You'll Never Know

by Katie Cross

  “I hadn’t thought about it like that,” I whispered. Channing Tatum popped up on the screen again, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t even remember the name of the movie.

  Bitsy leaned in.

  “You know what you’re really doing when you go see Janine?” she asked. “When you’re pulling the ghosts out of the darkness?”

  I met her gaze.

  “No. What?”

  “You’re learning how to live as you. That’s worth all the pain. Trust me, Rachelle. You’re doing the right thing, no matter how much you question it.”

  The movie shuffled onto a new scene, illuminating the theater in bright light. I hardly saw it, focused on the new, whirling revelations that spun through my mind like birds in flight. Central among all of them was one guilt-ridden question.

  Why couldn’t I feel compassion for Mom?

  The end of the day settled on the Frosting Cottage with a gentle sigh.

  After flipping the sign, locking the front door, and turning up the music, I sank into my next task alone: start three hundred cupcakes.

  Sophia had taken off to find antique furniture that could double as the new cookie bar. She had some sort of funky twist in mind. Hundreds of cupcakes awaited me. I’d put off making them so I wouldn’t have to go home. Each of the past three days, I’d spent over twelve hours at work and dropped to sleep in exhaustion each night. Tonight, however, was going to be late for both of us.

  Tomorrow was the big Summerpalooza and Bake Sale event.

  While I shuffled around the kitchen on one crutch, my mind still spun with images of Mom when she was young. A wave of guilt that I didn’t understand flowed over me. An empty mixing bowl clanged when I set it on the metallic counter, pulling me out of my thoughts. Seconds later, a knock on the back door reverberated through the kitchen. I paused. The store was closed.

  I ventured toward it with both crutches, then called through the thick door, “Hello?”

  “Hey. Just me. The door’s locked.”

  The door cracked opened when I pulled the handle, revealing William’s bright eyes. He wore a long-sleeved shirt, like usual, and a pair of old jeans.

  “Hey.”

  I pulled the door open wider. His delivery truck wasn’t in the alley, just a beat-up old Cadillac with streaks down the side.

  “Hey. Sorry about that. Sophia must have locked it.” I shuffled back to let him in.

  He slid past me.

  “What’s up?” I asked as the door shut behind him.

  He rubbed the back of his neck with a hand. “Just stopping by to talk to Sophia. I take it she’s gone?”

  “Yeah. Had to go shopping for the party.”

  He grinned. “Right. Can’t believe it’s tomorrow.”

  “You’re still bringing people?”

  “Don’t you worry about that. This party is covered. It’s going to be way above what you expect.”

  “I hope so.”

  An awkward pause filled the air. I motioned toward the prep area. “I have hundreds of cupcakes waiting on me. Want to come in? She might not be too much longer.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “You sure?”

  “Just making cupcakes.”

  He stepped inside with a little hop. “Sounds like a better Friday night than hanging out at home with my grandma. How long does it take to make that many cupcakes, anyway?”

  “Couple of hours, if you know what you’re doing. Sophia has all the equipment to make ginormous batches. It’s not the making that takes up the most time. It’s the frosting.”

  “Sweet.” He rubbed his hands together. “Put me to work.”

  I nodded toward the metallic countertop. “See that laminated recipe?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Check how many pounds, then start dumping flour into that really big mixing bowl.”

  He eyed the massive bowl and grinned.

  “Sweet.”

  “Just do one recipe at a time. I need one hundred cupcakes with a vanilla cake base. The rest we’ll have to make individually.”

  At first, we worked together in silence, interrupted only by the gentle poof of flour and the occasional question as he sought ingredients. I grabbed bricks of butter from the countertop where they had been coming to room temperature and slid them to him across the table. Then I flipped the ovens on.

  “So,” he said, “you can make cupcakes, injured your ankle, and just started working for Sophia. Anything else I should know about you?”

  “I dropped out of college.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  I waited while sifting through confectioners sugar, wondering when he’d start judging me for it.

  “How does it feel?” he asked.

  “Honestly? Not as freeing as I’d expected.”

  A thread of amusement colored his tone. “What did you expect it to be like?”

  “Less stress. College and I didn’t get along. I was constantly trying to figure out what I wanted, but I never did. Such a waste of money. I was nowhere near a degree after five years, so I left.”

  “What did you do afterward?”

  Lost the weight of another person. Started teaching Zumba. Lost myself and didn’t even know it.

  “I found a job and focused on myself for a while.”

  “Good for you.”

  A beat passed between us. I glanced over my shoulder to see him studying the recipe. “The baking powder is in the cupboard below the ovens,” I said, anticipating his question. “Sugar is just above it. What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. Why are you in college so late?”

  He didn’t meet my gaze. “Stuff. What else goes in?”

  Instead of pushing the question, I motioned toward the fridge. “Eggs.”

  The conversation shifted forward to other topics slowly. First to his job as a food-service delivery man, then to where we grew up—both of us were locals—and finally trailed off to our favorite dessert.

  “Definitely cupcakes,” I said with a wistful sigh.

  “Fruit tarts for me.”

  “A good choice. Can I ask you a question?” I asked. “It’s been bugging me for a while.”

  He briefly met my eyes. “Sure.”

  “You work as a delivery guy, collect recyclables to help save money, have to be over twenty-five, and you want to go into a degree field that will take a ridiculous number of years to complete, right?”

  “Uh…”

  “Why? It just doesn’t all quite add up.”

  His nostrils flared, and I realized, probably too late, that I’d hit a sensitive nerve. A habit from my past, for sure. He swallowed.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “You don’t have to tell it.”

  He put both hands on his slender hips. “No. I will. You seem trustworthy.”

  “Trust me. There’s no dark secret you have I couldn’t match,” I muttered.

  He leaned back against the counter and folded his arms across his chest while I peered into the mixer and turned it on. The arm ground at first when it started to spin, then smoothed out.

  “A few years ago, I was in a car accident,” he said. “A really bad one. Took me two or three months to recover. Sort of changed my life. Ever since then, I decided to do something to improve the world.”

  “Were you drunk?”

  He hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. I was coming home from a concert and had had one too many.”

  “The other person okay?”

  “Barely. Pulled through at the last minute. Took her four months to get out of the ICU.” His jaw tightened. “Helped me get a job, find a purpose, leave the band I was in that wasn’t good for me. Instead of hating me the way she should have, she sort of adopted me.”

  Something struck me all at once. I turned to face him.

  “Sophia?”

  He nodded.

  “Whoa. No wonder you’re so protective of her.”

  He drew in a great, shuddering breat
h. “I didn’t deserve forgiveness, even, and she gave me a lot more than that. It’s a complicated story, but suffice it to say that I will owe her for the rest of my life.”

  Perhaps great pain could be overcome. Forgiveness could be granted. I turned away. “You said band? You were giving the concert?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How big were you?”

  He hesitated. “Big enough. Nothing international at the time, but plenty of people knew us in the state. We’d booked out gigs for almost a year. Had swelling popularity. They’re on a nationwide tour now, supported by a label.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Yeah. Part of it.” His head tilted to the side. “I loved the music. Just playing was my favorite. I’d rather play for fun and do everything without a plan instead of having a staged jam session. I didn’t really care about all the rest, either. Groupies. Fans. Sales. Whatever. It came with the territory. Seeing people respond to the music, though, that gave me a physical high. Even if it was a dangerous world to dabble in, there was something magical about it.”

  “You seem to miss it.”

  “I do. I miss bringing people together for a common purpose. I miss playing my guitar.”

  My eyes flickered to his wrists, then away. “Rock, wasn’t it?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “The tattoos.”

  He glanced at his wrists with a frown. “I cover them up.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “People judge me. I don’t want them to think I’m the person I was before. I’m new. Better. I can’t remove all the old scars…”

  My eyes met his. “Trust me, I understand the feeling.”

  Another silence fell, and I could sense no more would be said, but he could see my sincerity. I wasn’t on this path alone.

  That meant something.

  “You’ve been eyeing the glass display for a while,” I said to break the sudden tension. The mixer stopped when I pushed the arm back and unhooked the bowl. “Do you want to eat something?”

  He smiled, looking relieved at the change in subject. “Dumb question. I always want Sophia’s food.”

  “Grab a fruit tart, then.”

  He hesitated. “All right. Split it with me?”

  I hesitated. The fruit tarts weren’t that big. Barely wider than my fist. A vanilla, cookie-like crust framed the bottom, scooping under a fruit base with a shiny glaze. To be honest, I’d been glaring at them for weeks. They looked entirely too delicious.

  “Ah…”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “What?”

  “I just … haven’t tried them yet.”

  “Food allergy or something?”

  The temptation to use that as an excuse almost overwhelmed me, but I pushed it off. Old Rachelle had lied her way out of many situations. I couldn’t even fathom the thought anymore.

  “No.”

  He scooted toward the display. “Great! A perfect time to try it.”

  My track record since starting work at the Frosting Cottage had been perfect—except for an occasional, small taste of frosting or custard while we tested the recipes, I hadn’t tried a single dessert. Before I could stop him, he returned with one of the fullest tarts. The arrangement of the fruit and the thickness of the glaze were admirably perfect.

  William lifted an eyebrow in an adorable, boyish kind of way.

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  What would one bite hurt? I didn’t have to devour the whole thing. He grabbed a knife from near the sink and brought it over. A few pieces of the crust crumbled away when he sliced into it and pushed half my way.

  “Here you go.”

  My hand picked up the tart of its own accord. I couldn’t deny a little thrill deep in my belly. How long had it been since I’d had a treat? A long time.

  Maybe too long.

  William tossed half the tart into his throat, then closed his eyes with a groan. “That,” he mumbled, “is one of the most delicious tarts I have ever tasted in my entire freaking life.”

  The crust crumbled in my mouth, dissolving along with the fruit in a sugary landslide. I closed my eyes and savored the moment. No tart had ever tasted so good. When I opened my eyes, William was grinning.

  “Pretty good, huh?”

  I smiled. “You’ll never know just how much.”

  Slatted light fell through the window and illuminated Sophia’s face the next morning. The early summer sun already felt broiling hot, the humidity thick on my skin. The sound of people rushing around outside in a Saturday frenzy already sounded from the sidewalk.

  A good sign.

  I tested my weight on my right foot. Half weight, Dr. Martinez had said only thirty minutes before, at an early appointment. See how it feels, then schedule your appointment with the physical therapist.

  Felt like a step toward freedom.

  “Do you think this is going to work?” I asked Sophia.

  She quirked her lips and stepped away from the window. “Let’s hope. My usual taste testers loved all of the cupcakes and the cookies, but they aren’t who matter.”

  My gaze swept over a congregation of cupcakes and new confections. William, Sophia, and I had stayed up until two o’clock perfecting each batch, cleaning the store, and putting up the final flourishes. Glitter streamers. Oversized folded bows. A table filled with miniature taste-tester cupcakes. Another table piled with tiered layers of cupcakes and other treats. Everything gleamed, from the preparation area to the glass display case to the front windows, which were amply painted with bright letters.

  Soda Pop Cupcakes!

  Cookie Bar!

  My stomach threatened to flip flop inside me. I couldn’t bear the thought of this not working. I’d failed college. The marathon. Dating. The thoughts muddled my brain. I paused. Wait.

  What was I thinking?

  No, I commanded myself. Reframe. I had to reframe this negative view. I thought of what Janine would say. I am not valued by what I do. My worth and happiness do not depend on external success.

  “This will be great,” I said. Strength infused the words. “Everything is going to go fine. Even if no one likes the flavors, we’ll readjust. At least then we’ll know, right?”

  Sophia’s worried frown straightened. She nodded once, jaw tight with resolution. She didn’t have to say it for me to know it, but we didn’t have a lot of wiggle room here.

  “Yes. You’re right. Lots of good things that we can’t track may come from this, like exposure and brand recognition and people coming inside who may not have come in before.”

  I grinned. “It will.”

  “Do you know when William is supposed to be here?”

  “No.”

  “He said he had some big idea. Hopefully he comes later, when traffic is heaviest. Everything is slow before noon.”

  Thirty minutes later, we threw open the doors.

  Hot air streamed inside. A little flicker of disappointment erupted in my belly when no one came in with it.

  No adoring fans waited on the curb, rushing in with frantic energy the way I’d secretly hoped. Of course they wouldn’t, but I couldn’t deny some disappointment. Sticky heat filled the store, so I shut the door again to protect the goods. Sophia puttered around the prep area, pulling flour, scraping pans, and humming under her breath. I envied her chance to distract herself with wedding cakes.

  Ribbons on the nearby table fluttered in the A/C. I spotted a smudge on the glass display and promptly cleaned the entire thing. The tang of window cleaner filled the air. The oven beeped when Sophia turned it on. I swept.

  Again.

  An hour passed.

  Two girls in flip flops walked by, glanced at the window, and kept going. A young couple did the same. My brow furrowed. Almost 11:00 already. Certainly late enough to visit a bakery—we had plenty of brunch offerings. Free coffee percolated off to the right with a delicious warmth. I bit my bottom lip.

  Eleven o’clock passed.

  Then noon
.

  One o’clock slid by, and we hadn’t had a single customer. I feared I’d die of boredom. Sophia kept glancing at the window with a frown. I cleaned the glass display for the tenth time. Straightened three cupcakes that looked as if they’d moved. Then folded my hands and waited by the windows. Streams of people strolled past. Where was William, anyway?

  Why didn’t anyone want cupcakes?

  When two o’clock inched closer, I set aside one crutch. This slow day was getting ridiculous. With a clatter of pans, I grabbed a cookie sheet, loaded it up with fifteen different taste-tester cupcakes, and stepped outside with a single crutch. The bell dinged as the door shut. Traffic was starting to pick up. Cars were parked in every other spot, and pedestrians filled the sidewalks.

  “Are you brave?” I called. “Do you love cupcakes?”

  An elderly woman turned to me with a startled expression, a hand on her chest.

  “Sorry,” I whispered. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  She scuttled away with a scowl.

  “You’ll never find cupcakes like these anywhere else. Strawberry rhubarb and lime. Sweet potato cinnamon. Don’t forget tangy, delicious vanilla Sprite. Get cupcakes inspired by all your favorite sodas. Coca-Cola. Pepsi. And my favorite … Orange Fanta!”

  Two boys slipped across the street and headed for me. I recognized the gleam in their eyes and set the tray on a small wrought-iron table. Then I tapped into full-scale Rachelle charm.

  “Let me guess,” I pointed to the one on the left. “You’re a Pepsi man.”

  He grinned. “You got it.”

  I shoved a sample sized cupcake at him with a wink. “I dare you not to love this. And you.” I pointed to the other. “Fanta?”

  “Sure.”

  “A man after my own heart. More inside, boys. They’re on sale for a dollar a cupcake today. Limited supply.”

  A woman strode down the sidewalk toward me, heels clacking as she walked. Cinnamon-colored pants. A bright white sleeveless top with a silky scarf trailing off her neck. Tired lines trailed down the side of her face, and she blinked bloodshot, bleary eyes.