The Romantic Pact

by Quinn, Meghan

Crew: I’m not answering that.

  Hollis: Shit, she’s hot.

  River: Really hot. I give it two days.

  Hollis: I would consider that an accurate guess.

  Crew: Just send me the damn video.

  River: Sure, but if you’re thinking this video will impress her, you’re wrong.

  Crew: I’m not trying to impress her.

  Hollis: Oh, I get it. He’s trying to repel her so he doesn’t slip up and try to have sex with her. If she thinks he’s a fool, then there’s no chance she’ll give in to his advances.

  River: Smart move. The video acting as woman repellant is clever.

  Crew: Just fucking send it.

  River: Cool your dick, man. Finding it now.

  Hollis: River’s angle is better, but if she wants an angle of your back, let me know. I’ll send mine.

  Crew: You’re such good friends. Sarcasm.

  River: We know you love us.

  Hollis: Kisses, boo bear.

  Crew:

  * * *

  “Are you sure this is the way we go?” Hazel asks, clinging to me.

  “Nope.” I laugh. “Honestly, I’ve no idea where we are.”

  “Hole-on-the-wall bakery was right.”

  “I think we missed a turn back there. The man at the hotel said if we saw the shoe repair shop, we went too far.” I point ahead of me. “I think that’s a shoe repair shop.”

  “Well, it has shoes in it so I guess you’d be right. Honestly, I’ve never seen a shoe repair shop in person. This is going to sound awful, but I feel as if we’re in EPCOT. The music playing in the far distance, the quaint shops, and half-timbered houses with intricate detailing. It’s throwing me off.”

  I turn us both around and head back down the narrow street. “You’re not alone in that thought. I was thinking the same thing. They really did pull all the details, but it makes me feel as though it isn’t real here.”

  “Agreed. Walt Disney is distorting our image.”

  “Damn him.” I laugh, and when we reach the fork in the road again, we take the other route, and that’s when I see the bakery. “There it is. Remember? They said there would be a maroon wooden sign hanging over the door.”

  “Yes.” She stops me and faces me. “Before we go in there, can I ask you something?” She’s serious, which puts me on edge immediately.

  “Sure.”

  She takes my hand in hers and looks up at me, those endearing eyes connecting with mine. “Did your friends send the video?”

  “Jesus,” I say, laughing and pulling my hand away. “I thought you were going to ask something serious.”

  “This is serious. We’re talking about a video of you shooting Sprite down your crotch.”

  I roll my eyes. “They sent the video.”

  “Really?” She lights up and bounces up and down. “Let me see it.”

  “No. This isn’t the time. I’m saving it for later.”

  “Crew, come on.” She tugs on my arm. “I can’t wait until later. I’m impatient. You know this. Just show me now and then we can focus on the gingerbread.”

  I reach out and pinch her chin. “Let’s work on patience today, huh?” I wrap my arm around her shoulder and lead her toward the bakery. “Just think how much fun it’ll be to eat gingerbread in our hotel room while watching the video over and over again.”

  “That does sound appealing.”

  “And you’ll be able to turn the volume all the way up, which totally adds to the experience.”

  “Ugh, I hate that you’re right.”

  I give her a squeeze.

  “Fine, we shall wait. But I’m warning you—if that video isn’t the first thing I see when we hit our hotel room, I’m not going to be pleased.”

  “Hazel not pleased? Well, we wouldn’t want that.” I open the door for her and we both walk into the tiny bakery. The walls are old wood slats, both rustic and charming, and the floor is made up of stone pavers. There’s a single bakery case in front of us full of gingerbread, but not the kind I’m used to. Instead of the little men and women with the hard royal icing decorating their outline, what’s in the case are round, dome-like cookies. Some have what looks to be chocolate glaze on them, some with nuts decorating the top, and some with powdered sugar.

  “Oh my God, it smells amazing in here,” Hazel says just as an old woman walks through an archway that leads to the back of the shop. She’s wearing a white apron over a dress with burnt-orange, puffy sleeves that complement the fiery hue of her hair.

  “Hallo. Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” She waves with a small bob of her head.

  “Ah, hallo. Hello,” I say, placing my hand on Hazel’s back. “I’m Crew Smith and this is Hazel Allen. I believe we’re supposed to have a baking lesson with you today?”

  “Ja. Stunde.” She nods and waves for us to join her as she trails into the back of the bakery.

  Hazel gives me a look over her shoulder and I shrug my shoulders. “I think we’re supposed to follow her.”

  “I gathered that, but what if there’s some nefarious slaughterhouse in the back? I’m not ready to end my life, are you?”

  “You really think there’s a slaughterhouse in the back?”

  “I mean, it does smell pretty potently of gingerbread in here. Maybe they’re using the smell to cover something up.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.” I push her along, and we file through the archway toward the back, Hazel first, because, you know, just in case something does happen, she’d be the first to go.

  What a gentleman, right?

  When we reach the back, we’re welcomed by the old woman, who is sitting at a table with bowls and several ingredients in front of her. Next to her is another fair-skinned woman, wearing the same outfit and almost the spitting image of the woman next to her, but younger.

  “Welcome. My name is Petra, and this is my mama, Monika. We’ve been expecting you.”

  “Petra, it’s nice to meet you,” I say, waving awkwardly. “I’m Crew, and this is Hazel.”

  “Hi,” Hazel says, giving the back kitchen a smooth once-over.

  It almost feels as though we’ve stepped back into the world of Lord of the Rings, and we’re in a Hobbit-hole. The walls are made of clay, and large wooden beams span the ceiling. There are a few ovens off to the right, but they’re not the typical ovens you’d find in America; instead, they’re clay ovens, big enough to hold a few cookie sheets. I know this because there are cookies baking in them right now. It’s so far from anything I ever expected that I’m starting to feel the energy of Pops. He’d have loved this.

  Hell, maybe he did. Did he say he visited here? Now I can’t remember. Maybe this is where his love of baking cookies came from. That would make sense as to why he sent us both here.

  “It smells so good in here,” Hazel says. “I don’t know if it’s good being here as I might eat all of the cookies.”

  Petra laughs. “Have as much as you want, and take home as much as you want, as well. But before we eat, I think we should learn how to make the cookies first, ja?”

  “Yes, we’d love that,” I say.

  “You will have to excuse my mother. She doesn’t speak much English, so if she seems quiet, it’s because she either might not understand you or she’s just trying to konzentrieren . . . ah focus on understanding the language as you speak it.” Pointing behind us, Petra continues, “There is a sink behind you where you can wash up, and I will grab you some aprons while you do that.”

  We turn around to find a cast-iron sink carved into wood countertops, and below it, and instead of cabinet drawers, there’s a red-and-white checkered curtain covering up the pipes.

  “This place is so cute,” Hazel says quietly.

  I whisper, “See? No slaughterhouse.”

  She playfully elbows me, and we wash our hands. When we’re done, we’re greeted by Petra holding up two frilly white aprons. She smiles and says, “Hope you don’t mind, Crew.”

  “Nah,
I’m manly enough to wear this and rock it.” I take the apron from her and drape it over my neck, only to find out that I’m far too tall and large for the apron, so instead of it somewhat fitting, it actually looks like I’m wearing an apron made for a child.

  Hazel catches sight of me and is barely stifling a laugh. “Oh, we’re going to need a picture together.”

  “Do I look pretty?” I ask with a curtsy.

  “The prettiest in all the land.” Hazel digs her phone out of her purse and asks Petra, “Could you please take a picture of us? This is a moment I want to capture forever.”

  “And use as . . . eh, blackmail?” Petra asks.

  “Oh, yes. Very much so.” Petra and Hazel laugh together. I really don’t mind, because seeing that smile on Hazel’s face, genuine and happy, makes me okay with being the butt of the joke.

  Petra holds the phone up and takes a few pictures. When Petra hands the phone back, Hazel doesn’t check the pictures, but instead puts her phone away and steps up to the worn wooden table in the center of the room.

  Rubbing her hands together, Hazel says, “I’m excited. Let’s make some Lebkuchen.”

  “Ah, you said it rather perfectly.”

  “Thank you. I was practicing on the drive.”

  “She was,” I say, my eyes widening. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be saying Lebkuchen in my head for the next few days.”

  “It’s a good word to know, especially in Nuremberg, where we are known for our Lebkuchen.” Petra reaches out and hands us a bowl. “You two can work together while I will work with my mama on an orange cardamom batch. Don’t worry, you’ll be making a traditional batch.”

  “Wonderful,” Hazel says.

  Monika starts moving around, picking up different types of jars, while Petra does all the talking. “Now, something you need to know before we get started is you’re about to bake a miracle cookie.”

  “Miracle cookie? Really?” Hazel asks.

  Monika starts placing jars and spices in front of us, as well as measuring spoons and cups.

  “Yes. You see, back in 1720, it’s believed, one of the master bakers of Nuremberg had a daughter who fell incredibly ill. No doctor around could cure her. Desperate to save her, he baked a secret Lebkuchen recipe that contained not one sprinkle of flour, but instead he loaded it with ground hazelnut and spices.”

  “Did it cure her?” Hazel asks, hands clasped together.

  Petra smiles. “It did. The baker named the recipe after his daughter Elisabeth and called it Elisenlebkuchen. To this day, you can only call your Lebkuchen Elisenlebkuchen if there is less than ten percent flour in the recipe, and that is the law.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  Petra nods. “Ja. It’s the mixture of nuts and spices that pulls the cookie together, and the modern Lebkuchen has taken on more flour for a stable hold. But here, in our bakery, we stick to less than ten percent flour, sometimes none at all, by using ground hazelnuts and almonds in its place, offering a very rich and nutty flavor to our Lebkuchen.”

  “Is that what we’ll be making?” Hazel asks.

  Petra nods. “We don’t make anything else in here. We use our base ingredients and then add what’s necessary to change the flavors.”

  “What’s your most popular flavor?” I ask.

  “The Elisenlebkuchen,” Petra answers. “And that’s because no one else can make it like us.” She smiles, and I love how much pride she takes in their quaint bakery. She claps her hands together and says, “Let’s get started. In front of you, you have a combination of walnuts, hazelnuts, and almonds all ground together. We’ll keep the exact ratios to ourselves. We have to keep some things secret.” She winks.

  “Smart businesswoman,” I say.

  “And then we have a combination of spices—we’ll keep the ratio for that to ourselves as well—but in the jar, if you give it a sniff, you’ll hopefully detect some cloves, cardamom, ginger, coriander, allspice, and fennel.”

  Hazel opens the small jar and we both give it a sniff. “Oh, wow. That smells like Christmas in a jar,” Hazel says, bringing it up to her nose again.

  Petra laughs and repeats what Hazel said in German. Monika smiles and says, “Ja. Christmas.”

  “And then the rest of the ingredients, which are quite important, are candied orange, citrus peel, and honey. And then of course a few other things. Are you ready to bake?”

  “We are,” Hazel says, smiling up at me. I smile back, and I swear, I can feel Pops here with us, leaning over my shoulder, watching intently. He’d be saying, “Don’t Harry Truman stuff up.”

  As Petra guides us through the steps of adding ingredients and mixing, I say, “My pops tried to make the American version of gingerbread cookies and failed miserably every time. This, though—I think he could have handled this.”

  “Easily,” Hazel says as she stirs the mixture together.

  Petra moves to the back of the kitchen and then brings out some metal tools. The only way to describe them are a metal pedestal with a place for your hand to grip under a flat surface and then a flat “shaper.”

  “These will help you shape the Lebkuchen into their famous dome shapes. Watch Mama as she demonstrates the perfect technique.” We turn to Monika, who’s sitting on a stool and gracefully working in peace. “Observe carefully and do what she is doing.”

  The room falls silent except for the soft sound of Monika working the dough into a dome, the metal of the shapers clattering in a soothing manner. She’s smooth in her movements, purposeful, and it only takes her a few seconds to shape each one, but you can tell she cares about every single cookie.

  In silence, Hazel and I attempt the same motions as Monika. Hazel magically gets it before me. Her cookies are smooth on the edge, sticking to the paper placed on the metal shaper. She’s a pro. When I can’t seem to figure out the right angle, Hazel lends a hand and helps guide me. Despite feeling both Monika and Petra watching us carefully, I allow myself to fall into the moment and the gentle touch of Hazel’s hands.

  “Yes, like that,” she says softly, her hands on top of mine. “Smooth it out right there. Perfect.”

  “Thanks,” I say as our eyes connect, the moment slowing down to a snail’s pace as the corner of her lips turn up. Happiness reflects in her eyes and, fuck, my stomach releases a swarm of butterflies I was never expecting.

  Yeah, Hazel has always been beautiful. She’s always had a certain charm that, now that I think about it, I’ve looked for in other girls but never found. But in this moment, there’s something more, something I can’t quite put my finger on, but it makes me want to live in this moment forever, to savor it. To memorize the way her dainty but calloused hands eclipse mine, or the way her lithe body presses into my side, or the smell of her sweet perfume that I know she only saves for special occasions. This moment feels magical, almost as if something is starting to bloom. Something new and exciting. Something—

  “Wo man Liebe sӓt, da wӓchst freude,” Monika says, looking at the both of us.

  Petra grips her mom’s shoulder and says, “Das stimmt, Mama.”

  With the back of her hand, Hazel pushes a stray hair behind her ear and says, “Can I ask what she said?”

  Monika nods and Petra translates for us. “‘When you sow love, joy will grow.’ Mama sees something special in you two. As do I.”

  Unsure of what to say, I smile, because honestly, that’s all I can do right now when it feels as though my heart is wildly trying to beat out of my chest.

  When you sow love . . . joy will grow.

  Is that what’s happening right now? The love Hazel and I have for each other, not necessarily romantic love, but love for each other as friends, are we growing it back together, from the tear I put in it?

  Thinking over the last forty-eight hours, I would have to agree. That’s exactly what we’re doing, and from the smile on Hazel’s face, I’m comfortable saying our joy is growing.

  Chapter Seven

  HAZEL

  “Wh
at are you doing?” Crew walks up to me and pats my stomach right before catapulting his large body on our bed that I’m lying flat on. As if we’re on a trampoline, I bounce up and down from the impact of his weight.

  “Thinking about what a peaceful life Monika and Petra must have. They seemed so content, didn’t they?”

  “They did,” Crew says, turning toward me.

  While the Lebkuchen baked, we sat with Monika and Petra and asked them questions about their life, the family traditions of their bakery, and they even spoke about Pops and how they enjoyed sending their cookies all the way to America. Once the Lebkuchen was done, we let them cool and delighted in eating a few. It was such a pleasant way to spend an afternoon that I feel enriched, as if instead of just feeding my stomach, I feel like I fed my soul as well.

  When it was time to go, we packaged up our Lebkuchen, and they offered us a few other flavors that we took with us graciously. There was no way in hell we were about to turn down more of the delightful treats.

  I turn toward Crew and look at him. “Think you’ll ever find that kind of happiness in your life?”

  “I don’t know,” he answers. “I hope so, but given how things are right now, I’m not entirely sure what would make me happy. I don’t even know if I’ve been happy for a while. Even though we’ve only been here for two days, I’m starting to realize that I’ve been going through the motions of life rather than living it.”

  “What brought you to that realization?” I ask.

  He smirks and reaches out, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. The gesture is sweet . . . comforting. Being around Crew again is soothing, as though with him next to me, all my worries are slowly starting to float away, and it’s just me and him like it used to be. And that scares me, because I don’t know what’s going to happen after this trip, when we go our separate ways. Is he going to stay in touch with me? Or will he forget about me again when he returns to bigger and better things? The thought of not talking to him for years fills my stomach with a sick feeling, especially when he’s looking at me like he is right now.