My mother told me that her best friend's daughter was the best in the business when it came to doing hair. She bragged for weeks that I was going to have the most elegant up-do of all my friends and that my wedding photos would be the most talked about among my family for years.
As I looked in the mirror at the wild tendrils and frizzy curls all sat atop my head, I wanted to ring her neck.
Since I opened my eyes this morning, the 'best day of my life' has been anything but. Flower follies and seating disasters had caused a stirring of doubt to well up in my stomach. What if this is a sign? A sign that Dylan isn't the right guy for me. I tried to push that small seed deep into my mind, but the feeling in my gut could not be wished away.
I loved Dylan. I loved how he remembered things I liked and surprised me with little treats, I loved how he laughed at my stupid jokes and made ones that were ten times stupider, I loved the way his laughter could fill an entire room and that he had the kindest eyes I'd ever seen, but that's it. We never argued, we never saw the dark sides of eachother, the sides we lock up and only bring out when times got tough.
I don't know what he looks like when he's angry, if his nostrils flare or if his teeth grind when he talks. I've never heard him shout so loud his voice cracks from the strain. I've also never got to kiss the anger away, and relish in the heat of his shoulder as he pushes me up against the counter. I've never felt his angry, passionate kissing, the kind that's hard and sloppy and filled with the purest kind of love.
Dylan was warm hugs and soft kisses and pancakes on Sundays. He loved me gently and honestly, playing charades on Thursdays and taking me to baseball games where he would chant and wave his arms around like an excited child. He was everything a girl would want in a husband: compassionate, successful, supportive. Like a flame, he was always there to keep me away from the dark.
Dylan was a flame, and I wanted a fire.
As I sat fighting with the doubt in my stomach, my mother poked her head into my suite. She was prim and proper: hair done up high on her head in a bun, clothes tailored perfectly, and a new problem poised on the edge of her lips.
"There seems to be a .... complication with the cake," she states, a careful smile appearing.
I turn away from the mirror I had spent forever looking at and raised an eyebrow at her, "Complication?"
She rubs her lips together as she works out a way to phrase what she's about to say,"Well it seems they made a small error with the cake's flavor."
I frown, "What do you mean a small error? A cake's flavor is the most important part!"
The doubt in my stomach turns into cold panic at the thought of what the simple vanilla flavor we had settled on could have turned into. We had to work around a lot of food allergies and dietary restrictions of many of our family members, and vanilla seemed the least harmful choice. Now, the flavor could be anything from lemon to pistachio, which would cause a lot of people to go without cake.
"I asked Marla to put my cake in the freezer so that you could pick it up," I sighed in attempt to figure out what went wrong, "Did you maybe pick up the wrong one?"
"No," she shook her head, "it said 'Wedding' right on the box."
If my mother had picked up the right box, that meant Marla must of confused
my order with a customer. Most walk-ins have a simple vanilla or chocolate palette, but if it's a specialty order, that's where the weird orders get thrown in. I have a good chance of the flavor being something acceptable and a good chance of making a room full of people upset.
"Well, what flavor is the cake?" I asked wearily, afraid of the answer.
My mother checked her phone for the text she received with the flavor detail, and with no clue as to what her answer meant, said casually, "Orange Creamsicle."
I was out of my seat before she could stop me.
-
Teatime Bakery was tucked between a dry cleaners and an art studio. The first time I had ever come across it was a rainy April afternoon two years prior. I was fresh out of culinary school and had dreams of running the bakery of some high end restaurant or hotel, like all graduates did. I quickly learned that dreams did not always come true, as that day I managed to blow three interviews and break a heel. So I dejectedly hobbled home, umbrella clutched between trembling fingers, begging the universe to give me a break. Then, as if I was in a movie, my umbrella flew out of my hand and across the street.
I cursed and chased it through traffic, desperately grabbing at it, until it smacked against a storefront window. I snatched it up from the ground with a vengeance, and whispered threats at it as I pushed it into my coat pocket. I decided to go into the store, not looking at the name or what it sold, as I just wanted to get out of the cold. A bell twinkled to alert the owner of a new customer, and I sighed at the sound, pushing the wet hair that clung to my cheeks out of my face.
"You look like you could use a cupcake," a warm voice said. I looked up to see a women, only a few years older than myself, gesture to a glass case in front of her.
I smiled and politely shook my head, "I can't afford that right now."
She didn't answer right away, instead taking a vanilla bean cupcake from a display and crossing the counter. "You coming?" She asked, gesturing to a table over by the window.
Wordlessly, I followed and sat across from her. She didn't ask why I couldn't afford the cupcake, and I didn't ask why she gave it to me free of charge. Instead, we talked about college and our families and how to make the perfect creme brûlée. I had told her about the pre-med student that walked me to my classes, and how I thought he was going to ask me out soon. She had told me her name was Sarah and that she had a fiancé named Jeremy, and a little boy who was just learning how to walk. Eventually, we fell into a silence and she had asked what I knew was on her mind since I walked in.
"So you need a job, huh?"
I averted my gaze, as hearing it out loud sounded just as horrible as when I said it in my head, "I've been looking for one, yes."
"Where have you looked so far?" She questioned, tilting her head.
I listed the various places, going into detail of how some of the interviews went. Something in me wanted the woman's approval, I wanted her to know that I was actually trying. As I went on, her eyebrows began to crinkle in confusion, causing me to trail off.
"What?" I asked, confused myself.
"It's just that..." she paused to gather the right phrasing, "it's just that those places are all big trendy restaurants with Michelin stars and snooty waiters and it just doesn't seem like.. your thing."
The way she said it told me that it wasn't meant as an insult, but I still couldn't help but take offense. She had talked to me for less than an hour and could already gauge what 'my thing' was? It didn't seem fair for her to tell me what I could and couldn't do, as she didn't know how hard I worked in school or how dedicated I was to becoming a big time baker.
"So what do you think 'my thing' is?" I quizzed, not excited to hear the answer.
She smiled knowingly, "A place that doesn't feel like a kitchen, but like a home."
She offered me a job after that. It was good pay and a great starting position for someone who had just finished school. I was apprehensive at first because I didn't just want the job because she felt sorry for me, but she promised to interview me like she would any other potential employee. I normally was skeptical of fate, but how could anyone ignore a sign as obvious as an umbrella smashing against the window of the exact kind of job you were looking for?
The bakery became home and Sarah became family. She had even closed down her business on a Saturday, one of the busiest days of the week, just so I could have my first date with the pre-med student there.
He was shy and walked a bit too much to the right, but he held every door for me when we walked across campus and knew the scientific names for over twenty different bug species, so I couldn't help but ask him out.
I remember he got mad because he thought we were breaking in and lectured me on the morals of trespassing. When he found out I worked there, he went bright red and apologized ten times until I got him to talk about his studies. He was tall and green-eyed and straggly haired and more intelligent than I thought anyone could handle, but he liked carrot cake and became my boyfriend a week later.
Two Aprils ago, we thought we had everything. We were in love and happy and didn't argue about anything that couldn't be fixed with chocolate frosting. Now, here I am, wedding dress bunched up in my fists as I dodged puddles, on my way to the same place it all began. I turned the last corner before the store front slowly, afraid of what I'd find on the other side.
His shoulders seemed broader under the thick, navy blue sweatshirt he was wearing and his hair, once long and unruly, was now styled in a shorter cut. The deep bags and stress lines that had once marked his face, were replaced by a healthy glow. He looked happy. It's sad to know he looked that happy only because he had been away from me.
"You cut your hair." I️ stated. It didn't seem like anything else would fit into the small space the tension in the air left behind.
Almost instinctively, he reached up and ran his fingers through it, "Yeah, it was getting too long."
I had nothing to answer with, and the silence quickly spread between us. The feeling of being that close to him was suffocating. For months, I had talked to the same voice, chirpy tone cutting across the room. I had cried to it, screamed at it, begged it not to go and all I'd get in return is a beep signaling that I'd run out of time. Seeing him there, and knowing he listened to every single message without a single palpable answer, infuriated me.
I didn't want to waste my time any longer, so I hiked up my dress and turned to leave, "I guess I'll be going then."
I took three steps and heard no effort to stop me. Four steps and still no protest. Approaching eight steps and I feel a pull on my arm. The warmth it leaves behind is searing, and I have no choice but to turn around to get closer to the fire.
His brows were pulled down deep into the bridge of his nose and his lip was bitten raw, he kept opening his mouth, but every attempt was failed. He looked flustered. I made him flustered.
I decided to give him thirty more seconds before I left for real, and I had gotten to twenty-three before he finally said something.
"I-," he swallowed thickly,"I'm sorry I left you."
He said it simply, summing up months of pain into a neatly wrapped present. Like one apology would count for multiple offenses. That was just like him too. He was a practical person who didn't see the emotional effects certain actions had on other people. He was sorry for leaving, because he physically removed himself from me, but he didn't understand why I would get upset. He didn't understand that when you leave someone you love, it hurts them just as much as it hurts you.
"I don't care that you're sorry," I spit venomously, "I want to know why you left."
He looked down at his shoes," 'cause you kissed that other boy."
"Bullshit."
His head swung up in shock, "What?"
I stared at him unflinchingly, "Bullshit."
"Yeah," he scoffed, hands flying up in surrender, "I'm lying right now. You got me, Rose."
"Yeah, I do." I challenged. I've known him for too long to not notice the slight falter in his voice when he makes things up. When we first started dating, he embellished things to sound cooler and I caught him in it multiple times. It was an endearing trait, but could be lethal in an argument. "You wouldn't have left me over a drunken peck, you aren't the jealous type," I stated matter of factly, "you're too practical."
His mouth twitched, and I knew I caught him, "You cheated."
I shook my head, "It's bullshit."
"How could I have trusted you after that?" He exclaimed.
I laughed in frustration, "That is bullshit!"
"What do you want me to say!?" He exploded, "You can keep shouting bullshit all you want, but it's not gonna fix anything!"
"You left me!" I cried, "You left! You left! You left!"
"Because I wanted to fucking marry you!"
Silence filled the air almost immediately. We stood inches apart, my mouth dropped slightly in shock, his, wound tight in anger. The confession he gave repeated itself in my head over and over again, as I tried to make sense of it. He left me...because he wanted to marry me? It sounded ridiculous, like something you'd see in a sit-com on the television.
"We were watching something on the T.V. and I was trying to convince you to get a dog," he began, and the image melted into my head. It was a Saturday, because a How I Met Your Mother rerun was playing and I sat in between his legs, making corrections in my recipe book, while he laid back and ran his fingers gently up and down my forearm. "I was listing all the reasons a dog would beneficial to our household and you were making the mumbling noises you do when you're only half listening... or at least I thought you were. But then you looked back at me with a smile and asked if we could name it Cat, because you thought that those kinds of things were funny... and I knew. I knew that if I didn't marry you, someone else would and that thought was both the best and scariest feeling of my life."
"You ran because you wanted to marry me?" I questioned in confusion.
He shook his head, "I ran because I realized I wanted you forever, and the thought of you not wanting me back scared the shit out of me."
"You had me forever," I confessed, quietly.
"What about now?" He swallowed, wringing his hands in anticipation of the answer.
I thought about Dylan, and how he like to go to baseball games and read books about wars throughout history. I liked that he was smart, but humbly so, and drank four cups of coffee a day and wanted two kids, both a boy and a girl.
Then I thought about Harry, and how he hated sports with a passion and preferred movies over reading. How he would challenge anyone to jeopardy and laugh in their faces when he won, not because he was an asshole, but because he didn't get that it was rude. I loved how he used his medical degree to declare that coffee was bad for you, and instead drank green tea like it was depleting rapidly. I loved how he wanted enough kids to start a band and that after months of hating him, all he had to do was ask one simple question to make me love him all over again.
"Now," I smiled slowly, "we eat cake."
And that was a good enough answer for him.