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BIRDIE

Iflop down on a chair, and lift my feet. It’s been another busy day at the café, and I have yet to set my menu for tomorrow. The holidays always kick my ass, but right now, spending some time with my older brother, Harlan, and his girlfriend, Olivia, is a much needed respite from the hustle and bustle that comes with owning a café, and being a pastry chef. Did I mention it’s also the holidays?

“This is delicious,” Olivia says around a mouthful of puff pastry apple strudel. My brother gives her googly eyes — they have a thing for desserts and sex — but I love love so I’m happy to overlook their sappiness.

“I kept it aside for you, we sold out of just about everything today.” Part of the charm of the Wild Flour Café is that my assistant Daniel and I only make one batch of a recipe, and then try something new the next day. We never use the same menu twice. Which is deliberate on my part. I don’t want to be just like any other café-slash-bakery in the area and so far it’s worked. We’re busy from the time we open (sometimes there’s a queue before we open, and that’s before seven a.m on week days) to the time my display case has nothing but crumbs left, and my coffee machine is sputtering like it’s on its last leg. It probably is, given how much it’s used, but I don’t have the time to go shopping for a new one and I’m not about to order a $22 000 commercial espresso machine online. “So what’s on tomorrow’s menu?” Olivia asks, wiping her mouth. She blushes when Harlan grins at her. They’re so damn cute. My one and only waitress, Megan, and my kitchen assistant have both gone home already, but Harlan and Olivia usually make a stop on their way home if it’s not too late. I helped them move into Olivia’s family-sized apartment last weekend, and by the look on Harlan’s face, I doubt an engagement is far off. Most people would think it’s fast but even I know my brother has met his match. Olivia herself is quite smitten too. And should he be ready to propose, I know he’ll ask me to help pick the ring.

“I’m not sure yet,” I reply, trying to stifle a yawn. “I need to find another recipe book to get some inspiration.” Copying a recipe verbatim isn’t really my style, I prefer putting my own twist on what I serve my customers. While we offer sandwiches, and an assortment of savory creations, it’s the sweet stuff that gets me really excited. And it’s also my passion, the reason my brother paid for me to go to culinary school and helped me buy my little shop. It helps that he’s a property mogul, he got this store for next to nothing and gave it to me once he’d done all the necessary renovations. Fortunately, that’s where his involvement stops because he might be great with money, but he sucks in a kitchen. Of any kind.

“Oh,” Olivia pipes up, twisting to reach for something in her tote. She’s too busy looking for whatever she’s got in her bag to notice Harlan’s attempt at stopping her. “Liv,” he hisses. “No.” My brows furrow. “Why are you suddenly being weird?” I ask him. I mean, to me he’s always weird, as big brothers should be, but his reaction to what Liv’s looking for is out of character. He turns to glare at me just as Olivia twists back, and grins. “Speaking of recipe books, your brother bought me this one.” I’m smiling when she hands it over, but when I read the title my smile falters, and my heart drops into my belly. The Naked Patisserie. Catchy title, right? Under normal circumstances, I would wholeheartedly agree, but I’m too shocked to comment. I don’t need to seek out the name of the author to know who’s book it is. The title alone is a dead giveaway because, well, it was a pipe dream we had. And by we I mean me and my ex, Ethan Woods. Who is now a world-renowned pastry chef, and Michelin star-rated restauranteur. On the front cover is Ethan himself, in nothing but a navy apron, holding a spatula. Which is ridiculous, he hates spatulas. Well, he did when I knew him. “Birdie?”

I glance up, and see the worry etched on Liv’s face. Harlan, on the other hand, looks pissed. At whom I don’t know, maybe the ghost of my boyfriend past. Though, when he looks at Liv, I suspect it’s her he’s mad at.

I clear my throat, and shake my head, pasting on a smile. “I’m fine.” I pass back the recipe book with shaky hands. “I’m sure it’s a great recipe book.” I avoid looking at Harlan, thrown by the fact that he would purchase it to begin with. Considering he had to pick me up off the floor when Ethan left me for France, and again when I read his wedding announcement online. Harlan hates Ethan almost as much as I do. Or at least, I think I hate him. Time has a funny way of dulling the edges of hate, and whatever I’m feeling right now, I can’t really put a name to. “Anyway,” I slap my hands on my thighs, and stand, “let me get my stuff from the kitchen, and we can all head out. It’s getting late.” I manage to maintain my smile long enough to turn my back, at which point all bets are off. My heart is racing, and I can’t guarantee I won’t throw up. Somehow, I manage, knowing that the sooner I can get my belongings, the sooner I can go home. I walk around the front counter and display case, and head into my kitchen. Thanks to Harlan, it’s state of the art and everything an aspiring patisserie chef could dream of. But the sentiment is somewhat soured for the time being. My movements are driven by anger, and maybe some shock, as I rip my apron off, pull at my chef’s coat, and snatch my satchel from beneath one of the metal workbenches. I don’t give myself a minute to even think about Ethan, or whether he’s back in the country. If I do, I’ll be tempted to find out, and I’d rather not know for now. I think. Keeping my expression as neutral as possible, I head back to where my brother and Olivia are sitting. They’re whispering, and by the sounds of it, neither of them are happy.

“I asked you not to show her,” I hear Harlan say. Liv frowns, and whispers back, “Actually, you didn’t. But what’s the deal, anyway?”

I sigh, a loud burst of air from between my lips, and that gets their attention. Might as well get this over with now, and be done with it.

“Ethan is my…” I think about the right term, but there really is only one. “Ex. It didn’t end well, and Harlan almost killed him before he hopped on a plane en route to France. But I’m fine, Liv. Don’t let Harlan guilt you into feeling bad about showing me what he bought you.”

“I’m sorry, Birdie.” Liv looks like she’s about to cry, being the gentle soul she is, and I can’t have that. “Had Harlan actually mentioned it,” she glowers at him, and then looks back at me, “I wouldn’t have said anything at all.”

“It’s ancient history, so just forget about it. Please.” I slide my arms into my coat, and flip my hair over my collar. “Let’s go.” I could easily spend another hour with them before I really have to leave, but I’d rather be alone than make Liv feel worse for doing something she couldn’t possibly know would upset me. Harlan helps Liv into her coat before putting on his own, and leads her out the front of the café. The foot traffic on the sidewalk is insane, but that’s the holiday season for you. The wind picks up, nipping at my exposed cheeks, and my lips, and my hand shakes as I attempt to lock the door. Harlan leans over, and takes the keys from me, but I can’t even bring myself to look at him. It’s been years since Ethan left, and yet seeing his newest recipe book has me feeling a whole lot like scrambled eggs. And I hate it. Hate that he still has an affect on me in any capacity. “You okay, Bird?” Harlan asks, his voice low. “I was sure I asked her not to show you. I didn’t want to buy it, but Liv—”

“It’s fine, really.” I look up, and his expression is one of concern. He knows what Ethan did to me, how it broke me, how it took me months to move past it. “I know you adore Liv, you should buy her everything she wants. Besides, it’s just a recipe book.” I shrug. “I doubt Ethan is even in the country.” Harlan opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but thinks better of it. He hands me my keys, and kisses me on the forehead, muttering a, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I give my best shot at another smile, but he can see through my bullshit, and we both know it. Liv hugs me goodbye, apologizing again and again until Harlan eventually drags her away with a promise to stop by again later in the week. My apartment building is a ten minute walk away and usually I don’t mind it. It’s a good time for me to unwind, decompress and shake off the day’s sense of busyness before I get home. Now, it’s much too long because in ten minutes I’ve relived every moment of my relationship with Ethan Woods, the good and the bad, and I’m more irritated and upset than relaxed when I approach my apartment building. Fred, our elderly doorman who just so happens to report to Harlan because he owns my building, smiles when he sees me, and rather than stop by his desk for some idle chit-chat, I hurry past and throw an excuse about being late for something. The elevator ride is torture, and by the time I’m in my apartment, I’m a jittery mess. “Pull it together,” I mumble, undressing myself en-route to the master bedroom. “It’s not like you’re going to see him. He’s still happily married in France.”

But ya know, intuition is a bitch when she wants to be because everything I tell myself feels like a fucking lie. The body has a strange way of resisting what our minds tell us, and for me it’s the sensation of a boulder in the pit of my belly. I soak in the bath for a bit, bouncing between stewing and being annoyed with myself for stewing, and when I feel like I’m about to explode, I reach for my phone on the floor beside the tub. Nibbling my lip, I have two options as far as phone calls go, but neither will be easy. I can either call my best friend, Björn, or Ethan’s best friend, Rowland, who was my friend at some point too. He, however, ended up in France with Ethan, and our communication dwindled even though, at the time, he said he wasn’t ‘choosing’ sides. As for Björn, he was firmly Team Birdie. I inhale a fortifying breath, and dial Björn’s number. As the owner of one of the most popular bars in Manhattan, I don’t expect him to answer — or maybe I don’t really want him to — but I need to talk to someone who will understand the panic I feel brewing just below my anxiety. But, the Universe must hear my plea for divine guidance because Björn answers on the second ring with, “You’ve heard, haven’t you?”

I blink. “Heard what?”

He mutters, “shit,” and then I hear him asking his bar manager to take over so he can take my call. I hear the cacophony of a full bar, followed by footsteps, and finally, the closing of a door. Björn sighs. “I thought you were calling me because you heard King Dick is back in town, and getting divorced.”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head. “I didn’t know for sure, but you just confirmed it.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Bird. You should have heard it from me, I thought I’d have a bit more time. How’d you find out?”

“Harlan bought Ethan’s newest recipe book for Liv and when she showed me, I didn’t want to believe it.” My throat tightens, and I swallow, begging the tears and the memories not to make an unwelcome appearance. But I sniffle anyway. “You said he’s getting a divorce?” I don’t know much about Ethan’s wife, just that she’s quite beautiful, older, and helped him buy a few restaurants in France. I stopped stalking them online a week after their wedding announcement appeared on Page Six. It was only considered high profile because Ethan’s father is one of the most well-known attorneys in the state, and Ethan’s wedding was, therefore, newsworthy.

“Rowland called me,” Björn admits, a bite to his tone. There’s a whole other history between him and Rowland but I don’t want to think about that when I’m still trying to make sense of this. “I don’t know why, but I think he wanted me to warn you or something.”

“And why haven’t you?” I ask quietly. It’s not an accusation, Björn rarely does anything without a reason, and I trust him in a way most people don’t quite understand. If he didn’t want to tell me, I trust he had a good reason for it.

“Because he broke your fucking heart, Bird, and the last thing I want you to do is examine old wounds that have healed. But the joke’s on me because I can tell you’re thinking about him already.”

“It’s kind of hard not to when his newest book is called The Naked Patisserie, Björn.”

“It’s called what?” he shouts. “That mother fucker!”

I hear the tap-tap-tap of a keyboard, and, “The actual fuck? Is this a joke?”

Leaning my head back, I stare at the ceiling and reply, “That was our plan, remember? To compile our favorite dessert recipes and have it be titled The Naked Patisserie because Jamie Oliver owns The Naked Chef.”

Björn grumbles a long list of profanities, and then says, “This is horseshit, Bird.”

“Yeah,” I exhale. “And I’m still trying to figure out what to do. I’m bound to run into him at some point right? And you said he’s getting divorced?” I’m too curious about that part, never mind the fucking recipe book.

“According to Row he’s getting a divorce, yes, and I still don’t know why the asshole decided to phone me of all people with that information. Unless he wants you to know, which also makes no sense. And why didn’t he just call you himself?”