by Bella Cruise
“I’m sorry,” I say through the screen door, the tears still streaming down my cheeks. “I should have called first.”
But Luke only looks concerned, and Ginny throws the screen door open, ushering me inside.
“Jules, what happened? Is it your parents? Is everything okay?” It’s sweet. Ginny’s always worried about my parents. Maybe it’s because she lost her own when she was a kid.
“My parents are fine. They’re probably binge-watching Downton Abbey on Netflix as we speak.”
“Oh, thank god,” Ginny says, letting out a long breath. She holds my hands in hers. “What’s wrong then?”
I glance over her shoulder toward Luke, unsure of how much I should say in front of him. I feel like it might violate some sort of bro code to let him know what a liar his buddy Cal is. He catches my eye, and gives his head a nod.
“Got it. Girl talk,” he says, turning and walking toward the kitchen. “I’ll make you ladies some tea.”
Ginny draws me toward the tasteful living room. Once, this place was all leather and wood, 100 percent man-cave style. But now there are a few shabby chic touches here and there, totally Ginny’s work. She’s not living here full-time yet, but will as soon as they’re hitched, and I can’t see her inhabiting a place that doesn’t have her personal touch. She’s too type-A, too much of a planner. I tuck myself in on one of the overstuffed sofas and pull Ginny’s ancient afghan over myself.
“It’s Cal,” I say with a sniffle. “He lied to me.”
“Crap,” says Ginny. “Does he have a girlfriend? A wife? I’ll murder him, I swear.”
I sniffle a little. Thank god for friends.
“No. Not that I know about, anyway. But he probably does, knowing my luck with men. He’s a god damned liar.”
“What happened?” She leans forward, her eyes big and soft as I weave the tale.
“He told me that Mecca Cakes was a pop-up. You know, one of those temporary restaurants? He promised me they’d be out of town soon. And thank god, because business has sucked since he moved int.”
Luke comes in then carrying a tea tray with a pair of steaming mugs. He sets it down on the glass coffee table, but then he lingers, listening to my tale of woe.
“That’s weird,” he says, “Cal’s been having me design a house for him right here in Pelican Key Cove. Why would he want a luxury home if he wasn’t planning on sticking around for at least part of the year?”
I’m trying not to look at him. I didn’t want to involve him, any more than he already is. But the rage and confusion is swirling in me.
“I know you’re doing the shop expansion for him, Luke.”
He lets out a whistle. “That? He said it was all theoretical, something about his investors. I didn’t think—”
“Luke,” Ginny says sharply. “Maybe you should give us some space. Girl talk, you know?”
Luke actually looks a little grateful. I know I am. He hightails it out of there. I pick up my tea and stare down bitterly into the steaming mug.
“Tell me what happened,” Ginny prods. I let out a slow breath.
“I went over there today, and his assistant told me that not only is the shop not a pop-up, but they’re actually expanding. He lied to me, Gin. Flat out lied to my face. I’m such an idiot. But that’s better than what he is. He’s a liar. A two-faced, no good liar.”
Hastily, Ginny leans forward, and puts a hand on my knee.
“There must be a reasonable explanation, Jules. You should just talk to him about it.”
“That’s not really my style,” I say, as I take a sip of burning hot chamomile. “I’m more a scheming and raging kind of girl.”
“What about the other day?” Ginny asks.
I look up at her, lifting my eyebrows.
“You didn’t rage and scheme when you had an issue with me. We had a normal adult conversation. You know, like regular people.”
There’s gentle laughter in her eyes. I don’t want to smile back, even though I feel the corners of my mouth edging up. Because that talk wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for Cal and his meddling. At the time, I thought he was so wise. But how wise can he be if he was lying to my face? I don’t know which parts of our time together were real, and which were false. Maybe it was all a lie, meant to make him look noble and good, meant to wear my resistance down. So much for that gooey interior.
“He doesn’t deserve a normal conversation,” I protest. “Besides, anything I say might be used against me to ruin my own freaking business.”
Ginny purses her lips. It’s clear she doesn’t agree, but after our talk, she’s not going to lecture me about staying calm. At least, I hope she’s not. She’s just opening her mouth when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out. It’s Cal.
“Hold on,” I say to Ginny as I answer. I’m careful to make my voice flat and emotionless. I don’t want him to know how angry I am, not yet. “ ’ello.”
“Hello, love.” He sounds chipper and bright. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” I say a little sharply. “It was fine, Cal. How was yours?”
“Wonderful. I’ve something to tell you.”
Yeah, I’ll bet he does. “Oh?” I ask.
“I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. Dinner tonight, yeah?”
I press my lips together, looking at Ginny. She gives me an encouraging nod. I sigh.
“Yeah, sure. We might as well talk about it in person. The Swordfish Net, right?”
“Yeah, eight o’clock.”
“See you then.”
“I love you,” he says. I don’t say anything, only hang up the phone and then hold my head in my hands.
“Everything okay?” Ginny asks, putting her hand gingerly on my leg again. I groan into my palms.
“He wants to talk to me in person. Ugh, I hate confrontation. I hate him. I swear to god, Gin, this is why I don’t date chefs. They’re all such liars.”
“Remember, you can talk it out.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. I stand up, giving my head a sad shake. “I need to go get ready for my execution. Thanks for the tea.”
By now, Luke’s returned, standing in the doorway. Ginny’s looking at him, her gaze meaningful. Then they both glance at me together. They’re practically a collective noun these days. Two bodies, the same fretful, concerned look barely hidden beneath their attractive faces.
“Good luck,” they both say in unison, as I head for the door.
#
I don’t bother dressing up for my “date” with Cal. What’s the point? We’re probably just going to have a screaming match, then break up, anyway. It’s how it’s always gone for me. Why should this guy be any different? I wear my old blue jeans, still dusty with flour from the store, and a plain old T-shirt. But Cal doesn’t even seem to notice when he meets me by the door of the Swordfish Net. It’s a pretty classy place—dim lighting, modern fixtures, white table cloths and a candle on every table—but then, he’s dressed down, too, in his usual jeans, white T-shirt, and flannel on top. You wouldn’t even know he was a celebrity if it weren’t for that special shine behind his smile, like he’s been polishing his teeth between takes. I do my best to ignore the way my stomach squeezes when he puts a hand on my arm, leans down, and kisses me briefly. I hate that my stomach still flutters when he touches me. I want this to be easy, clean. But I have a feeling it’s not going to be.
“I’m so glad to see you,” he says. He sounds like he means it. But what do I know? I’m always falling for liars.
Evie got us the best table for our reservation, a balcony seat overlooking the ocean. Gulls dart overhead. The waves roll and churn in the distance. It’s a cool night, clear and sparkly. Cal’s face is warmly lit by lanterns that sway in the breeze. It’s all so beautiful and perfect and I hate every second, even when Evie brings us by free appetizers—bacon-wrapped scallops, my favorite.
“Here you go. On the house for my favorite bakers,” she says cheerfully, but then she catche
s my expression, puts down the plate, and scurries away. Cal looks confused, especially when I don’t dive right in. Usually, my hunger is insatiable. But tonight I only poke at them with my fork, scowling.
“You don’t seem to be yourself,” Cal says.
“I could say the same for you,” I mutter.
Cal stares at me, his laser green eyes burning.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. You could be a celebrity chef with a culinary empire bent on destroying your average small-town bakery or just a regular guy messing around with a pop-up store. There’s no telling.”
Cal digs into the scallops with one of those tiny forks. His eyebrows are lightly lifted, like he’s being careful about everything he says.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about your future, and how it will impact me. I have a right to know, Cal.”
“A right to know what? You’re being paranoid, Juliette.”
Paranoid. Fuck, I’ve heard that one before. There have been times in the past when men have convinced me their bad behavior was all in my head. Not this time, though. When I reply, my words are firm.
“I’m not.”
“Come on. It’s a beautiful night. Our food is delicious. Why are you picking a fight with me?”
This is ridiculous. Sitting here with Cal, trying to dance around the subject of his store. Maybe Ginny’s right. Maybe I just need to be direct. I let out a sigh.
“Cal, I know that Mecca Cakes isn’t just a pop-up. I know it’s permanent. Hell, I know you’re expanding.”
Cal stares at me, mouth full of scallops. I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, hard.
“You do?”
“I ran into Angelique at the store. She told me all about it. Not sure how I’m going to manage to drum up any business at all now that you’re going permanent, but I guess that doesn’t concern you.”
Cal lifts up his cloth napkin and dabs at his mouth. Then he takes a drink of water. He’s really taking his time with whatever it is he’s about to say.
But when he swallows, he’s smiling, a broad, genuine smile.
“Juliette,” he says, “that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s why I’ve been in meetings all week.”
“So talk, Callum,” I say, my voice full of hurt.
He looks surprised by the emotion in my voice. But let him be surprised. I deserve answers. He shrugs sheepishly. His expression looks a little puppyish as he responds. It would warm the cockles of my heart if they weren’t already sizzling hot, not with affection, but with anger.
“We’re expanding Mecca Cakes. Key West is going to be my flagship. That’s why I’m having Luke build me a house down here. Anyway, you don’t have to worry about your store. Believe me, I’ve been thinking plenty about the impact this will have on your business. And I’ve decided that we should merge.”
His words are too absurd for me to process right away. He can’t really be suggesting what I think he is, can he?
“What do you mean?”
“I thought it would be a relief to you not to have to worry about your store’s bottom line anymore. Or the competition. We can work together—”
“What, as a counter girl?”
“No,” Cal says, shaking his head. “As executive chef. Juliette, I thought you’d be pleased.”
I throw my napkin down on the table. The other patrons are looking now, and trying to look like they’re not. I don’t care. Let them look. “I’d be your employee, Cal. Did you really think I’d be honored?”
“We’d be working together. I love cooking with you.”
I hesitate at that. I’d loved cooking with him, too. Loved doing plenty of things with him. Loved laughing with him, being fucked by him. But that doesn’t make this right. I love owning my own store. I can’t go back to fucking my boss.
“You have no right to decide what I do with my business, Callum McKenzie. I’m not on your payroll yet.”
I see the woman at the next table lean over and whisper something to her date. But it’s a stage whisper. Her voice can be heard even over the ocean’s hiss.
“That’s Callum McKenzie?” she says in disbelief. Something in Cal’s eyes changes then. A moment ago, he was sweet, even hopeful that I’d love his plan to throw Rock N Roll Cakes under the bus. Now, he’s tuned out, every bit the celebrity who is trying to avoid public scrutiny and gossip blogs. He carefully puts down his fork.
“Juliette . . .” he begins softly. I cross my arms over my chest.
“What, Cal?”
“Let’s go outside to talk about this.” His gaze is firm, commanding. I’m determined not to give in. But then he adds, “Please?”
With a scowl, I follow him out to the beach.
Some nights, living right up next to the water is romantic, like something out of a movie or childhood dream. Others, I can’t stand all the salt in the air and sand tangled up in my hair, the heat and the tourists and the seagulls fighting over trash. Today is the latter. The beach leaves me empty as I sit beside Cal on a rock jetty, listening to him try to defend himself.
“I don’t understand what the problem is here,” he says, for what feels like the fortieth time. “You get what you want, I get what I want . . . ”
“I get what I want?” I sputter. “You didn’t even ask me what I wanted! If you had, I would have told you. I’ve fought all my life for Rock N Roll Cakes. It’s not some stupid franchise. It’s my heart and soul.”
“I thought you’d be happy,” Cal says hopelessly. God, that makes me even angrier. I stand up on the algae-slick rocks and start walking toward the shore.
“Wait!” Cal calls. I stop and look over my shoulder at him. He looks pained. Really, genuinely pained. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Juliette. I was trying to do the right thing here, to make sure I didn’t leave you without a livelihood.”
“You were supposed to close up shop here at the end of the week. I mean, what the hell, Cal? Did you really think I wouldn’t find out the truth? Why even bother lying about that?”
“It wasn’t a lie. I had no way of knowing if the shop would be profitable. The plans were to always leave if it wasn’t.”
“You should have told me that. I would have been understanding. I get that business is uncertainty.” That’s it. My voice breaks. My emotions spill over. Cal scrambles to stand, and rushes toward me. But I don’t want him touching me. This is already hard enough without my crazy libido coming into play. I don’t want to be distracted. “You should have told me the whole story, Cal. I have a right to decide my own future without some man interfering with it.”
“You have to understand,” Cal says insistently, but I don’t know if he’s trying to convince me or to convince himself. “There was nothing else for me to do. There’s not room in Key West for two signature bakeries. One of us had to lose. You said it yourself. Business is uncertainty. Plans change. My investors wanted to keep Mecca Cakes open. It’s too profitable, and they didn’t think some little bakery should stand in their way.”
“Some little bakery?” I don’t even have it in me to shout the words. They fall, heavy as lead, from my mouth. Then they hover there in between us. There it is, the truth about how Cal feels about me and my life’s work. I’m nothing to him, an insignificant small fry. If he can’t respect Rock N Roll Cakes, then he’ll never respect me.
“Those were their words, not mine,” he says bleakly. But it doesn’t matter. He’s said them. And I get the feeling that he didn’t argue with them when they called it that, either.
I turn away from him. For a moment, I just look out into the churning ocean. I feel angry. Confused. Upset. But I tell myself that it’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.
“Goodbye, Cal,” I say, in a calm, small voice, as I walk away from the sea, away from our future together, away from him.
Cal doesn’t follow.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cherry Garcia. C
hocolate rum ripple. Long rolls of Pillsbury cookie dough, eaten raw with a spoon. Funfetti icing with Teddy Grahams stirred in. For the next six days, these are my closest friends. I tell Summer I’m sick and ask her to cover for me at the store. Then I hole up in my apartment with those chocolate-dipped Entenmann's donuts and an igloo’s worth of gallons of Publix Key lime frozen yogurt, the kind with the graham crackers mixed right in. Sure, it’s not gourmet cuisine. My usual binges are decadent bean-to-bar dark chocolate and pound cake as dense and as sweet as you can make it. But that kind of stuff—homemade, fancy, rich—reminds me way too much of him.
I don’t Google him, or talk about him, or say his name to anyone. When my parents call me up for our Sunday evening chat, I pretend that everything is fine. I let Ginny’s calls go to voicemail, and Evie’s, too. Then I start Netflix binging. Buffy, then Angel, then even the first few episodes of Firefly until I decide that Captain Tightpants is a little too cocky, a little too familiar. That’s when I switch to sitcoms. I wrap myself in old episodes of Friends, warm and fluffy as a winter blanket. Or a well-worn flannel shirt, like the ones that Cal always wore.
Fuck. Cal. I open up a crinkly container of Oreos and start stuffing my face again.
I know I’m a hot mess, but I don’t care. My apartment is slowly filling up with trash, the garbage cans overflowing, flies circling the trash. Rent’s due soon, but I have no idea how I’m going to pay it, or make my loan payment to Mr. Honeycutt, either. Soon I’ll lose the store, my apartment. I’ll have to go to Arizona. Or maybe I’ll take up residence on the floor of Luke’s place. I’m sure Ginny won’t mind. Maybe. Well, she shouldn’t. I’d do the same for her.
On day five, as Ross cheats on Rachel (on a break, my ass), the knocking starts. First a polite tap on my door, then savage pounding. I’m sure if I didn’t let my phone die, it’d be ringing off the hook. It takes me about ten minutes to manage to peel myself off the sofa, find a robe to cover up my ratty sweatpants and tank top, and open the door.