Chapter Three
“You want to take a long jog with me over at Green Lake tomorrow? Get some good miles in?” Claire shouted to me from across the house.
“No, I have to work,” I shouted to Claire from the guest bathroom—although it had now transformed into my bathroom, as my Clinique products and random pairs of earrings, bracelets, and hair bands covered the counters and filled the drawers.
Claire and Conner had been real sports with homeless Sophie since the breakup with Brandon. Their third bedroom, which had previously been the “dog’s room” for Schnickerdoodle, their Jack Russell Terrier mix that Claire’s bleeding heart saved, had officially become my bedroom, and their guest bathroom had also been stamped as “Sophie’s.” Space had been made in the fridge for the random baked goods I whipped up or the leftovers from my job as a caterer, although I am sure they were always welcome without one hint of a complaint. Though my taste in television shows and films were almost identical to those of Claire’s, without question Conner and Claire were willing to let me surf the channels I liked or pop in a film when I felt the need for some movie therapy. I tried to keep out of their hair and not disrupt their lives too much, but seeing how we were all practically roomies for nearly four years back in college, our new living arrangements were practically old habit.
“Well that sucks,” Claire shouted back in a gurgle, no doubt with a mouth full of toothpaste. “I hate that sometimes you work weekends.”
Working the occasional weekend was part of the territory with my job in the catering and baking industries. My boss, one of the most fantastic caterers and top-notch bakers in Seattle, owned and operated Katie’s Kitchen, a company that provided delicious foods, from simple yet savory hors d’oeuvres to full scale, coursed meals for big shot events and weddings, as well as scrumptious desserts and wedding cakes. Katie herself focused primarily on the catering side of the business, trying her hand here and there at the wedding cake portion of the biz. But with her full-time staff and Oliver, a professional wedding cake designer and baker fresh from France, at her side, and me, a baker at heart with a dream of owning her own bakery and café, she could afford to spend her primary focus on the catering, and leave much of the baking and cake design to me and Oliver.
Oliver took Katie’s wedding cake recipes and design visions, infused them with his own, and made some fantastic, and delicious, wedding cakes. When it came to bite-sized desserts, cakes, cookies, muffins, petit fours, and of course my all-time favorite to bake (and eat), cupcakes, I was the go-to girl. My job at Katie’s Kitchen was very creatively freeing. I had a lot of license to create and concoct. A few of my creations even made it onto the official Katie’s Kitchen menu. I could some day own my own café and bakery. Some day….
For now, in the midst of my young-life crisis with Brandon and my let’s-crash-my-best-friend’s-home living arrangement, the prospect of giving up safe employment with benefits and health insurance to riskily open up my own business was just not something worth thinking about.
“Have to work and bring home the bucks,” I shouted back to Claire as I spread paste onto my toothbrush. “Got to save for my own business some day, you know?”
I had been saving to start my own business for years, and even through the past three weeks and the whole Brandon thing, I was strong headed enough to know that it was wise to keep on saving.
“Well,” Claire said, her voice closer now. I looked back; she stood in the bathroom doorway, toothbrush in mouth. “We can do it another time. It’s supposed to be really nice the next few days. Unseasonably warm for March.”
“Let’s rain check it for Sunday then. I don’t work Sunday at all so we can go for a morning jog if you like. But feel free to go tomorrow if you want to. Don’t let me keep you.”
“It’s a deal,” she said. “And we’ll bring Schnickerdoodle. He needs to get that energy out of his system.”
That damn dog drove me nuts. He was a sweet thing, but like all Jack Russell Terriers, he was a ball of energy that could never be expended. You could run that boy around and around in the park, throw a Frisbee left and right for hours on end, and he’d still run after a tire with more gumption than you thought imaginable. I highly doubted a thirty-minute jog through the nearby park would help burn some of that endless energy, but if it made Claire happy, I could manage an afternoon in the park with her and the tire biter. Besides, I really enjoyed the occasional jogs that Claire and I would take together, especially through one of the conveniently nearby parks in “my” new neighborhood. It was a great way to unwind and, of course, exchange a bit of girly gossip and chit-chat while burning a few shameful calories.
As Claire walked away I heard my cell phone vibrate loudly against the hard white tile of the bathroom counter. I glanced over: an email from Brandon. The preview showed only the first four words, but they were all I needed.
Let’s meet tomorrow night…
My stomach leapt into my throat and I spat my toothpaste out into the sink. I set my toothbrush aside, eagerly picking up my phone to read the remainder of the email. Normally the aftertaste of the toothpaste in my mouth would be more than I could bear and I would immediately flush it out, but I was too nervous and excited to care. Brandon had emailed me. And he wanted to see me. Did that mean he wanted to get back together?
I had already made up my mind before I had sent the email, however. I was quite certain that I did not want to get back together with Brandon. If he would propose such an idea I honestly knew that it would be something I would have to think long and hard about. It could be tempting. But I wasn’t about to throw myself back into a relationship that was volatile and doomed just three weeks ago without much contemplative thought. Why the sudden change, right? No, I just wanted answers. And closure. And to end this my way. I didn’t want to get back together. I wanted control over my life again, and getting back with a man who may or may not love me forever was not the path to control.
I opened the email and read on, butterflies flitting in my stomach.
Let’s meet tomorrow night. Around 6 or so? We can meet at my place if you want. ?? I’ve had some time to think about us since you left and I owe you answers. I know that much. Email or text me if 6 sounds good. See ya. -Brandon
Short. To the point. Much shorter than the verbiage I had spilled out in my email. But it was enough. It was exactly what I wanted…at least for now.
I heard Claire say something to me from her bathroom, but I was too preoccupied to make her words out. Toothpaste taste still in my mouth, I immediately pressed “Reply” and began typing my response.
6:30, I typed. I have to work but will be at your place then. Thanks for answering. See you then. Sophie.
“Sophie, did you hear me?” Claire asked. She came back into my bathroom.
I looked up at her. Apparently my expression said it all.
“He emailed you, didn’t he?” she asked.
I nodded.
“And?”
“And we’re going to see each other.”
“What?” she asked, exasperated. “You’re going to get back together?”
“No, see each other as in meet. We’re going to talk. I asked him if we could talk and he said ‘okay.’ So we’re meeting tomorrow. Tomorrow night. At his place.”
She just looked at me, nothing to say.
“I need to have some closure, Claire. We’re just going to talk and I’m going to gain some form of control over my life.” I waved my hands around dramatically.
“Okay,” she said with a shrug. “Just please be careful. You cried for days after your breakup and I still hear you sobbing in your room at night. You’re definitely not your old self again. I hate what he’s done to you and it’s time to walk away from him. So get your answers and tell him off, girl.” She smiled weakly. “Don’t let him hurt you anymore. Got it?”
“Got it,” I said, leaning down to the sink to finally rinse the disgusting taste of toothpaste from my mouth. “Oh! What were you sa
ying earlier? Sorry. Got caught up in my email.”
“Oh, forget it,” she said, walking away. “Was going to see if you wanted to catch that new Johnny drama at the theater tomorrow, but you’ve got your own drama plans for the night.”
“Ha-ha. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Sophie.”
Chapter Four
I could hardly sleep that night, extremely anxious about meeting Brandon for the first time since our breakup, but I had a pretty big wedding to prepare for the next morning. All things considered, I think the five hours of shuteye I did manage was par for the course.
Oliver and I were top performers for the two wedding cakes and two grooms’ cakes we had to put the final touches on and deliver that afternoon. And the five hundred cake balls that we made for another wedding couldn’t have looked or tasted better. We did our routine taste of one or two cake balls, or maybe three, throughout the prep process just because we’re the bakers and therefore we can. A+ to those tasties. Most of my work went into baking, but I must admit that Katie and I did a fine job on the shrimp cocktails we collaborated on for one wedding reception.
All in all, the day was stressful but productive, right until the last delivery. That was at five; busy as the weekend was and large though the weddings were, they were all pretty easygoing in terms of late-night work. Katie and the catering crew would stay until nine to finish the fixings for one gig—but she gave the all-clear to Oliver and me to call it a day once the final cake blooms were in place.
As for the evening’s plans, I decided that even though I had no intentions of begging for Brandon to come back to me, or running back into his open arms, I still deserved to look my best. So off went my bright orange, flour-covered apron and down went my hair. If this was the last time Brandon saw me, he was going to remember a woman who looked damn sexy.
Once I left the kitchen I dropped by the house to change. I knew that at five o’clock on a Saturday I ran the risk of Conner and Claire being home, only to see me get all dolled up for someone I was supposed to loathe. Still, better than turning up at Brandon’s with flour on my cheeks and icing under my nails. Fortunately, the driveway was empty when I pulled up to the house. No sign of Schnickerdoodle, either; they must have been at one of Seattle’s many parks.
A slinky black dress—as black was the “color” most prominent in my wardrobe followed closely by white—was the best wardrobe choice. I wanted something that would say “sexy” just as much as it would say “not slutty and begging for a second chance.” My lone pair of black Jimmy Choo slingbacks was a no-brainer for the footwear. A soft application of light pink lipstick, a sweep of bronzer across my face to give me that “I get sun every day in this cloudy city” look, a slight spritz of Clinique Happy Heart, and I was good to go.
Before I grabbed my small silver clutch off the dresser I ran a brush through my hair. I’ve never done much with my hair and the biggest splurge I’ll bounce for at the salon is a change in volume or length of bangs. My hair’s been the same for years. It’s long, not too thin nor too thick, and runs to the middle of my back. Straight, a natural medium brown, and as of now bangs that reach just to the eyebrow line with a very slight lift or bounce. It’s simple but it works. My favorite hairstyle is no style at all—just down—or, especially when working in the kitchen, in a ponytail. For tonight, I went with the sexier option: down.
I took one quick look in my full-length mirror. I looked pretty damn good. Good enough for Brandon to either want me back or feel sorry he let me go, but also good enough for me to feel confident enough to say, “Close but no cigar” to any possible reconciliation moves. If Brandon would be so bold.
I took in a deep breath, focusing on the yoga methods of breathing that I had been practicing for years. They were calming, energizing, and helped soothe my nerves. Of course, a soft Riesling at that point would have been more suitable, but I had to get behind the wheel, so it was yoga breathing or nothing.
“You can do this,” I said to myself. “You can do this.”
***
I killed my car engine and watched as my headlights dimmed. The night was crisp and clear, the unseasonable warmth comforting. I looked out my passenger window at the familiar brownstone that I had called home a short few weeks ago. The front room light was on. Brandon was waiting. Was I ready?
I took a quick look at myself in my rearview mirror, letting the nearly set sun provide enough light for me to agree that I did look quite nice.
“Just do this,” I whispered, opening my door.
As I proceeded up the steps, my butterflies were in high gear. How was I going to get through the evening? I was still susceptible to bouts of crying in the middle of the night from the torturous heartbreak that this man had caused me. Was I really ready to have a rational conversation with him? This man I was coming to resent, to hate?
There was no backing out: the door swung open before I knocked, and there stood Brandon, looking as alluring as the first moment I laid eyes on him.
“Hi,” I breathed rather huskily.
“Hello.” He opened the door wider and motioned for me to step inside.
The apartment had the familiar scent of vanilla. No wonder; the candles on the fireplace mantel were lit and flickering beautifully in the low apartment light. What was he trying to do? Set some romantic mood? He rarely, if ever, lit the candles by his own choosing. That was always my habit. Was Brandon going to try to make up and get back together? I suddenly felt very uncomfortable—and I actually felt a bit uncertain if possible advances from him would in fact, as I had planned if need be, be denied. If Brandon wanted me back would I really say no? Was I strong enough to do that?
“How was work?” he asked, helping me take off my cashmere cardigan.
“Thanks,” I said, taking a seat on what appeared to be his new sofa, no doubt bought within twenty-four hours of Conner hauling mine out of his place. “It was good. Nice new sofa.”
He nodded his head, cramming his hands into his pockets, a habit I quickly learned was done when he was either uncomfortable or bored. I took it at that moment to mean he was uncomfortable. He wasn’t alone.
“Wine?” he asked, heading towards the kitchen.
I had spent so many hours in that tiny kitchen, bumped my elbows so often on the counters due to the narrow walkway and the close proximity of the shelves and cupboards. Far from a baker’s dream, perhaps, but it was all I had had. And no kitchen, however small, could keep me from whipping up a new quiche or brioche or chocolate-filled croissant. Upon seeing it again I immediately missed it. I missed my home. And I missed what I had with Brandon.
“Sure. I’ll take a Riesling.” I pulled myself together, then added responsibly, “Not too much.”
“It sucks not having that wine cooler here anymore,” he said.
What a jerk. That’s what he misses?
I didn’t answer. I figured my silence would be signal enough to him that that was a jackass thing to say.
“You were so good about having different wines here and getting me to try different things…stretch my palette.” He was milking it. What did he want?
He took a seat next to me on his new sofa, handing me one of the glasses of Riesling, and I couldn’t help but hope that one of us would “accidentally” spill on his fine new suede addition to the living room.
“So you say work was good, huh?” he asked.
“Brandon.” I took a quick sip of the deliciously soft bouquet. “Let’s cut to it. What happened?”
He took a sip as well, and cleared his throat, obviously stalling.
“What happened…” he trailed.
“Why’d you do it?”
“It wasn’t easy, Soph.”
Please don’t use that name.
“I didn’t want to…not for awhile,” he continued. “I mean, I had thought for awhile about how my feelings were changing and then ran the idea of breaking up through my head…and I just didn’t know what to do…didn’t know what I wanted�
��in life.” He rubbed his strong hands against his equally strong jaw line.
“I spent the last few weeks of our time together really thinking about where we were going. Did I want to get married…did I want to settle down…did I want…us.”
I started to sip quickly at my wine, a bad habit I do at parties or social events when I’m uncomfortable. I wished cramming my hands in my pockets would work, but wine tastes really good, and pockets don’t exactly go with slinky dresses.
“These were questions I was running through over and over,” he continued. “And when I really thought about it and came up with a decision in my head, and realized I was fine with it, I just had to do it. It wouldn’t be fair to you to drag you through my problems. I know you wanted to get married and settle down at some point…make us more permanent. But I knew I couldn’t do that. Not with you…for whatever reason…”
My temper burst forth sooner than I’d expected. “What reason? How do you fall out of love with someone, Brandon? How?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling, Soph. When I really examined the situation and how things were going and how I was becoming more and more unhappy, for whatever reason…even if that reason is no reason at all…well…you can’t live life like that, you know? You can’t live in unhappiness. I figured it was better to cut it off sooner rather than later. It was the best thing for both of us.”
“I didn’t know you were unhappy with me,” I said softly. “I figured it was always work that was getting you down. Seriously, like only a few weeks before we broke up you suddenly seemed so different. You always said it was work and to not worry about it. I didn’t want to make you angry so I left it alone.”
“There was nothing you could do. Nothing. It had just run its course.”
“I guess I don’t understand.” I paused. “I have trouble accepting it.” I blew at my bangs and gave a fake chuckle. “I have trouble with acceptance, you know?”
When Girlfriends Break Hearts Page 3
