When you spend all day surrounded by baked goods and confectionary delights, a treat comes in the form of corned beef and kettle chips.
Butter and I have ventured forth together to retrieve the noms to bring back to the crew, and it’s nice to get away from the shop together.
The crazy hours we work don’t leave a tremendous amount of free time to hang out in a non-baking capacity, and the moments I get with my best friends outside our professional bindings are rare.
The mid-spring weather is glorious, even if some of the weird flowering trees lining the sidewalks do smell a bit like underwear that’s been left at the bottom of the hamper for a few months.
Not really sure what the thought was behind peppering our town with that stench once a year, but they sure do look pretty.
“I’m really excited about the class tonight,” Butter says, bouncing a little as she walks. “I can’t remember the last time we had a real girls’ night out.”
“And this will be our first official non-work or vagina panic frolic with Liz,” I offer. “If we don’t scare the poor thing off tonight, I think it’s safe to say she’s officially in it for the long haul.”
“I think she’s gonna make it,” Butter offers, ever the optimist.
“Agreed. She’s tougher than she looks.” We stroll in silence for half a block when I decide to make the most of our quality time. “So, Butter, my love. Tell me what’s going on. I feel like all conversations lately have been very vagina heavy.” A prim-looking woman in a gray blazer passes by just as I say “vagina heavy” and stumbles. I give her a toothy smile as she rubbernecks us, regaining her footing. “Tell me what’s new in your life? How’re things?”
She smiles, happy to be the center of the attention she normally pushes onto others. “Things are okay!” she says. “The Coopertown stuff is definitely getting to me, and I can’t wait until it’s over and we’re strutting around town with that contract, but otherwise, things are good.”
I bump into her with my elbow. “Oh, come on. Nothing not bakery-related to share? Have our lives become that boring?”
She ponders. “Well, I went out on a date with a guy I met at my dry cleaner’s a few weeks ago. He was really dull. He ordered his dressing on the side of his salad and only drank water at dinner.”
I shrug. “Maybe he doesn’t drink?”
“Nope, I asked. He drinks.”
“Or he is super conscientious about drunk driving?”
“Nope. He took a cab both ways.”
“Mormon?” I suggest. “Oh, wait, no, you said he drinks. I got nothin’.”
“He just said he was in the mood for water,” she says, looking confused, even still. “Which, I dunno. Combined with the dressing thing, and the conversation over dinner, I wasn’t feeling it.”
I can’t help but wonder what he could have possibly said that would turn Butter, a sparkling unicorn personified, off. “What conversation?”
She looks at me, cocks an eyebrow and one side of her mouth lifts. “The drinking topic was the most interesting part.”
I make a face. “Eek. Fair point. You can do way better.”
“Damn right, I can.” She smiles to herself and adds, “There’s a really sweet gal I’ve been flirting with for a few months at the Greek restaurant by my apartment. After the Coopertown stuff is done, I’m gonna go for it.”
I pat her shoulder. “Atta girl. Do me proud.”
Butter looks up, closes her eyes and basks in the glow of the sun upon her face. Which is a bit dangerous, considering we’re still walking. I loop my arm through hers to guide her as she savors the sunshine.
I’m feeling very “stop and smell the roses” on this walk, and it’s a welcome vibe. I haven’t had a moment of peaceful thought in weeks. Even keeping Butter from walking into a parking meter seems like a relaxing event.
“Can I ask a question?” Butter says, finally opening her eyes as I carefully steer her away from a phone pole.
“Always,” I answer, keeping my arm wrapped with hers.
“Do you know what caused your special to close up shop?”
I grin at her use of special. “Kind of, but not really,” I say, my mind pulled from the bliss of our walk and back into the land of rebellious nethers.
“It’s just such an awful thing to have happen,” she says, looking awed. “Even worse when you don’t know why. Like, it’s just this thing happening to you for no reason. Luck of the draw, and all that.”
I consider this as we make our way through a crosswalk. Part of it was the pressure of the shop, I’m sure. I think back to what life was like for Ryan and me when things went south down south.
We were definitely in that comfortable rut, that I remember. We’d already assumed the position of takeout for date night and whatever was on cable or Netflix as our entertainment. Part of me was thrilled with the arrangement, as I didn’t have time to put a lot of extra energy into the trappings of a high-maintenance relationship.
But I also remember feeling sad sometimes that we didn’t do anything exciting for each other. There were no flowers or cards or surprises just to thrill the other person.
The old married couple vibe and all.
“You know what,” I say, a forgotten moment coming back into vivid focus, “I actually do remember a thing that happened that made things weird.”
Butter perks up. She loves getting the good dirt. “What was it?”
I stare off into the distance as I sort through the events, and now it’s Butter guiding me around the sidewalk.
“It was the stupidest thing, really,” I begin. “It was one of our date nights, and we’d been sitting there watching a bunch of episodes of some show, a sitcom, I think, and I realized it had been a few weeks since we’d gotten down to business, you know?
“So, I brought up the dry spell, and I was joking around and suggested we try some role-play. I said he could be Captain America and I’d be Peggy Carter and we could save the world all naked-like.”
“I am so here for this,” Butter says. “I don’t know which of those two I lust more for.”
“Right?” I say with a laugh. “And I know I was definitely kidding, not kidding, but it was supposed to, like, segue into actual lovemaking.”
Butter’s brow furrows. “Didn’t it?”
I frown. “No, actually. He went on kind of a tangent saying he thought role-playing was stupid and he didn’t see the point. That sex was fine as it was, and people who needed to dress up or whatever were weird.”
“Well,” Butter scoffs, “that’s rude as fuck.”
“I never really thought about it,” I continue, “because I mostly started off joking, but honestly, I thought it sounded like fun. Even just talking about it was fine with me, but I felt really judged by him.”
We make our way through another crosswalk and Butter says, “I would have, too! That was dickish of him.”
I shrug as we step onto a new block. “He wasn’t trying to be a prick. He was just being honest. But at the same time, it bothered me that his honest reaction was to be so harsh about things. It was like, if he didn’t need something, it was lame. And sex was easy for him. It never took much to get him started, or long to get him finished, if I’m being frank, and so he never stopped to think that other people—like me—might want to do other things.”
“That’s half the fun, is all I’m saying.”
I grin. “Agreed.”
“Did you ever tell him he made you feel like shit? Because that was a rotten thing for him to say.”
I shake my head. “No, I didn’t see the point. I didn’t want to shame him for telling his truth.” My eyes glaze over as I remember how awkward I felt at the time. “We didn’t do anything that night, but the next time we tried, maybe a week later, I remember now...that was the
first time sex was difficult.
“It just got worse after that. And I knew he was gearing up to ask me to move in with him, which made me feel kind of twitchy with things the way they were. Over the next two months, each time got more and more uncomfortable until finally, on our anniversary, it didn’t work at all.”
“Ugh,” Butter groans. “That’s terrible. That would have upset me, too.”
There’s so much about those few months with Ryan that I haven’t let myself think about. I don’t know if I was purposely avoiding them or meant to get to them eventually, but it’s all rushing back now.
“When I came to him with the stuff Dr. Snow told me to do, like the couple parts of the therapy, he read over the pamphlets and said it looked like stuff I could mostly do myself. He just wasn’t into it at all.
“Then, when I insisted that we were supposed to do it together, we made it a few minutes into one exercise and he was just...done. I know he was uncomfortable and embarrassed—I sure as shit know I was—but he was not into any of it. He just didn’t get why he had to be involved, I guess.”
“I’m trying really hard not to hate him here, Kat,” Butter says darkly.
I smile at my feisty pal. “I know it sounds like it, but I swear he’s not an ass. Not really. It’s just hard for him to put himself in other people’s positions. Honestly, I can’t say I wouldn’t have been just as weirded out if things had been reversed.
“But I think that’s why it’s so important for me to know for absolute certain that things down there are on the up and up before we try. I seriously don’t want to put either of us through that kind of mortification again.”
Butter looks incredibly annoyed on my behalf. “I’m sorry, but he should be there for you, broken special or not. And it’s all well and good for him that his dick is functional, but it’s not fair to put all that pressure on you.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a very businessy-looking man do a double take when Butter snaps the word “dick” at top volume.
“It’s me putting the pressure on myself,” I assure her. “I don’t think it would shock anyone to hear that my toughest critic and worst enemy is myself.”
She considers this. “Well, I am here for you no matter what, and you do you, but I don’t think you should have that much hanging on your shoulders.”
I give her arm a tight, loving squeeze. “Well, right now, I want to think of nothing but Reubens and pickle spears.” I look up, and we are standing right in front of The Deli News. “If we don’t get this food back soon, Liz and Shannon are going to go all The Walking Dead on any customers that wander in.”
I push open the door, and Butter sashays inside, saying, “Lord, I do love a good pickle spear.”
29
I’ve made no fewer than seven hundred different versions of ravens made out of varying materials. Fondant. Royal icing. Piped buttercream. Those last looked god-awful. Like vaguely bird-shaped poo on a cupcake. Not contract-winning in the slightest.
I did manage to etch out a stencil and created a pretty badass-looking bird in black glitter on top of gold-tinted white chocolate ganache. I might actually be onto something with that one. That went over a dark chocolate cake filled with cherry compote that Butter had spawned sometime past midnight last night. The whole thing is very sexy. It’s definitely a contender.
Butter and Shannon have the recipes narrowed down to six different options, of which Shannon will present three to Mr. Peterson and the rest of the committee. I’m trying to perfect the art for each version to make our final picks. It’s possible this could get down to the wire as far as actual decision-making goes.
Ben came in for coffee this morning, and even though he looked fine, and his smiles seemed genuine and forgiving, I still felt a pinch of awkwardness. We were in the middle of the rush, and I didn’t have a second to talk with him.
But right now, I’m pushing cupcakes and ravens and deadlines and awkwardness out of my mind. After a twenty-minute ride in Shannon’s mommy-mobile, we’re all standing in front of The Lenore Theater waiting for the doors to open.
The gals are pumped up. Everyone took turns throughout the day going home to get workout gear so we could all change before we left. It’s been so long since I’ve seen any of them out of shop gear—it’s a bit jarring, really. Except for Liz. I could see her in our standard T-shirt and jeans uniform or a wedding dress, apparently, and be fine.
Shannon is decked out in yoga pants and a drapey shirt, and she looks like she’s in heaven. Any excuse to not wear real pants always has her bordering nirvana. Butter is rocking sweats and a tank, occasionally grumbling that she couldn’t find any shorts to wear and that her legs did indeed get shaved for no reason.
Liz and I both landed in shorts. I’m in a baggy long-sleeved top, and she’s in what looks like an elbow-length ballerina shirt. I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated exactly how teeny Miss Liz is until just now. She’s amazingly petite. I am struck by the sudden urge to put her in my pocket and take her on adventures.
There’s a line forming behind us of other women, all clad for class. Everyone has an air of happy but relaxed excitement.
The door to the theater opens, and a woman in a freaking black lace corset and bright red hot pants stands there grinning at us. “Okay, ladies,” she says. “Let’s do this.”
I don’t know why, but the four of us take in a collective gulp.
We file in after Madam Hot Pants and head right into a dance studio that’s all mirrors and mood lighting. There are five other scantily clad dancers standing around the barre that circles the room, chatting away and smiling at those of us coming in.
“All right,” Madam Hot Pants says, “drop your stuff off along the wall, everyone take off your shoes, and we’ll get started.” We do as we’re told, and she takes a spot in the front of the room. “Everyone find a space on the floor and make sure to give yourself plenty of room.” She stretches her arms out wide to demonstrate. The other instructors join her in a line, and we follow their lead, finding our own little zone on the shiny wood floor. “First off, I’m Robin Monroe, and I’ll be leading this class. Second, this is a class for beginners, but it’s not a class for quitters. This is a two-hour intensive. We’re going to be hitting it hard tonight, ladies. I hope you all came prepared.”
Everything Robin says sounds perfectly flirtatious. Like she’s grabbing your ass with her words. Her instructions come out as more of a purr than as actual spoken sounds.
Music starts playing, echoing through the room, and Robin and her crew start leading us through stretches. Oh my damn, somehow these women make even stretching look sensual. I catch a glance of myself in the mirror. I appear to make stretching look painful. It’s possible I’m slightly out of practice.
There’s no time to be self-conscious or get caught up in a moment of regret. These ladies don’t mess around. While Robin leads us through the warm-up, her companions walk through the group, assisting us with movements, helping us get the most out of our motions.
After about ten minutes, Robin stands up—quite lithely, considering her ensemble—and announces, “By the end of tonight’s class, you’ll be able to do not only basic burlesque moves but also a short choreographed dance set to music. And you’re going to use muscles you didn’t even know you had, ladies.” When she says this, she flashes us all a very toothy smile that looks almost wolfish. I don’t know whether to be terrified or turned on.
I think I’m both.
They get right into it. Within a few minutes they’ve got us all bending and twisting and gyrating in ways I wasn’t entirely aware I was capable of. At first it takes me by surprise how quickly the class moves along, but after about half an hour, I am completely feeling it.
So are the others. Butter is in the zone. She may not even realize the rest of us are here. Shannon looks to be havi
ng a good time, but her perfectionist nature will occasionally stump her, and she insists on repeating the moves until she gets it right.
Little Liz, who I’ve secretly thought might be a dancer or something based on her attire and physique, is actually adorably uncoordinated. But it hasn’t stopped her from trying one damn bit. She is laughing with every misstep and getting right back into it. She’s got the air of awkwardness about her, but if she’s feeling uncomfortable, I can’t see it.
I’m having a blast. I’m sweating like it’s my job, because, man, Miss Robin is making us earn our keep, but it’s been ages since I’ve moved like this. Rolling around on the floor, kicking my legs around like they’ve got somewhere important in the air to be, arms writhing around my body in the very best kind of way. It’s like taking all the most fun parts of sex and setting them to music, but without the annoyance of having to navigate the politics of dating.
Miss Robin takes a break at the one-hour mark and we, the students, all collapse by the back wall with water bottles and lungs desperate for full breaths. Maybe I should hit the gym now and then. That probably wouldn’t hurt.
During our break, the staff gathers on the floor to show us one of the performances from the shows they do on the weekends. The Lenore Theater is a dance school all week, teaching various forms of dance to all ages, but on the weekends, they light the main stage up with this crew and every pair of fishnet tights in the Midwest.
Oh my god, can these women move. They wriggle and shimmy across the floor in front of us, and it’s so impressive I don’t even care that I look like an awestruck fish with my jaw on the floor.
And it’s hot. Like, there’s not one of those ladies I don’t kind of want to make out with a little bit.
I wonder if I can get my leg all the way over my head like that? I can think of uses for that talent.
The class carries on, and they work us hard. They bring out old-timey wooden chairs and have us straddle them. This is where the first of our choreographed dance moves will start.
The Awkward Path to Getting Lucky Page 20