And even though he’d be the best source, I don’t have the emotional strength to contact Charlie’s dad.
Two days pass, and I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. At MarshmElla’s, I’ve hit rock bottom, funneling pastry bags of buttercream frosting directly into my mouth. In just a few hours, I have consumed my body weight in sugar, meaning I’ll probably have a heart attack and be found facedown in this wedding cake I’ve been tasked with decorating. I suppose there are worse ways to go.
Ella peeks her head in the back room, catching me sucking pink goo from the icing tip. She grits her teeth like she just walked in on someone doing something very naughty, and averts her eyes upward. “Hey, um, you all right back here?” she asks.
Visibly shaking from the vast amount of sugar coursing through my veins, I must look like a drug addict. I hide the empty bags as if they were previously filled with heroin. “Yeah, sorry.”
“You have a visitor at the counter,” Ella says, still not meeting my eye. “But you may want to wipe your mouth first. And, uh, please throw out that tip.” She disappears, and I drag the corner of my apron across my lips; a sizeable streak of blush-colored buttercream gets left behind. As if I weren’t jacked up enough, anxiety spikes as I wonder who has come to see me. Amani, wanting to make amends? Charlie, desperate to see me and get back together? Either would be wonderful, though I wish I weren’t convulsing like a meth head for this reunion.
Only when I walk into MarshmElla’s storefront, I find my mystery guest is neither; it’s Marcus, standing awkwardly with his hands jammed in his jean pockets. He shifts his weight back and forth, looking completely out of place surrounded by rainbow-colored confections. His brightens when he sees me, but I can’t imagine what possessed him to come here.
“Uh, hey, Marcus.” I clasp my hands behind my back in an effort to get a grip. “What’s up?”
An innocent smile warms his face, and I swear he looks like a puppy hoping for a treat. “I knew you’d be here today, so I thought I’d stop by and say hi.”
“Okay.” I didn’t realize he was so conscious of my schedule. “Can I get you something? We just pulled some snickerdoodles from the oven.”
“Oh, um, I don’t really care for sweets,” he says.
“Good thing you’re in a bakery, then,” I quip. Ella nonchalantly refills an empty pie tin with a fresh one, pretending not to listen but clearly devouring every word.
“Do you have a break, or something?” Marcus asks. The question seems to pain him, like it’s taking great effort to be so forward. He’s clearly nervous, which is not helping my already addled state.
“Uh, Ella, can I take my break?” I ask.
She raises an eyebrow. “I’d say you’re due.” I don’t normally take breaks here, so I know my asking will require details of this encounter as payment.
“Give me one sec,” I say to Marcus, and I duck into the restroom to assess my damage. After splashing water on my face, I stare myself down in the mirror and barely recognize the creature before me. Careful scrutiny of my own appearance has never been of much interest to me. Beyond the bare minimum of grooming, I know full well no amount of mirror time will drastically change my skin/hair/body/fill-in-the-typical-problem-area-here. I’d also rather spend my money on food or baking supplies than give it to a cosmetics company trying to make me feel bad about myself. Yet this is one of those occasions when I wish I had a basic understanding of makeup. The skin around my eyes looks like it’s been through the trenches, sallow and sad. My peacock hair color has lost its luster; it’s in desperate need of a refresh. If I had to pick one adjective to describe myself all over, it would be “gray.” Which is accurate, because that’s exactly how I feel. I don’t know Marcus well enough to let this all hang out, but I don’t know if I have the energy to hide it.
I hang up my apron and slide into the booth where Marcus waits. Ella brought him a coffee that’s gone untouched, and while I’d like to take a sip, I think even a drop of caffeine at this point would launch me straight to the moon.
“This is a cute place,” he says, anxiously pawing at his mug. “I’ve never been here before.”
“Well, why would you, if you’re not a sweets guy?”
He nods, exhaling loudly through his nose, then says nothing. I can feel myself fidgeting, vibrating the booth. This is embarrassing.
I shoot a pleading look at Ella behind the counter, who shrugs sympathetically. The shop is slow right now, so the only sounds are her plating cookies.
“So, um,” Marcus thankfully starts, “I heard you and your boyfriend broke up.”
Wow. That is not where I thought this was going. “You did?”
He tenses, like he’s walked into a trap. “Yeah. Vincent mentioned it.” Then he quickly adds, “But we weren’t, like, talking about you or anything.”
What the hell? How would Vincent even know? I don’t exactly keep my vampire employer in the loop on my love life. Is there some sort of supernatural social-standing wiki I don’t know about?
I must look on the verge of a murderous rage because Marcus observes, “I’ve upset you.”
He looks like he’ll be sick if this is true. Every part of him tightens, waiting for me to relieve him of guilt.
“No, I mean, yes, I am upset but not because of you.” A considerable weight leaves the booth.
“I brought you something.” He rifles through his coat pocket and produces a tiny square of folded notebook paper. On the top crease is my name, written in that scrawly kind of boy handwriting that makes you wonder how they ever made it through grade school.
“What’s this?” I ask, unable to remember the last time someone passed me a note.
“Just…read it,” he says, and he bows his head, preparing himself for whatever my reaction to the contents may be.
I flatten the page against the table, taking a second to compose myself. It doesn’t take a history of matchmaking or even a general understanding of the written word to see this is a poem. Marcus has written me a poem, and not one observing the frailty of life or beauty of nature: this is a love poem.
Oh Gods, no.
I’m shaking, and he gently places a hand on top of mine to calm me. My instinct is to pull away, but he feels nice…warm. I’ve been so starved for affection. When you become accustomed to a constant stream of cuddles and kisses, their absence leaves a hole unfillable by anything else. Kind words can never take the place of caring hugs.
I try to process his poetry, but my vision blurs, meaning I’m about to either bawl or barf. Marcus must be reading my reaction in a positive light because he takes my other hand. I feel heat coming from his skin, and the room begins to spin.
“Do you like it?” he asks, hopeful.
“I, um, don’t know a lot about poetry,” I say truthfully. I want to pull away, but I don’t trust myself to make any major movements at this point.
“You don’t have to know anything about it; it’s just how the words make you feel.” Help. If it wasn’t clear before when he almost kissed me at the Culinary Institute, it is now 3,000 percent a go on Marcus having feelings for me. There’s no turning back now, and I don’t know what to do. Marcus is a great guy—there’s no denying that; he’s taught me so much about working in a kitchen, and I’ve genuinely enjoyed the time we’ve spent together.
But I can’t help but think, what is the point of this? Here I am, with another boy who’s destined for some random girl. Yet he’s sitting here, opening his heart to me. Why? Why go through this charade? Marcus won’t end up with me, regardless of what he’s feeling now; I can see it in his eyes. Happiness awaits in his future, and I won’t be a starring player. So why even go through this dance? It’s exhausting, infuriating; I grip the table so as not to let out a scream. Love was always something I thought I understood, but now I’m as confused as ever.
Marcus leans forward and plants a gentle kiss on my lips. It’s a bold move for such a shy guy, and I let him linger just to see if anything comes
of it. But there’s nothing: none of the heat I felt kissing Charlie, that insatiable need to keep his body close to mine. Marcus’s embrace inspires nothing, other than an immediate need to let him down gently.
I place a hand on his chest, signaling him to stop. He looks happy, which pains me further.
“Marcus,” I start, having never been in this position before, “thank you for the poem. You are beyond sweet.”
He smiles, dark skin hiding his blush. “It was my pleasure.”
I pull my hands away so we’re no longer touching. I don’t want to hurt him—he’s my only friend left—but I can’t walk down this path again. “I’m just not ready for anything else. The stuff with Charlie is still really fresh and…I’m still sorting out how I feel.”
“About him?”
“About love, in general,” I admit.
He sits back, disappointed. “I thought, as a matchmaker, you’d have that figured out by now.”
I laugh to myself. “You’d think, huh?” We sit for a minute, letting the finality of my rejection settle. I don’t know what else to say. Things like “I hope we can still be friends” or “it’s not you, it’s me” seem too cliché to verbalize. So instead, I ask, “Cupcake for the road?”
“Why not?” He shrugs, getting up from the booth. We walk over to the display case, where he chooses a savory maple bacon like the carnivore he is deep down. “I’ve heard desserts help with heartache.”
“I can attest to that,” I say, handing him the pastry. His eyes are so sad, I wish I could help him feel better. “I really liked your poem,” I add.
“I really like you.”
Another suitor, cast away.
I miss Charlie so much it hurts.
I’M sitting at home, staring at my calculus homework like it’s written in a foreign language, when my phone rings twice from a number I don’t recognize. It scares me at first; I’d all but abandoned hope it would ever chime again, after the exodus of Amani and Charlie communications. I let it go to voice mail, waiting for my mystery caller to leave a message.
Hello, this is Alexander Pru from the Culinary Institute. I’m calling today to schedule an interview for our undergraduate program….
I drop the phone, causing the case to crack. The voice continues to talk at my feet while my heart skips several beats.
Please call me back at your earliest convenience. I look forward to meeting you.
Oh my Gods. It’s happening. The admissions people read my application and didn’t hate it. They weren’t immediately turned off by me like so many others tend to be. They want to meet me, possibly welcome me into their sugar-covered arms. Oh my Gods!
Before I even process what I’m doing, my fingers quickly shoot the news off to Charlie, accompanied by a stream of dessert and star emojis. My insides melt as soon as the “sent” tone plays.
No!
What did I just do?! It was an instinct, a gut reaction my brain didn’t have time to suppress. I received happy news and wanted to share it with someone who makes me happy: simple as that. But what will he think it means? I don’t even know what he’s thinking these days. It’s like he’s been scrubbed from the earth, leaving no physical or digital trace. It’s not that I don’t understand it. I personally haven’t made any effort to contact him, even though he’s constantly circling in my brain like a hamster wheel. And I’m sure a majority of the population would celebrate the idea of their ex ceasing to exist post-breakup. But I guess I thought he would’ve reached out at some point. Going from being in someone’s life 24/7 to no contact whatsoever is the coldest of cold turkey. Maybe he hates me. Maybe I magically mutated all his affection toward me into loathing the moment I said good-bye. If so, this stupid text I just sent will make things even better, since imposing my glee on someone I’ve caused pain is like kicking someone in the gut and then forcing them to check out your new shoes.
But I can’t take it back. There’s no “digital message retrieval” function, though really, there ought to be. I can’t be the only person to mistakenly shoot off a text and then regret it a millisecond later. Isn’t that what drunk dialing is all about?
I stare at my screen, both terrified and excited at the possibility of a reply. I haven’t seen or spoken to Charlie in over a week now, and the lump where my heart used to be aches for him. Part of me wants him to text back, even if it’s words of anger, just so I’ll know he’s okay. But after ten straight minutes of willing my phone to light up, I throw it on the bed, cursing my stupidity.
I’m trapped in a calculus equation I barely understand when I hear the blessed text-notification chime. I spin around in my chair so fast I actually fall over, grasping at my quilt to act like a parachute. I scramble to find my phone within the tangled blanket, breathless from my tumble. I jam the home button to find Good job, Amber staring back at me.
Good job, Amber…hmm. At first glance, this is a nice message, but it’s impossible to sense his tone. This could go either way, like a heartfelt That’s amazing! Or a sarcastic Wow, great dripping with disdain. While I don’t think Charlie is the particularly vengeful sort (like I would be), he’d also be totally justified if he wrote me off. Still, I type back a hopeful Thank you.
Minutes go by without a response, and I feel like an explanation is necessary.
It just felt wrong not to tell you, I send his way.
His reply comes almost immediately:
I understand.
I think about how my news would have been received had we still been together. I know without a doubt Charlie would have done something to make me feel special, like bring me a bouquet of daisies (my favorite) or a chef’s hat embroidered with my name. There would have been fanfare, kisses, and complete celebration. Not the hollowness of a polite response.
Selfishly, I want him to say more, to elaborate on whatever he’s feeling, but my screen fades to black.
Knowing full well I’ll never be able to concentrate on homework now, I decide to go for a walk and clear my headspace. After a few blocks, I loosen my scarf, taking advantage of an unexpected Chicago heat wave. (You know it’s been a rough winter when forty degrees feels warm.) I try to let the cool air purify my thoughts, but after wandering past dozens of local storefronts and apartment buildings, it’s obvious no amount of climate change is going to reset my worries. I need to focus on another topic completely, to give my brain another challenge to work through. And since The Mystery of Lucille Sand is my most interesting prospect right now, I settle on that.
I make my way to the home of Wendy Pumple, a longtime Sand-family friend and Dawning Day member. I haven’t talked to Wendy much since the whole coven-deciding-Amber-is-unworthy incident, but since I’m not one to hold a grudge (ha!), I’m hoping she’ll feed me stories of my mom’s youth. Wendy was friends with my grandmother, Edith, so maybe she would’ve been around for the undetermined happenings of way back when.
She lives on the first floor of a vintage Lincoln Park apartment building, and hers is the only name on the list of residents to include a proper prefix: Ms. Wendy Pumple. I press the buzzer.
“Amber, dear, is that you?” answers her sweet little voice through the building intercom. She buzzes me in and meets me at the door. Almost instantly, I have a cup of cocoa and a cookie in my hands. Her hostess game is on point.
Sitting on a well-worn pink couch that could’ve only come into existence during a different century, I take my time addressing the subject of Mom. Clearly, Wendy’s loyalties lie with all things Wiccan, but the way her dainty wrinkled hand is clutching my knee has me hopeful she’ll help me too.
After some general chitchat, I start testing the waters. “So, Ms. Pumple, sorry to drop in here unannounced, but I was wondering if you could help me with a project I’m working on.”
“Oh, of course, dear.” She smiles, blue eyes twinkling. “What kind of project?”
“Uh, for school.” I hesitate, trying to dream up what ridiculous teacher would ask us to dig through our parents’ s
ecret pasts. “We’re doing a unit on…biographies, and we’re supposed to write an outline on someone we personally know, hitting all the major life points. I’m doing mine on my mom.”
Wendy clasps her hands together and holds them against her heart, letting out a joyful sigh. “Oh, that’s lovely! What a wonderful project! That would make such a nice gift for Lucille.”
“Right! That’s what I was thinking. Only, I don’t want her to know about it until I’m done. It’s, like, a surprise.” Wendy looks so happy, I congratulate myself on this fabulous story I’ve pulled out of nowhere. This is going to work!
“Well, I would be honored to help,” she says. “This is just what she needs right now. Poor thing has been so stressed lately.”
This gives me pause, because while I know Mom has been pushing herself to the limits in trying to help Iris, my mother isn’t exactly a sharer when it comes to personal problems. If the coven has picked up on her emotional state, it must be worse than I thought.
I nod, taking another sip of cocoa. It’s so rich and chocolatey, it almost has to be witchcraft. I make a mental note to get her recipe later.
“So what do you need to know?” Wendy asks. “I can tell you all about how she opened Windy City Magic. She was so happy during that time. And courageous! Opening a shop like that for the public? Such a risk but such a big reward.”
I tap a finger against my cheek, making it look like I’m really wondering what I need from her. “Well, actually, I think I have that time period covered. I’m most interested in learning about when she was younger, like, say, when she was a teenager, or early twenties?”
My informant sits back, suddenly less interested in this game. “Oh, well, honey, I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer there.”
“Why not?” I ask innocently. “I mean, I’m sure you and my grandma talked about her.”
Wendy wrings her hands. “It’s not that; it’s just…that was when your mom was going through her ‘difficult’ phase.”
The Sweetest Kind of Fate Page 14