Oh, it was already memorable. The ovens were very warm, but even if they weren’t going, Max would have been far too warm anyway. Fiona ducked into the walk-in fridge, and Max cast about, feeling awkward and out of place, uncertain of what to do. There weren’t any chairs to sit on. She compromised with leaning against the wall. Fiona returned, shutting the fridge door behind her and holding a little spatula.
“You refrigerate your spatulas?” said Max with a smile. Fiona nodded, pulling the bucket of frosting out from under the counter and setting it gently next to the cooling cupcakes.
“Yeah…it helps me pick up the frosting better,” she said, setting the spatula on top of the bucket’s lid. She picked up a tray of unbaked cupcakes; the batter nestled in its wrappers in wet spirals, and opened the oven door. A wave of heat hit Max, and she averted her eyes as Fiona bent over, the jeans clinging in all of the right places, her bottom and thighs making the perfect curve...
Max sighed, running her hand through her hair and taking off her jacket, holding it in front of herself a little like she was the new kid in class, and it was the first day of school. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so self-conscious and awkward, other than those first days at a new school, and that had been a long time ago. A lifetime ago, it seemed now.
“So, Max…what’s that short for?” asked Fiona, taking off her oven mitts again and smiling charmingly at Max.
Max rolled her eyes a little with a tense chuckle, and bit her lip. “It’s short for Maxine. It’s the age-old story, really. My father wanted a boy, so he was going to name a boy Max and a girl Maxine…and then call her Max anyway. It stuck.” She glanced up at Fiona from under hooded eyes. Fiona was leaning against the counter, one foot on top of the other, lounging and balanced like someone who probably did a lot of yoga. Fiona struck Max that way: very in tune with all of herself, in perfect control of her body, never awkward or gangly like Max was. “What about Fiona?” Max asked. “Where did that come from? It’s a beautiful, unusual name…why did your parents pick it?”
Fiona’s gaze flickered for a moment, and then she shrugged. “It’s a good Irish name, you know? I was born in Ireland, but my mother couldn’t keep me, so I was adopted out to American parents when I was about two. They changed my name because they thought Fiona fit me better.” She wrinkled her nose, pushed off from the counter and fiddled with the dials on top of the stove. “They were well-meaning, though I wish I very much knew my first name. It would make me feel more connected to where I came from, I think.”
Max realized her mouth was open and shut it. “They just…they just changed the name of a two-year old? I mean…” She didn’t know what she meant, it just felt like something you shouldn’t probably ever do. It felt wrong.
“They were well-meaning, not necessarily right,” said Fiona with a shrug, stacking the oven mitts on top of each other on the counter. “But it’s all right. I like this name. I love my parents. I can’t really remember my birth mother…just glimpses of her, really. I know she had hair like mine.” With a wry smile, Fiona tugged at a loose curl that spilled out down beside her cheek from the bandana. “It’s important to me to have my mother’s hair, because I guess it still makes me feel connected to her, and that’s really the only connection I have. That probably seems silly, putting so much stock in having the same hair,” she said with a small smile.
“It’s not silly at all. Honestly...I think that’s beautiful. I don’t think I could imagine dealing with all of that as well as you have. I was—and am—really lucky, I know. My parents were so normal and boring. They took really good care of us, me and my sister. They did the best they could by us, worked normal, boring jobs so that we could have everything we needed…” Max trailed off as she noticed Fiona watching her.
“Mine, too. They wanted what was best for me, always,” said Fiona, her thumbs in her apron pockets again as her green eyes glittered in the low light. “I guess we were both lucky in that way.” She gazed for a long moment into Max’s eyes.
Max watched the curve of Fiona’s jaw, the smooth, sweet skin that flowed from that graceful curve of jaw down to her neck, under the scalloped edge of her shirt. She could just see the gentle tap of Fiona’s pulse along her neck. Max was very aware of how fast her own heart was beating. She was too hot, too aware suddenly of how small the kitchen really was. It had seemed so big a few minutes ago, but Max knew that if she took three steps forward now, she could place her hands at Fiona’s waist, her fingers curling around the curves there. She could press the length of her body against Fiona’s, feel the perfect way those bodies would fit together, hip to hip, breast to breast, their forms melding together. Max looked down at the floor again, a blush rising in her cheeks.
She shouldn’t be there. She knew she shouldn’t be there, discussing her past, her family with this woman she should really only know in passing.
But she couldn’t bring herself to leave the warmth of Fiona’s smile, the sight of her body that Max, whether she wanted to admit it to herself or not, was desperately attracted to, the mind she was—impossibly—attracted to even more. She couldn’t bring herself to leave the sunshine that was Fiona’s very presence.
Fiona turned, touching the cupcake’s wrapper with her fingers, and then she was taking the top off of the container of frosting. The warm scent of sugar, chocolate and peanut butter began to waft into the air a little stronger, spilling out of the tub to surround the both of them.
“Have you heard from Jo this week?” asked Fiona softly, taking up her spatula and scooping up a big dollop of frosting. She put it in a see-through plastic bag, and screwed the nub of a frosting tip onto the corner of the pastry bag. She squeezed the bag until the frosting was against the tip, and then it began to pipe out beautifully onto the cupcake in a spiral that grew smaller as Fiona expertly maneuvered it in a narrowing circle. Max watched her work and came over closer to get a better look.
“No I haven’t—not since that night we all went out to dinner together. How are things with you two?” asked Max, her voice a little strained.
“Oh, they’re good. Good,” Fiona repeated a little distractedly. “I just haven’t seen her much this week is all. She’s opening up a new branch of TurnTurn Delivery in Seattle, so she’s been traveling a little...well—more than usual, I guess. But it’s just difficult to get used to, is all, her gone all the time. We’ve been on a lot of nice dates, but now all of the best ones, it seems, have been given rain checks.” She spiraled the frosting upward and tugged the bag a little toward her so that the top peek of the frosting was perfectly pointed. She set the bag down on the counter and turned toward Max with a small smile, and the cupcake on a napkin, held out to Max like forbidden fruit. “It’s ready!”
“Wow, it’s beautiful, Fiona,” said Max, and she meant it—but she wasn’t looking at the cupcake when she said it. She was looking into Fiona’s eyes. To be honest, she wasn’t even certain she meant the cupcake.
When Max reached out to take the sweet from the woman’s hand, their fingers inevitably touched. Like it’d been fate. An electric surge moved through Max, and she sighed reflexively. There was such heat that shot through her in that moment. Such a deep, intense longing. She wanted to kiss Fiona’s hand, her fingers one by one, her knuckles, her palm. She wanted to taste that woman’s skin, brush her lips over the dusting of sugar that seemed to cover Fiona’s hands, a sweetness that seemed to reflect what was within. Max wanted these things with such a fierceness that an ache blossomed deep inside of her, an ache Max had never really felt before. Or had felt such a long time ago, that it was like feeling it again for the first time.
She breathed out and picked up the cupcake from the napkin, and their hands no longer touched. Again, Fiona’s expression flickered, but the smile came back in an instant, and she took a step back, gazing at the oven and the kitchen timer. It beeped just as she did that, and she bent over, opening up the oven door and pulling out the tray of cupcakes with a hand sheathed i
n her pink oven mitt.
This time, Max did not look away as Fiona busied herself with taking that tray out of the oven. She let herself drink in Fiona’s form, the gorgeous curves of her body as she bent down to take out the tray. Max’s heart was beating too fast, and she tugged at the wrapper around the cupcake, desperate for something to do to take her mind off the fact that Fiona stood only three steps away. Three steps was not a long distance. Max could take those three steps in a heartbeat, and then her fingers would trace a line down Fiona’s cream-colored neck, her mouth hot against the captivating pulse beat there.
But Max did not take those three steps. She took a deep breath, and she bit into the cupcake.
The blossom of sweetness that erupted in her mouth made her sigh again, this time in pleasure. It was a euphoric taste, a perfect blending of peanut butter and chocolate and the sweetness of the creamy icing.
“Good?” asked Fiona, her eyes sparkling as she gazed sidelong at Max. Max licked her lip, nodded slowly, her mouth too full to say anything. “I’m glad you like it,” said Fiona, walking past Max to set the cupcake tray on the cooling rack beside her. The hallway was very narrow, and Fiona brushed lightly past Max as she did so, her hip grazing against Max’s thigh. A jolt went through Max, a lingering thrum of warmth deep inside of her, and she swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry as Fiona went past again, the scent of her lingering in the air even after she’d gone by. That sweet vanilla, and that warm, spicy floral.
“Sorry,” Fiona murmured, pausing next to Max, her eyes flicking up to Max’s, and then down again, deliberately staying on Max’s lips for a long moment. “You have a bit of frosting…” she whispered, and she reached up with her hand and brushed a thumb over Max’s lips.
Shock flooded through Max just as quickly as the heat, and she stayed perfectly still, afraid that if she moved, if she even blinked, something would betray her, her thoughts, the flush of warmth inside of her. She would groan, or she would shudder, or she would lean forward against Fiona’s warm, sweet thumb that lingered a beat too long against Max’s mouth. Fiona drew her hand back, then, flicking her gaze away, and taking a step back, turning away from Max.
There was no frosting on Fiona’s thumb that Max could see.
Max wolfed down the rest of the cupcake in two bites, tossing the wrapper in the garbage under the counter. She pushed off from the wall, her head reeling, uncertain of what had just happened. But she wanted to think about it. She needed to think about it. She needed time to think about it.
“It was wonderful. Amazing…” She grappled for something to say that could put in a smattering of words what she’d just felt. But she couldn’t. Fiona leaned against the counter, her face unreadable, her mouth set in a long, firm line as she crossed her arms, as a fleeting smile ghosted over her lips.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she said then, and her voice trailed off, seeming to linger over the words.
“We’ll talk soon,” Max promised, practically stumbling as she backed out of the small, narrow kitchen into the darkened cupcake shop. She got to the door, fumbled with the lock, and then was out in the brisk night air, the cupcake shop and all its warmth behind her.
She didn’t even put her coat on. Max just walked quickly down the street, holding the bulky jean jacket under her arm, her shoulders hunched as she reached up with hot fingers, touched her lips gently, touched where Fiona had touched them.
Max licked her lips, tasting the sweetness of the cupcake and its frosting, tasting the sweetness of Fiona’s fingers.
She stood shaking outside of her car for a long moment, gazing down the street that was now entirely deserted.
Somewhere far distant, one of the apartments above where she stood was playing the radio loudly. The mournful strains of “Silent Night” seemed to float around her, the mournful music echoing and spiraling down as Max got into her car, shutting out the cold, quiet night.
She breathed out, gripping her steering wheel.
Max could no longer deny what she was feeling. This wasn’t something that she’d be able to box away in her heart and never look at again, something she could be guaranteed to never feel again.
She was absolutely and completely attracted to Fiona. Every aspect of Fiona was beautiful to her. She was the most amazing woman Max had ever met.
And now that she’d acknowledged all that, she also needed to acknowledge this:
There wasn’t a single thing she could do about it.
Chapter 4: Favors
It was Max’s fifth glass of wine. Or, perhaps, her sixth. She’d lost the ability to count somewhere around the third.
It’s a Wonderful Life was playing on her bulky box television set in the corner, and all of Max’s paper supplies were lined up in front of her on the sticky coffee table she’d covered with newspaper. She was careful not to slosh out the wine from her overly full glass on any of her stacks of paper or cardstock or trims as she took another sip of the red liquid, letting it smooth down her throat into her belly.
Everything felt less painful right at that moment. And it was the best Max was going to get.
Max hadn’t made anything in weeks, which was really unlike her. It was the reduction in daylight hours, she’d thought. Whenever the winter came, it depressed her a little. Another year was about to end, a year in which she hadn’t accomplished anything that made her happy or that really added anything to the world. It was best not to think about it. So yes, Max hadn’t done any crafts or been creative in a long time, but it was all right. She was being creative now.
She was making a thank you card for Fiona.
It was old fashioned, the practice of sending thank you cards for anything other than weddings gifts or funeral condolences or, possibly, graduation gifts, Max knew, but she was still compelled to do it. She could have just bought a thank you card at the convenience store, but she very much felt she had to make one.
Max always felt a little self-conscious in the scrapbooking aisles of her local craft store, because she was usually elbow to elbow with conservative soccer moms who—if they knew she was a lesbian—would probably stand about ten feet from her. It made Max uncomfortable, that they assumed she was like them. She wasn’t. She’d gone through a lot of hard moments as a lesbian, had led a very different life from those women. She wasn’t like them. So she bought all of her scrapbooking supplies minutes before the craft stores closed, when there wasn’t a soccer mom to be seen, because she felt so out of place and awkward about it. She’d take all of her shopping bags home, spread out the papers and the trimmings and ribbons and glues, her big boxes of cardstock, and she’d get to work.
Max had always loved making cards. It seemed like such a silly thing…the card was what held the money or gift card or it was simply the thing you threw away when you got a box of gifts. No one seemed to care about cards. But she found herself getting inspired by little things and those inspirations could always sound and look even better on the blank canvas of a card’s surface. She’d been inspired to cut a peacock out of colorful cardstock, feather by feather, when she’d seen a painting of one on the internet--and it’d looked even better in tiny paper details. Jo had certainly appreciated it--it’d been her birthday card last year.
That was the thing, though—because it was such an odd hobby to have, not that many people knew that Max even made cards. It was such a throw away thing, such a boring thing to do. It made her feel like she’d be judged by her other friends if they knew. She had a lot of gay friends who went to the same potlucks and bars she did, and they would probably never let her live it down if they knew she got excited about what papers to use as backgrounds and borders.
So she kept it to herself.
But as she was making the thank you card for Fiona, carefully cutting out the cupcake templates she’d created with a tiny pair of scissors and coating the backs of the templates with glue to press them to the waiting card stock, she knew like she knew that Fiona would never make fun of her for this. If Fiona
knew that Max had made this card, she’d turn it this way and that in her hands, glancing down at it with her sparkling green eyes and she would declare it beautiful.
And she mean it. Fiona would mean it, because Fiona meant what she said, meant it with decisive and unending passion.
Max was beginning to feel a little woozy from the booze, and decided to call it a night. It took her three tries to put the cap back onto the glue stick, and then she sprawled back on the couch, watching--but not really seeing--the movie play out in front of her. Bedford Falls. Every time a bell rings. Lines that Max could say in her sleep. It was her favorite Christmas movie, after all.
She reached for the remote and switched the television off, stretching her legs out. The little stacks of paper and cardstock and trims usually made her so happy after she’d pulled them out, but once the sweet, muzzy feeling from the wine had moved through her, it no longer made her happy. The card was finished and sitting on the coffee table. She’d stamped “thank you!” in curving, pretty letters underneath the best cupcake she’d been able to cut out. There was a little glitter along the edges of the card, and she’d used that new patterned tape to create a scalloped pattern along the top edge of the card.
Scalloped, like the top of Fiona’s blouse had been.
“Oh, God,” whispered Max, leaning forward then and putting her head in her hands and her elbows on her knees. She felt sick. But it wasn’t from the wine or the incredibly greasy burger and fries she’d had on her way home from the cupcake shop. No. Her stomach turned because whenever she closed her eyes, she could see Fiona bent over in front of the stove, could see Fiona glancing up at Max, her eyes flashing and sparkling as she laughed. She could see the gentle drape of the pink apron over the graceful swell of Fiona’s breasts and hips.
When Max closed her eyes, she could see the intensity of Fiona’s gaze as Fiona glanced up at her, Fiona’s thumb and forefinger wiping away frosting (supposedly) from Max’s mouth, lingering there a moment too long, the warmth of her standing so close flooding through Max until it was all she could think about or taste or want.
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