluorescents hummed in the silent room, drawing my attention. They reminded me of the day we met when I had literally fallen into Diem’s arms. If he hadn’t been there to catch me, I would have probably ended up with more than broken glasses.
If that wasn’t fate, I didn’t know what was.
I smiled at the memory. Diem’s surly tone. His snarly scowl. His abrasive edge as he’d barked his opinion on my failed circus act while setting me to rights.
The way he’d reached out to adjust my crooked tie, brushed his fingers over my jaw, and admonished me for being an unsafe idiot.
Diem was a troubled, troubled man back then, angry at the world, so socially crippled he could barely function. We’d come a long way. He was calmer. More communicative. He still carried a world of self-doubt and childhood trauma on his shoulders, but he expressed himself better every day.
He smiled more.
He cracked jokes.
He even laughed on occasion.
Sometimes, I was convinced that I’d achieved the impossible. Finally, Diem believed himself worthy of love and happiness, and that, above all else, was the greatest gift of all. Not a wedding.
The reproachful voice that lived inside his head, the one he claimed sounded an awful lot like his father, still screamed on bad days, and Diem’s coping mechanisms were weak—he heavily relied on alcohol and cigarettes to bandage the wounds and quiet the noise—but he was more settled than when we first met.
I stared at the cake, then the still closed door to the records room, then the clock ticking away the minutes.
“Uh-oh. Time’s up, Guns. Too bad, so sad. All mine.”
Cracking the lid on the Tupperware—quietly, so I wouldn’t trigger Kitty’s supersonic hearing—I peeked inside. The scent of nutmeg and cinnamon wafted from the gap. I groaned, remembering how deliciously moist it had been on my tongue that morning.
Saliva pooled in anticipation.
I set the lid aside—licking it free of icing first—then, using my fingers, I plucked a morsel of cake from within, lifting it to my mouth at the exact moment the door to the records room burst open.
