How to Eat a Cupcake

by Meg Donohue

  “You don’t want me to get hurt,” she repeated. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

  “Annie, come on. Trust me. I know Jake really well. I know how fun and charming he is. But I also know he’s married.”

  Annie’s eyes flashed. “What?”

  “He didn’t tell you, did he?” I sighed. “That’s probably because to him, marriage doesn’t mean much. He treats everything too lightly. I don’t want him to treat you that way, too.” I worried that every word I said fell like a brick between us, building that decade-old wall back up, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Jake is married,” Annie repeated slowly. The skin on her cheeks had grown blotchy in a way that reminded me of her mother.

  “He married his college sweetheart,” I said, swallowing a sip of hot coffee. “Gorgeous girl. One of those white-blond, lives-in-a-bikini, surfer types. I heard their wedding was absolutely beautiful. Jake invited me, of course, but I didn’t think it was appropriate, me being his ex-girlfriend and everything. I didn’t want her to feel awkward on her wedding day. I guess she’s working as a stylist in L.A. now.”

  “So they’re divorced?”

  “No. Separated. As in, still married.”

  Annie’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re just voicing these concerns out of friendship. This has nothing to do with the fact that he’s your ex-boyfriend?” she asked, incredulity dripping off her words like melted butter. “Nothing at all?”

  “Nothing at all,” I repeated. “Really.” Even I could hear the lie. Why can’t I just tell her the truth? That some of this is jealousy and some of this is sincere concern? Would that be so terrible to admit? I felt tempted to tell Annie everything then—what happened at the hospital, my secret meetings with Jake, the missed wedding appointments. I wanted, I realized suddenly, to be one of those girls who had a best friend with whom to share things. But I wasn’t one of those girls, and probably never would be. I wasn’t sure I could bear the messiness that came with such honesty.

  Annie looked at me, waiting, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything more. Finally, she rose from the table and opened the oven, releasing a wave of hot, cloyingly sweet air into the room. The tray of glistening croissants dropped against the top of the stove with an abrupt clatter.

  “Don’t burn yourself,” she said thinly, and left me to sit alone in the too-bright kitchen.

  Chapter 17

  Annie

  “He’s what?” Becca screeched when I told her the news about Jake’s marital status during Craptastic Sunday. The baking was done for the day at Treat, The Bachelorette was paused on the DVR, and a second glass of Cabernet Sauvignon glimmered dark and promising in my hand—it seemed as good a time as any to update my friend on the whole dating-a-married-man thing.

  “It’s fine,” I said, shrugging, trying to keep my voice nonchalant. “Or it will be. They’ve been separated for six months. It’s not like I’m the other woman or anything.”

  In truth, the marriage bombshell had really freaked me out. I couldn’t believe Jake had omitted such a critical detail. Among other things, it made me doubt how seriously he took our relationship. Of course, I’d confronted him straightaway and had been both shocked and relieved when he didn’t deny it.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you,” he’d said. I’d appreciated, grudgingly, that he hadn’t tried to take my hand, just looked me straight in the eye with his arms hanging a little forlornly at his sides. “Because I’m a moron, I guess. Kiley and I have officially been separated for six months, but grew apart a long time before that. This isn’t a recent thing—I’m not hiding some deep, bleeding wound. I guess I don’t talk about it because I feel like I’ve already dealt with it and moved on. But I should have told you. I hope you don’t feel like I lied to you about anything.”

  In a lot of ways, I did feel like he’d lied to me, but I knew that he had never actually fed me any false information. Still, her name—Kiley? What kind of name is that?—landed on my ears like a second affront. Jake watched me take this new information in, the set of his face open and honest and apologetic. I realized, with both relief and irritation, that I wasn’t ready to give up on him, or us. I warned myself to proceed with caution, and accepted his apology.

  “Don’t pull this shit with me again, Jake,” I’d said. “I’m not a three-strikes-and-you’re-out kind of girl. This is it. If there are any more secrets, you better tell me now.”

  Jake was silent for a moment before his eyes brightened. I could practically hear his dimples clamoring for release. “I ate a cupcake the other day, and it wasn’t one of yours,” he said. “I was at a party. Everyone was doing it. I promise I didn’t enjoy it.”

  I looked at him, debating whether or not I wanted to follow him down this path away from a more serious line of conversation. I decided I did. I shook my head, feigning a look of disgust. “You dirty bastard.”

  “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “I can,” I’d said, and despite our swift retreat into humor, I’d felt a little disconcerted at how easy the words were to say.

  I repeated Jake’s explanation about his separation to Becca now: he and Kiley had gotten married straight out of college and had found within a few short years that they’d both become different people, people who weren’t in love with one another. The divorce, which involved interpretation of a prenuptial agreement, was taking longer than either wanted. It was a plausible, if unromantic, story, and without talking to Jake’s ex, it was the only one I got.

  Becca wound her chestnut hair against the side of her head, her blue eyes studying me. I worried I sounded like I was making excuses for him.

  “Reasons aside, he’s a jerk for not telling you. Right?” she demanded. When she was indignant, her freckles seemed to flare up like little embers against her pale skin.

  “Oh yeah.” I nodded. “Total jerk.”

  Becca sank back into the couch and took a long sip of wine. “I guess he’s lucky he’s so hot.”

  “I know. It’s very important that I continue to judge him solely by his cover.”

  “Excellent strategy,” Becca said. “At the end of the day, it’s not his honesty keeping you warm at night—”

  “—it’s his hot, hot bod.”

  We both laughed and I tried to cover the twinge of discomfort I felt with a sip of wine. It was easy to make light of my relationship with Jake, but if I admitted the truth to myself, I didn’t actually feel so lightly about him. I was falling, in fact, quite heavily. And I had a growing suspicion the landing was not going to be a soft one.

  “Anyway,” Becca said, tucking her bare feet underneath her, “let’s forget Jake for a minute and focus on shooting the messenger. Julia must have been smug as hell delivering that bit of news. I bet she acted all sweet and innocent, like she was just trying to help. Phony cow.”

  I felt another pang of unease. This was the moment I would typically dive into the conversation with some easy jibe, mocking Julia’s snobbery or her ridiculous competitiveness. Today, though, I hesitated. I thought of Julia at the very end of Treat’s opening party, how those glasses of champagne had made her relaxed, goofy—almost fun. Of course, the next morning her rigid veneer of composure had returned, but still. The memory of the two of us closing up the shop together, giddy with joy over the party’s success, lingered, overshadowing even my annoyance about the insensitive way she’d delivered the news of Jake’s marital status. And the next day, after that argument, we’d been shocked to open Treat’s door to a line ten people long. I’d invited a slew of food bloggers to the opening party and it turned out a couple of them had already posted favorably about Treat’s cupcakes and ambience. Opening the door to that line, and the even longer lines that followed it all week, I’d watched Julia struggle to keep her face cool and professional while her eyes sparkled with excitement and pride. And I’d known just how she felt.

&nbs
p; “You know,” I said slowly, staring ahead at the paused television rather than meeting Becca’s penetrating gaze, “part of me does believe that she told me about Jake because she wants to protect me. I know it’s more complicated than just that—the girl has serious issues—but I’m actually tempted to give her the benefit of the doubt on this one. I don’t think having to be the one to tell me Jake is married made her particularly happy.”

  Becca looked baffled. “What are you saying?” she asked. “Julia got precisely what she wanted. She one-upped you. It’s the exact kind of shit you’ve always said she pulled all the time when you guys were kids. Competing is her modus operandi. Right? She’s bitchy and cutthroat and fake. Isn’t that what you’ve always said?”

  “Oh, come on—don’t be snarky just to be snarky,” I said, surprising myself. I guess it was one thing for me to say those things about Julia, and quite another for Becca to say them. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t like that this time. Besides, remember: I’m trying not to let her suck the humor out of me.”

  Becca seemed on the verge of responding, but after a moment she pressed her lips tight together and sat back into the couch.

  “What?” I said. “Just say it.”

  She shrugged. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I didn’t realize.”

  “Realize what?”

  “That you think of Julia like a sister.”

  I laughed. “Please excuse me while I throw up all over the table.”

  “You do! You’re envious of each other and you drive each other crazy, but at the end of the day, you don’t want to hear anyone else say a bad word about her. Julia is family. I just can’t believe I never saw it before.”

  “Becca, I think that one psych class you took in college permanently scarred some critical part of your brain.”

  “Maybe, but you two are more alike than you think,” she continued, undeterred. I was astonished to hear the sharp bite of jealousy in her voice. “You’re sarcastic and independent. Julia’s a control freak and independent. You’re both loners pretending not to be. You’re both probably lonely.”

  “Well, who isn’t?” I asked. “If loneliness were the only criterion for being family, I’d be related to everyone in the world. And if I share genes with a lonely heart like, say, Jennifer Aniston, I demand to know how I missed out on the washboard abs and big, pearly whites.”

  “The pearly whites are man-made,” Becca said with a faint smile. I could tell I’d hurt her feelings. How was it possible that Becca resented my relationship with Julia? Becca who had a great boyfriend, a clan of boisterous, bear-hugging brothers, and a mother who still regularly sent her care packages of Rice Krispies treats? She leaned away from me on the couch, her face tight. Up until that point, our friendship had been miraculously spat-free—I hardly knew how to proceed. The silence was excruciating. My thoughts turned to the silly slapstick routines and impersonations I used to trot out when my mom was feeling blue.

  “So,” I said then, nudging her thigh with my toe. “Have you heard the one about Jake being married?”

  I’d be lying if I said that after Julia told me Jake was married I hadn’t asked myself for the umpteenth time why I’d allowed all of our lives to become so entangled yet again. If I could have simply walked away from both Jake and Julia at that point, maybe I would have. And, looking back, maybe I should have; it certainly would have averted some of the danger we soon found ourselves facing. But Jake, despite everything, made me happy. And Julia? I imagined us divvying up our shared assets on the sidewalk of Twentieth Street like a squabbling couple that had finally admitted any attempt at cohabitation was futile. Hey, Jules, I’d say. I’m outta here, and I’ve got dibs on the muffin pans.

  The problem, one of them at least, was that by then I was already in love, and Jake Logan, for once, had nothing to do with it. In the fast few weeks since our opening, I’d fallen head over heels in love with Treat. During the hours before daybreak when I worked alone in the kitchen, I’d pinch myself and repeat over and over again: This is mine. This is mine. This is mine. The slight creak of the front door when it opened. The sounds of customers’ shoes on the wood floors and threadbare carpets. The cushiony thud of the glass cupcake case opening and closing. The early mornings when vendors would deliver dry goods and dairy and fruit. The old-fashioned whoosh of the register drawer with each sale. The unbelievable feeling of fulfilling a dream, and having it all happen sooner, bigger, and better than I could have ever hoped. I was deep, deep in love.

  As well as things were going, the shop was still brand-new, and without Julia, it could all slip away from me. Yes, I needed her money, but I’d long since realized her value lay in more than her bank account. Even over the radio in the kitchen, I could hear her talking to customers, upselling them a few more cupcakes in a way that made them feel like it had been their own idea to try a few chocolate cheesecakes in addition to their usual Meyer lemon dozen. She had a way of listening and talking to customers that warmed them up immediately; I’m sure her angelic face and big blue eyes didn’t hurt that immediate bond of trust she seemed to establish with people when she set her mind to it. Why was it that she could be so intuitive and relaxed with strangers and yet couldn’t translate any of those people skills to her personal life? Her easy banter with people she’d probably never see again struck me as incredibly sad. But, as Becca might have said: Sad shmad. Julia was good for business. No shock there. I only wished my mother could have seen how successful Treat was becoming. And that our menu could have been graced by one of the recipes it seemed she’d taken with her to the grave. And so, like parents who stay together for the child, Julia and I worked to keep our conversations focused on common goals. Besides, I kept telling myself, it’s only until May. By then, Treat would have an established clientele and Julia would ride off into the sunset with Wes.

  “The vanilla-chocolate cupcakes sell out every single day,” Julia was saying, reading from her laptop during our weekly after-hours powwow on all things Treat. We sat at the shop’s front bar and I looked more at Julia’s reflection in the darkened window than I did at her actual face. I splayed my fingers on the glossy redwood bar that bore no hint of the graffiti that had covered it not so long ago. But, somehow, I could still see that graffiti as clearly as if it had never been removed. You don’t belong here. The words glowed phantomlike, drifting up to the surface of the bar when I least expected them to, words that had followed me from childhood to adulthood, words that struck me as equal part criticism, warning, and threat.

  “Up the count on the vanilla-chocolate,” I said. “Got it.”

  “And we have to get the word out that we’re available for weddings. We’re not going to turn a profit selling one, two, even a dozen cupcakes at a time. We have to get into parties.”

  “Story of my life,” I said.

  Julia smiled and seemed almost hesitant for a moment. “I have a few new ideas,” she said. “If you’re open to them.”

  “Hit me.”

  “After-hours cupcake-baking parties. Girls’ night outs, bachelorette parties—those kind of things. It could be a mess, but a lucrative one. And it wouldn’t cut into our daytime selling hours, like kids’ birthday parties would.”

  I wondered if this bachelorette party idea was some sort of veiled reference to her own wedding. It was easy to forget that Julia was engaged. She never spoke about her upcoming wedding. Would she have a bachelorette party? Did she have bridesmaids? If she’d made a single friend in the past decade, I’d yet to meet her.

  “I like it,” I said, not taking the bait on any hidden agenda. But Julia didn’t seem to expect me to say anything more. She just nodded, typed a note in her laptop—That bitch Annie won’t throw me a bachelorette party, perhaps?—and read the next idea from her list.

  “A cupcake truck. Taco trucks do it, why can’t we? We could drive downtown and hit the big office buildings during the lunc
h rush. If I was working in one of those buildings and a Treat truck pulled up during my lunch hour, I’d eat a cupcake every day.”

  I had no doubt that Julia could easily put back at least one cupcake a day without ever adding an ounce to her slender, toned frame. Runners. Was there any more annoying population in the world? Fifteen minutes into our meeting, she was already halfway through her second chocolate cupcake, eating it in her slow, disciplined, Julia-specific way. So far during that meeting I had wolfed down one coffee cupcake, telling myself the caffeine would rev my metabolism, and then consoled myself with sips of actual coffee while I watched Julia dive lip gloss first into her second. And still, her legs looked like toothpicks in her skinny jeans. If I ate that many cupcakes, I thought, I’d wind up wearing them around my hips like dimpled holsters. The cupcake cowgirl. Not as cute as it sounded.

  “A cupcake truck. Brilliant,” I said. “But I worry that we’re still just getting things off the ground here in the shop. It’s only been a few weeks. I already feel like I live here—which is fine, a cupcakery makes for a surprisingly lovely second home—but we probably shouldn’t spread ourselves too thin.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Julia said hurriedly. “Couldn’t have said it better myself. I just want us to know what’s in the pipeline. We should have ideas nailed down for when we’re ready to grow.”

  “Right,” I said. “The nailing and the piping. I forgot that’s why I keep you around.”

  Julia laughed. She snapped her laptop shut. “You’re right. I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s just focus on the shop for now.”

  I could tell she was embarrassed. Don’t ask me how I knew, because on the outside she was all easy-peasy confidence. Our shared childhood ran deeper in my veins than I cared to admit, though I still preferred to think of it as Stockholm syndrome rather than friendship. I’m just identifying with my captor.