An elaborate Old McDonald style cake with a tall red barn and at least five of his favorite animals.
Have I mentioned how much I hate working with fondant? It’s the devil.
Dylan and Joey exchange worried looks as the woman waits anxiously for the verdict. I can tell which way this decision is leaning, and no child should be disappointed on their birthday. Even little Timmy, or whatever the Hell this kid’s name is, who had to go all out for his big day. We should at least attempt this.
“I think we can knock this out,” I say, earning a leery look from Dylan. “What?” I mouth.
The woman pulls me into a grateful hug.
Dylan smiles at me, telling her there is no guarantee, and that she needs to be prepared to settle on birthday cupcakes in case this doesn’t work out.
She agrees. “Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you so much!” And rushes out of the shop.
We immediately get to work.
Dylan stays off her feet as much as possible. I’m all over the place, pulling ingredients and supplies off the shelves, darting upstairs to grab some paper so we can sketch this out. Our design is promising. Whether or not we can pull of sculpting these fucking farm animals is another thing.
I work through lunch. Joey steps into the back after two o’clock and holds out a sandwich for me to take bites of as I roll out some fondant. Dylan takes several breaks and moves into a more comfortable seat when her back starts to hurt. We check her blood pressure twice. That whole thing worries me. I forget all about my phone and Mason in general as I mold fat little farm animals and place them around the barn.
The cake is completed with only minutes to spare. Dylan can’t believe it. I’m too exhausted to offer my opinion on the ordeal and collapse onto a stool. It only registers that I haven’t spoken to Mason at all today when I’m gathering up my things at the end of the day.
“Still nothing?” Joey asks as we step out of the bakery together.
I glance across the street. The studio lights are off. “No. Um . . .” I check my phone again and frown at the screen. No Mason.
Disappointment prickles deep in my chest.
Joey bumps against my shoulder, then throws his arm around me and pulls me along the sidewalk. “Early night, maybe? If he had extra classes today, he’s probably beat. As am I. Jesus. Just watching you and Dylan back there knocking out that cake was enough to wipe me out. Of course, I barely slept last night due to our little lover’s quarrel.”
I feel the corner of my mouth twitch.
“Pizza and beer for dinner sounds fucking perfect right about now. I need carbs and booze. You in?”
Craning my neck, I watch the studio grow smaller behind us as we continue down the sidewalk.
Early night, maybe? I cling to Joey’s reasoning for Mason’s continued silence. I accept it as explanation.
Extra classes. Right. He’s probably beat, that’s all.
“Yeah, sure,” I agree, looking ahead and tucking away my phone. “That does sound perfect.”
Or at least I think it does.
By the time that option is actually laid out in front of me, an hour later back at the condo, my appetite is deficient and I can only manage to consume half of my slice of Hawaiian pizza and nurse a third of my beer. I pick off the pineapple chunks and stack them on the plate. The ham slivers next.
Billy asks me if I’m okay, if I’m feeling well.
“Just tired,” I mumble, standing and carrying my plate to the sink.
Probably beat.
I can’t explain my mood, or what exactly it is I’m feeling as I turn in early and take a hot shower.
Disappointment? Disbelief? It’s odd, not hearing from Mason, but it’s easily explainable, and that’s what I tell myself again and again as I towel off and slip into an oversized T-shirt and a pair of black lace panties.
No reason to overreact. Or react at all, right?
God, when did I become spoiled by our daily conversations? I feel like a huge chunk of me is missing.
I comb out my hair and grab my phone before sliding under the cool sheets covering my bed. The dim light of my screen casts over my pillow as I hold it next to me, my shoulder digging into the mattress. My thumb hovers over the FaceTime icon.
I scowl at my own desperation.
He’s asleep, Brooke. Early night. Really fucking busy, remember?
With a heavy exhale, I let the phone drop out of my hand. I curl my body against my pillow and force my eyes to close.
I force myself to stop worrying, and to chase after sleep.
And the next morning, when Mason doesn’t show up for coffee, again, or stop in for a quick hello, I force myself to focus on my job, and not the man across the street who is confusing the fuck out of me right now.
Oh, and also, making it damn near impossible to focus on anything.
“Goddamn it.” I pick up the now empty container off the floor and slam it onto the worktop. A mound of sugar collects near my feet, with a trail streaking across the floor. The granules shimmering along the wood.
Well, this is just perfect. And exactly how you get ants.