The sunny cheer of the pine and lemon kitchen, heavy with the wafting scent of apples and caramel and cinnamon, did little to brighten my dark thoughts.
"Kate, honey." Anna's soft timbre tugged guiltily at my heart. Despite the fact that I hadn't explained why I'd taken a leave of absence, she had already voiced a few suspicions. Namely that the darkness and burnout of the Emergency Department had finally caught up with me, and I'd rightfully had "a bit of a breakdown." I didn't correct her. It was close enough. I was supposed to be convincing her that I wasn't a basket case. She'd already offered her guest bedroom and a paycheck, I couldn't ask her to be my emotional-support-dog too. "There's no shame in taking a break."
I quickly returned to rolling out the chilled dough she'd asked me to place in the pie tin.
"I'm fine," I said automatically. Christ. My mantra again. "I got distracted."
"Thinking about Dane?" she asked with a grin. Anna playfully fanned herself with the caramel-coated spatula. "Do you think he'll text?"
She didn't notice that I'd flinched at his name.
I hadn't told her that the date had ended with him biting me. How could I? It would have sounded insane. Firstly, because normal dates didn't end with being bitten to the point of bleeding. Or, at least, nonconsenually bitten. And secondly, because there was no mark on my neck.
Despite the fact that I knew Dane had bitten me, there was no evidence to prove it. The skin across my throat was perfectly intact, unblemished, without even the faintest traces of a hickey...much less the assault against my jugular.
According to Anna, he had—very charmingly, per her version—brought me back to her condo with a smile and an apology. It's my fault, he'd told her. Too much wine.
Between complimenting his manners and fawning over his man bun, Anna had gently teased me: I haven't seen you so drunk since that SAE party where you... I had stopped listening. I did not need to relieve my college days of flip cup and keg stands. They had been embarrassing enough the morning after much less nearly ten years later. My tolerance for binge drinking had apparently slipped since then. Blacked out after two glasses of wine? Even more embarrassing, was Anna's description of my drunken babbling about Dane. So handsome...even though he ordered for me...I would do some things to him.
Much worse than the drunkenness and the desperate, humiliatingly horny affection for a man who was likely a gaslighting cannibal, was the new darkness that haunted my dreams.
The memories of Julia, awoken during that "kiss," tormented me. The strangled lilt in her voice. The marks on her pale arms. The smell of rust and oil. The broken pieces left my nerves frayed and my sleep fractured. As hard as I tried to cling to that flash of remembrance, the details fell through my fingers like water. My faulty memory was the only proof I had of Dane the-bath-salts-vampire, and if I could barely trust it, how could I expect anyone else to? And so I made my mouth smile.
"I doubt it," I forced myself to say. "He only has your number, doesn't he?"
Anna returned to stirring. "Yes, and I've been manically checking my phone for you. You're a total babe. How could he not want a second date?"
I laughed and gestured to my current outfit. My college hoodie was ratty and faded, my bike shorts covered in flour. The runway look was completed by fuzzy socks and fuzzier slippers.
With a faux-flirtatious growl, Anna winked. "I stand by my statement."
My laughter rang a breath more sincere. In that brief moment, I felt warmer and happier and safer than I had in weeks. I was with my best friend making mini apple pies for a bougie baby shower. How could anything be wrong?
"You are going to be okay through? When I'm gone this weekend?"
I knew she was referring to my wellbeing, but a part of me wondered if she was worried about leaving her business in my hands for the weekend. Anna's catering company—Beauty and the Beet—had started as a side project while she was in law school and transformed into a niche service for some of the valley's pickier eaters. Gluten-free, keto-friendly, vegan, kosher, paleo-inspired...Anna could do it all. No matter the occasion or the dietary restriction or discerning palate, she created a mouthwatering menu with instagram-worthy plates.
It wasn't surprising that her side project had become full project, even despite the naysayers and whispers that she was making a mistake. I refuse to feel guilty for choosing to by happy, she had said when moving in with me. Her parents had not been thrilled to hear she was dropping out of law school to pursue her passion and, in a desperate attempt to change her mind, stopped paying for her bougie Westwood apartment. On my medical student loan and her new company barely scraping by, we'd shared my tiny place and tested all of her menus.
Fortunately, her family was mollified by her success—and her cooking. They'd been more than happy to brag about her company, proclaim their unwavering support, after her first magazine feature. I'd been annoyed on her behalf: they should have been behind her from the start. Anna hadn't been bothered. Chinese-and-Italian parents, she explained with a shrug and a smile. They just want me to be well-fed while running the world.
It was their wedding anniversary that called her away. Though her mother had scoffed at the fuss of a ruby anniversary and her father had listed a hundred reasons why flying home was too dangerous, Anna refused to let them not celebrate 40 years together. And I refused to let miss the party she'd spent weeks planning to babysit me.
"I'll be fine," I said, gesturing to the tiny pies I'd assembled. They weren't quite as intricate as Anna's meticulous crimping, but they still sparked a faint note of pride in my chest. I wasn't completely useless. "I'll pick up the oysters from the fish market first thing, drop off the pies, and then pick up the other perishables for that galley dinner tasting menu. And I'll even take pictures of the venue for you."
Anna mock groaned. "I shouldn't have taken this contract. It's got to be the most finicky menu I've seen. Non-negotiable chicken liver and oysters and apricots...I still don't know how I'm going to throw it all together."
"Are you kidding? You make everything taste amazing. Remember that fermented fish you experimented with for weeks? It was totally edible by the time you were done."
She laughed. "Oh God. You never got your deposit back, did you? I bet that apartment still smells like a shipyard."
It was in the sound of our laughter, the warm memories, that I decided I would be okay while she was away. When Anna left later that night, I waved her off with a smile. My life was turning into a safe adventure of food and friendship. What could go wrong?
Everything, as it turned out.
The beautiful little pies I dropped off at the baby shower were meant with a shriek of outrage. Despite the shower's Snow White theme, the mother-to-be was furious with the use of apples in the ordered apple pies.
"EVERYONE does apples for Snow White!" she wailed.
I managed to bite my tongue to keep from explaining why apples and Snow White were connected and instead reminded her that she had approved the gluten-free, vegan apple pies when she and Anna had discussed the contract three weeks ago. It didn't go over well.
"Where is Anna? I cannot believe this. I'm calling her right now."
"She's visiting family," I said, mind fumbling for a save. I didn't think explaining the choice of Envy apples would soothe someone who imagined a different fruit for a Snow White themed party. Before I could say that it'd be rude to interrupt Anna's vacation, the client was on the phone demanding refunds and new desserts for the party set to start in four hours.
Even over speaker phone, Anna succeeded in calming the woman. Something about a special sugar to make the caramel, the unique use of brown rice flour and tapioca starch instead of the usual coconut butter, the fact that none of her friends would have ever had the confidence to take such a bold twist on the classic pastry...
The woman sniffed and waved me off after snatching the the boxes from my arms. Anna texted with an apology that did little to settle my annoyance.
My irritation followed me. It simmered during the bumper to bumper drive to the outdoor market, grew as I fought for a parking space. The Saturday market was packed. I tried to slip through without bumping anyone. The crowd made me anxious. Palms clammy and heart racing, my thoughts jumped between locating the nearest exit and trying to find the vendor stall in the masses of influencers taking selfies. Despite the sunny LA heat, my skin was prickling with gooseflesh, crawling with dread. I couldn't shake the feeling that I needed to run.
You're fine. I reminded myself. I counted all the blue things I could see, concentrated on the feeling of my fingers rubbing together, ignored the dryness of my mouth. I couldn't think of any of the other grounding techniques the crisis-counselors had spouted. You're buying apricots at a farmer's market, I rationalized. There is nothing here to hurt you. But I couldn't shake the feeling that I was walking into an empty shipyard.
Anna's vendors did not have her order ready. They apologized profusely, offered me a bag of complimentary fiddleheads. I couldn't think of a use for the strange little vegetable, but my reassurance that I was fine to wait fell on deaf ears. As the man and his son darted through their stall bagging up a lion's share of lemons and apricots and pea greens and chard.
As I waited, I watched the crowd ebb and pulse. A teenager offered her dog a lick of ice cream, a man picked up his toddling son and kissed his husband, a elderly woman scolded a vendor for raising prices and scoffed when the equally old vendor pointed out the stall of her competitions "cheap substitute."
My pulse settled. These were normal, every day things. I was a normal, everyday person. A refracted beam of light off a pair of mirrored sunglasses caught my eye. My breath caught. Behind the perfectly tanned guy with the aviators, a dark haired woman quickly turned away. It couldn't be. She kept her eyes fixed down, let her hair fall over her profile. My brain short-circuited.
There was no way she was at an LA farmer's market, but I could have sworn it was her. The baggy sweater, the overly dark dye job of her hair. I pushed forward to follow. The masses of laughing people seemed to swarm around me, but I followed the bob of dark hair darting through the crowd with a determination I thought I'd lost. My heart thundered in my throat, pulsing with a command of run-run-run. I ignored its warning. I had to know what had happened. This couldn't be coincidence. She was here.
I grabbed her shoulder, half expecting my hand to fall through the illusion.
"Julia?"
Word count: 5879
Need something to sate the wait? Check out Granny Thayer, Demon Slayer!
Jointly written by CMF_Wright and KJ Lissaut (spelunkadunk), "Granny Thayer, Demon Slayer" is a satire/parody of common fantasy tropes, featuring a badass grandma Chosen One, a devastatingly handsome prince, a failed bard, a werewolf with a dangerous secret, and buckets of romance! It can be found on @Spelunkadunk 's profile.