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Despite how ridiculous it is, there’s something warm and lumpy in my chest. Like love, jealousy, and the heated wave of tears.
But I won’t cry again at work. That would be triple ridiculous.
I start cutting little pastry cases out once the dough gets thin. We’re doing little lemon posset tarts—something tangy and sharp to balance all the obscene sweetness we sell.
I promise you it’s not inspired by a heartbreaking man who was born without a sweet tooth.
“…do you think she’s okay, though? I haven’t seen him around here for a while, not since they were fighting,” Emmy whispers.
Oh, so theydoknow I might hear them then.
“Junie?” There’s a loud ceramic clunk as Sarah pulls out some mugs. I can imagine her fumbling. She always was the clumsy one. “I dunno, she hasn’t said much. But it’s a lot to process.”
“Yeah. I wondered if maybe we should, like, give her something… Like moral support, y’know.”
“What, a sympathy card? Flowers?” Sarah snorts sarcastically. “She doesn’t need flowers for not getting kidnapped, Em. She just needs her man.”
Sarah’s not wrong and it punts my heart right through the roof.
Thankfully, they drift back to talking about school and celebrity scandals.
Then there’s a crashing sound.
“Oh, shit!” Sarah swears loudly. Another crash. “Whoops!”
Rest In Peace, mugs.
I roll my eyes as I wash my hands, wondering how many dishes I’ll have to replace this time. Good help is so hard to find.
“Get Junie. Grab her right now!” Sarah hisses.
Emmy bursts into the kitchen a second later.
“The door wasn’t shut,” she says blankly.
“No,” I say. “What did you guys break today?”
“Oh, um, just a mug or two but it’s not about that.” Emmy’s slightly wild eyes meet mine and my stomach drops.
“Big Fish,” I say, keeping the hope out of my voice.
“He just came in! You need to come right now.”
Lord, the man has the worst timing in human history.
My hair’s frizzing in this heat, I’m covered in flour, and I’m wearing an old blouse with a couple small holes in it under my apron, courtesy of Catness.
Shit.
I speed wash my hands until the hot water scalds me and I jerk my hands back. Soap, lather, fingernails, rinse. Pastry flour likes to get everywhere.
“Are you okay?” Emmy whispers with a concerned look. “Here, take off the net.”
I rip the net off my hair and hand it to her.
“How do I look?” There’s no point in pretending I’m not absolutely shitting myself. They already must suspect it was a breakup even if they don’t know the what or why.
They also don’t know it wasn’t a real relationship to begin with.
