Lia: You never told me where you’re headed tonight. Care to share with a soon-to-be-married old hag?
Breaker: You know, with that ratty old robe you like to wear still, you do resemble the true definition of an old married hag.
Lia: I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.
Breaker: You need to up your standards.
Lia: So where are you going?
Breaker: I don’t want to tell you.
Lia: Why not . . . wait, is it embarrassing?
Breaker: No, but you’re going to give me shit for it, and I don’t want to hear it, so I’d rather pretend I didn’t tell you and move on.
Lia: Breaker Pickle Cane, you tell me what you’re doing with Birdy this very instant. I demand it.
Breaker: Oh, you demand it?
Lia: Yes, on the fake breasts of Mrs. Doubtfire, if you don’t tell me, I’m going to do something to your apartment when you’re gone, and you’ll have no idea what it is because it will be so subtle that you wouldn’t even notice.
Breaker: Firstly, we NEVER swear on Mrs. Doubtfire’s breasts, that’s . . . that’s just criminal. Secondly, DON’T YOU DARE touch a thing.
Lia: Do you really think your capital letters will deter me?
Breaker: They should. There’s venom behind them.
Lia: I’m unfazed.
Breaker: You’re a tyrant. These demands are impossible to live with.
Lia: Just tell me. Pleeeeeeeeeease.
Breaker: You’re annoying.
Lia: I know, now stop avoiding the topic and just tell me what you’re doing tonight.
Breaker: Fine. We’re going to some cupcake class that her friend is teaching. Her friend wanted to fill the classroom to show her boss she’s valuable, so Birdy recruited me.
Lia: A cupcake class? But . . . you hate baking.
Breaker: I’m well aware.
Lia: Like you hate baking so much, you refused to put icing on your toaster strudel. Your exact words were “I want nothing to do with the process. Just put it in my mouth.”
Breaker: See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you.
Lia: I’m just stunned is all. I didn’t know Birdy mattered that much to you.
Breaker: She sounded desperate. She pleaded to the nice guy. What was I going to say? I don’t bake?
Lia: That’s what you would have told me.
Breaker: You’re different.
Lia: If that’s the case. Can we take a baking class to learn how to make a wedding cake?
Breaker: That would be a hard no.
Lia: You don’t love me!
Breaker: Shut up. You know I love you more than anything.
Lia: More than your Star Wars stamp collection?
Breaker: Of course. I stuck that in storage. Clearly, it doesn’t mean that much to me.
Lia: More than your Jack Skellington mug?
Breaker: Naturally. I love the mug, but I don’t see it every day like I see you.
Lia: Okay . . . do you love me more than your signed Lord of the Rings poster?
Breaker: Oooo, now you’re testing me. How about this, you come in a close second.
Lia: Oddly, I accept this.
Breaker: LOL. Okay, Birdy’s here. Have to go.
Lia: Have fun! Send me pictures.
“I know this was kind of out of the blue, but thank you for agreeing to come with me,” Birdy says as she ties on her apron.
Mine is already on, and I desperately want to strip it off me.
I hate aprons.
I hate flour and sugar.
I hate spatulas.
I hate oven mitts.
I hate everything on the table in front of me.
Nothing about baking is magical to me. Not a single thing. The only great thing about the act of baking is the result, but I would rather purchase the result than make it myself. There are too many risk factors making it terrible that I’m not willing to take a chance on.
Just buy . . . always buy.
“Not a problem,” I say with a smile, even though I know the smile is fake.
“Baking is not really my thing,” Birdy says as she adjusts the apron at her neck. “But Callie just got this job, and she really wants to impress her boss.”
“I would be the same way.” I offer a nice smile. I pick up the cat-themed spatula and say, “At least the theme is pretty cool.”
Birdy tilts her head to the side. “Is that sarcasm?”
I shake my head as I take in the pink space. Walls covered in pink murals, aqua and seafoam-green utensils, as well as appliances with cats everywhere you look, Pussycat Cupcakes really went all out. “I like cats. I had one growing up named Jiggles. He was my best bud.”
“Really?” she asks. “You’re being serious?”
“Yeah.” I chuckle. “I guess it would be hard to believe, but yeah, Jiggles and I were quite the pair. He would follow me around outside while I flew my model airplanes, and at night, he would cuddle on my pillow.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet. What happened to him?”
“Feline cancer. But he lived until he was eighteen, so he had a nice, full life.”
“Okay, so maybe I don’t feel that bad about taking you to a cat-themed cupcake place then.”
“Oh no, you should still feel bad.” I wink at her just as her friend starts the class.
I’m surprised that the cupcakes are already made. For some reason, I thought we would be baking from scratch, but what I come to find is this is a decorating class, so we learn to make the frosting and how to pipe it onto the already cooled cupcakes.
After a tutorial on how to make the frosting, I dip my finger along the side of the mixing bowl and take a taste of the buttercream.
“Not bad.”
Birdy does the same, and I watch as she slips her finger past her lips and lightly sucks on it.
Nothing about it is sexual, nothing at all, but for some odd reason—maybe because it’s been some time for me, or because she is really fucking pretty—watching her suck the frosting off her finger makes the back of my neck sweat.
“Ooo, that’s good.” She wipes her finger on a towel. “What color should we do?”
Gathering myself, I say, “Well, we could go with the proposed color, pink. Or we can be rebels and pick something else.”
“A pink pussy . . . cat seems too generic.” Her pause makes me laugh. “But blue . . . that’s clearly not an option.”
“No one likes a blue pussy . . . cat,” I say, causing her to laugh this time.
“Green makes me think ill. And a sick pussy is not something I want to eat.”
“Or lick,” I add.
“Exactly.” She taps her chin, a smile playing on her lips. “What about red . . . uh, wait, I take that back.” I laugh out loud, grabbing the attention of the other bakers. She rests her hand on my arm and says, “Shhh, you’re gathering attention. If we’re straying from the pink pussy, we need to be stealthy about it.”
“Sorry, but definitely not red.”
“That was a terrible suggestion. How about orange or yellow? Those feel right.”
“How about both?” I ask.
“Now, I think you’re onto something.” She hands me a bowl and says, “I think if we split the icing in half, color one orange and one yellow, and then put them in the frosting tube at the same time, then we will get some sort of tie-dye effect.”
I blink a few times at her and say, “Uh, I thought you weren’t into baking.”