Page 98 of Ashes of Us
"It'sthecake. The one you used to make him every year. The one with the espresso buttercream that took you four hours and made the whole apartment smell like a fancy coffee shop." She leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "So let me ask again: why are you making your cheating ex-fiancé his favorite birthday cake at seven o'clock at night after working all day?"
"It's his birthday."
"Yeah, and? It was also his birthday last year. You didn't bake him shit then. You got drunk on tequila and burned a photo of him in my sink."
"That was your idea."
"And it wastherapeutic." She grabbed an apple from my fruit bowl, bit into it. "So what changed?"
I cracked an egg into the mixing bowl, watched the yolk break and bleed into the batter. "I don't know. Nothing, I guess. Or… everything."
"Super helpful, thanks."
"He's been coming by the bakery. We're... talking. It's been good."
"Good like 'civil customer' good or good like 'I'm catching feelings again' good?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I turned on the mixer.
Maya raised her voice over the whir. "Piper Fucking Hayes, are you catching feelings?"
I turned off the mixer. "I unblocked his number this morning."
"Oh my God."
"And I texted him happy birthday."
"Oh myGod."
"And he's spending the day alone working a double shift with no plans and it made me sad, okay?" The words came out sharper than I meant them to. "It made me sad that he's alone on his birthday. So I'm making him a cake. I'm going to drop it at the station when he's not there and leave. That's it. End of story."
Maya studied me for a long moment, apple forgotten in her hand. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. "You still love him."
"I don't—" I hesitated. "I don't know what I feel."
"But you feel something."
"Yeah. I feel something."
She sighed, tossed her apple core in the trash, then came around the counter to stand next to me. "Okay. I'm going to say this once, and then I'm going to shut up and help you make this stupidly complicated cake."
"Maya—"
"Just... be careful, okay?" She bumped my shoulder with hers. "I've seen you broken and I don't want to see it again. And if he fucks this up, I'm going to set his truck on fire."
"That's arson."
"That's love, baby." She grabbed the vanilla extract. "Now show me how to make this fancy-ass buttercream before I regret it."
The cake satin a white bakery box on my passenger seat, secured with a seatbelt like it was an actual person.
I'd already second-guessed this decision four times. Once while frosting it. Once while writing "Happy Birthday" in careful script across the top. Once while boxing it up. And now, driving through Riverside at 8:30 PM, heading toward Station 47.
My hands were sweating on the steering wheel.
This was a normal thing to do, nothing special about it. People dropped off baked goods at fire stations all the time. It was practically a cliché. I was just another grateful citizen thanking the local heroes with sugar and butter.
Except… I wasn't.
