The Art of Moving On | ✔

CHAPTER TWENTY: part one

     When I walk into Private Weston Monday morning, Dres is behind the counter stocking the displays. I'm slightly surprised to see him outside the kitchen so early, since he's always in the midst of baking when I come in, but I'm in a ranting mood, so I don't pay it a second thought, delving right into hysterics.

     "So Halston and Grace are fighting because Grace ditched Halston at this party Saturday night to hook up with this guy Thayer who apparently has a girlfriend, and Halston walked in on them and called Grace a slut. So now they're both fighting and I don't know why Grace would hook up with someone who has a girlfriend or why Halston would call Grace a slut because that's a really un-Halston like thing to do. But also Grace shouldn't have ditched Halston to begin with. Mostly though, I don't know why they always get into dumb fights like this and how I always end up dragged into the middle."

     I look up at Dres, who's staring at me, wide-eyed. I grin sheepishly, not sure if he heard a word of what I just said. Maybe he heard it, but it looks like none of it registered.

     "Anyway," I say, shaking my head. "How's your morning been? You look like you were up early. Not that you look bad, like you didn't sleep or something. You just look like you've been...productive! Yeah, like you've accomplished a lot."

     Dres's expression amplifies. It's still shocked, like he's surprised to see me on time and at the place I work, but his face also says 'stop talking.' So I stop talking, taking a deep breath to calm myself down.

     I take another effort-conscious breath because the whole place smells different. Different good though, like Christmas and winter, warm apple cider and sweet cinnamon you can taste in the air. I look around for the source and find Dres's new cupcakes in the display.

     For what it's worth Dres still hasn't stopped looking at me like I spontaneously grew two heads and flew to space and back in the span of walking through the door.

     I'm not all that focused on him, cause he's got the new cupcakes out, the ones I got to try first this weekend, and it's simultaneously making me recall the whole weekend's events and turning me on (cupcakes are turning me on, that's new.) I place a hand on the display like I may be able to reach through the glass and take one.

     They look good. Spiced cakes with creamy icing, gold flakes dusting the tops. Each of them has their own candy glass leaf placed on top, an assortment of oranges, reds, and yellows. There's that whole phrase about being too good to eat. That applies here.

      "Huh," I say bending to get a better look. "What time did you get here this morning? Do you even know the meaning of sleep at this point? These look freaking amazing, Dres. Seriously, like something you'd see on an episode of Cupcake Wars."

     My gaze darts between him and the name placard as I start to say something else but my statement trails off like I've got the attention span of a ninety-year-old dementia patient.

     My brain hones in and focuses so intensely on the cupcake's name that the words blur on the little white card.

      My neck heats up and there's this jumpy panicky feeling in my throat that makes me want to cough or laugh or possibly moonwalk out the front door. I haven't even fully come to terms with our weekend and everything that occurred, if it even occurred at all or I just made it all up in my head, and now this.

     Dres doesn't say anything. He's still looking like a deer caught in headlights. I can tell he's working to control it, though. He clears his throat and says, finally, "I named this one."

     "Yeah," I say slowly. "I got that."

     "It's just a name."

     "Uh huh," I say, unconvinced, with a shrug like that might help sell it (it doesn't.)