Page 26 of The Break-Up Pact
The way the sun has shifted, it’s projected one of the little rainbows from the prism right over one of his eyes. I’m staring at it, dazed by the way it brings out the lightest flecks of blue against the gray, when I realize those eyes are staring at me and waiting for some kind of response.
“Oh. Yeah,” I manage, turning my attention back over to Cassie. “I think they’re set on the original design, but we’ll run it past them.”
She nods, making a note on the sheet she has in front of her. “Do you have a verdict on flavors for the sheet cake?”
“I came in hot on the chocolate, but I really like the lemon,” I say, stabbing my fork into the last bite of mine and pairing it with the cream cheese frosting.
Levi considers his plate. “The pistachio, I’d say.”
Cassie claps her hands together like we’re two burgeoning cake geniuses. “Those flavors pair beautifully together. And with the raspberry in the main cake.”
“I think they’ll go for the pistachio,” says Levi. “Dylan practically inhales trail mix.”
I sidestep the audacity of Levi comparing Dylan’s giant Costco bags of salty nonsense to premium cake and say, “If I know Mateo, he’s going to lean toward fruit.”
“Well, we don’t have to decide that until the week of, so you can all talk it out and get back to me,” says Cassie.
“Hey, you mind if I get a few shots around the shop and the exterior just so I have all my bases covered?” asks Sana, setting her phone down in the stand she brought and swapping it out for her nice camera.
This was supposed to be a much shorter and more casual affair, but Cassie reached out to me and asked if Levi and I wouldn’t mind if she posted about us being in the shop so she could get more eyes on Cassie’s Cakes for the new location’s soft launch this week. Sana immediately tagged herself in, offering to take pictures of both of us and the new store for Cassie to post in exchange for a flat rate fee, which Cassie happily agreed to—she’d been looking to hire someone to take decent photos of the new shop, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
As glad as I am that Sana’s able to get a few extra bucks out of being our de facto stage mom right now, I am a little worried about the situation. The deal was that all three of us were going to get something out of it, and I know Sana’s ultimate goal was to have time to work on her pitches. So far, all she’s been able to do is sell pictures of us to a website and score this freelance gig with Cassie, and I’m worried planning this whole fake dating arc for us is keeping her too busy.
“I’m working my way up to it,” said Sana dismissively when I brought it up. “When it comes time to write something Fizzle-worthy, I’ll know.”
I’m still wondering what she has in mind when Cassie pushes her chair out to stand up.
“Absolutely, that’d be great,” she tells Sana before turning to me and Levi. “Here, you two can deliberate while I show her around.” Then she leans in and looks at us with an extra gleam in her already-bright eyes. “I can’t thank you guys enough for doing this. And I’m really just so, so happy to see the two of you together—I think I speak for most of our classmates when I say it’s about damn time!”
Cassie follows Sana out, leaving us to marinate in the awkwardness her words left behind. I can’t lie. Some old, undeniably smug part of me is glad to know that at some point in the past, people thought we might be an item. It’s a relief to know I didn’t just build up that old crush in my head. But it doesn’t change the fact that we’re now spinning a bald-faced lie about it not just to the world, but to all our old friends, too.
Levi cuts through the stilted quiet by plopping his lemon cake sliver onto my plate. I nudge my pistachio over to his, then add, “Only if you try it with some of the dark chocolate ganache.”
Levi fixes me with a look not unlike a cat about to knock a water glass off the table and takes a deliberate bite of ganache-less cake.
“You monster,” I deadpan.
He smirks at me as he chews, the kind of smirk that tugs at my own lips.
It’s strange—with Sana and Cassie out of the room, the situation feels distinctly more couple-y than it did before. Not even in the fake dating sense. Like we’re in a parallel universe where we really are just sitting at a table, deliberating over cake flavors like it’s our own wedding. By virtue of this becoming Fake Date Number Two, we’re both dressed to look the part—me in one of my few remaining un-chocolate-stained white shirts tucked into my high-waisted jeans, Levi in a well-fitted blue T-shirt that’s somehow managing to make the blue in his eyes even brighter. We look downright color-coordinated, like our next stop is the engagement shoot.
Only then does it occur to me that Levi might have already done this. He actually was—possibly is still?—engaged, after all. He and Kelly might have already had this same bakery banter.
Before I can overthink it, Levi nudges my knee under the table. “How’s Tea Tide holding up today?”
“It’s absolute anarchy,” I report, digging in on the rest of my strawberry slice. “I’ve had more people take my picture today than I’ve had in my entire life. And the Revenge Ex scone is flying off the shelves.”
I only managed to sneak out this afternoon because I have the place staffed with just about every summer breaker we have on the payroll and stayed up most of the night prepping scones for today’s bake. I’m sleep-deprived enough to take a nap on Cassie’s floor, but that’s fine. I’ll sleep like a dolphin. One eye open at the register, the other conked out and dreaming about her absurdly delicious lemon cake. As long as we’re making enough money to front the three months’ rent, I’ll do whatever it takes.
“I keep seeing it on the boardwalk. Everyone’s out with their boogie boards and their Revenge Ex scones,” Levi quips. Then his brow furrows. “They aren’t giving you a hard time anymore, right? The people taking pictures.”
I bite down a smile at the protectiveness in his voice. “Not so much. Revenge Ex has a much better ring to it than Crying Girl.” I nudge my own knee into his. “Although your fan club wants to know where you are.”
“Typing at a steady rate of one word an hour,” says Levi.
“Progress,” I say. Progress that’s been slightly derailed by Levi pitching in to help at Tea Tide every now and then, jumping up to move boxes in the back or pull out things that need to be restocked. I keep calling him off, but at this point I think he’s almost looking for excuses to avoid his screen.
“Maybe today I’ll work myself up to two,” he says, polishing off the last bit of his pistachio cake.
