Courtship of the Cake

by Jessica Topper

  I opened the dressing room door.

  “Oh, Dani!” The owner of Diamonds & Fairy Dust clasped her hand to her heart. “Will you look at that? No more ‘always a bridesmaid’ for you!” She fussed with the hems. With one tiny tug, she covered just a hint of my red bra peeking out, just as expertly as Mick had repaired the white icing on his red velvet cake the other day. “Vera is a master. That is Chantilly under here, layered with esprit lace. Feel this? That’s horsehair; it gives it that lift. God, look at the way the light and the shadows play when the skirt moves; it’s light as a feather, isn’t it? And speaking of feathers . . .”

  Laney pushed open her dressing room door. “No feathers. No black. Long, not short! Bree, it’s perfect.” And it truly was. Laney looked divine. Her body fit like the dress had been molded to her exact measurements. The fitted bodice accented her small hips, and the top that had betrayed my assets tastefully enhanced hers. “Look. It’s got a corset.” She twirled, and I spied her phoenix wing tribal tattoo in all its fiery glory.

  “Oh, Hudson. That is it,” I breathed.

  Bree nodded sagely. “Now, that’s a Badgley Mischka. Last season, but nothing to sneeze at.”

  “I love it.” Laney hugged herself. “I love it more than Mary Jane Watson’s dress on the cover of the giant-sized annual, #22, of The Amazing Spider-Man when she married Peter Parker.” Giving the size and seriousness of her comic book collection, I knew that was Laney’s weird way of giving high praise.

  Bree clipped a white fascinator with a birdcage veil on Laney and stepped back. “Perfect.” She shook her head and smiled. “Why don’t we find you some shoes up front?”

  “No, no, all set. I’m wearing Chucks. Red.” Laney smiled at her reflection in the mirror, relishing the memory. “So is Noah.”

  Bree collapsed on the plump, white pouf in the corner by our dressing rooms, exhausted by the effort of transforming Laney, one bridal accessory at a time. “Perhaps another day.” She waved her hand in defeat.

  “Inside joke,” I assured her. “I guess we had to be there.” No one had been there, save for Laney and Noah. And he had saved her from frostbite by lending her his sneakers during the Chicago blizzard that had grounded their flights, when all she had were flip-flops. “He warmed her toes, and her heart.”

  Laney’s dress needed to stay behind for some minor alternations, but since the Vera had fit like a charm, I was good to go. Except Bree wouldn’t accept Nash’s card. “Save your sugar lovah’s money. Borrow the dress, and bring it back,” she pressed. “Our little secret.”

  “But Bree,” I protested. “Look at all those bills. This sale could help.”

  “These?” She waved her hand at them. “Please. My sugar lovah pays those for me.”

  “Wait, is that—?” The rock on her hand seemed to have increased in size. “What happened to Mr. Five Time’s the Charm?”

  “Eh, you know. Easy come, easy go. But number six? He’s the one!”

  • • •

  After leaving Diamonds & Fairy Dust, I messaged Jax and cashed in my rain check for carnitas and margaritas at the Rocking Horse. Like Laney, my other best friend had big news to celebrate—Jax had sold his first novel to one of the Big New York Five. I was over-the-moon happy for him. It was like I had never left, howling with laughter at our favorite corner table as he regaled me with his latest plot ideas, and I shared my craziest tour stories from the road, including my first night on Nash’s tour bus.

  “I don’t know how you do it, Heartbreaker.” He shook his head. “Curious to see how you’re going to get out of this one.”

  “Maybe I’m not going to,” I said, toying with the ring around my finger. “Maybe it really is What Dani Would Do, you know?”

  Jax set his margarita glass down a little too hard. “To trap yourself in a loveless marriage? To be safe?” He stabbed his straw at the ice in his glass, refusing to look at me.

  My mouth suddenly went very dry. “Oh, and you’re not ‘Mister Safe,’ the king of serial monogamy? Before Mona, it was one ‘sure thing’ after another.” I licked my lips, tasting salt, and Jax winced like I was rubbing his wounds with it.

  “Mona and I broke up.”

  “What? Jax! When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “A month ago . . . after you said you’d call, but never did.”

  Fair point.

  “I . . . I don’t know what to say, Jax. Other than I’m sorry.”

  He drained the margarita dregs from the heavy stemless glass, and shrugged. “Did you know that tequila is produced by removing the heart of the agave plant?” he said suddenly. Without waiting for me to answer, he added, “In its twelfth year.”

  “That’s a long time to wait.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  His writer brain loved to dig up research; no doubt this was another one of his Jax Facts, as Laney like to call them. Some poetic metaphor for something going on between us, no doubt.

  “Only the heart is split open and used. The piña,” he enunciated. “The rest is discarded.”

  My cell phone lit up across the table. Neither of us looked at it.

  “How long have we known each other, Dani?” he murmured.

  I needed no time to add digits or calculate. “Fifteen years.”

  Jax leaned slowly back in his chair. “Ah. That’s a long time.”

  For what? To wait? I didn’t know what he was getting at, or where he was going with it.

  My phone brightened again, and I broke eye contact to glance down at it.

  Nash.

  Parking, his first text said. Then, Be there in 2. I’d told him to swing by to meet my friends after his meeting, not realizing Laney wouldn’t be joining us. Or that Jax would be putting me under some sort of matrimonial microscope.

  “Is that him? Paging you to go out to him like . . . like some call girl?”

  “No, he was coming in. But on second thought,” I grumbled, “I think I’m outta here.”

  “Wait, don’t.” He grabbed my hand as I tried to gather my things. “You don’t need to go with him, Dani. Or with any of the scammers or con artists out there. You deserve better. You deserve one hundred percent interest for the rest of your life.”

  “Jax!” My entire body flashed hot, then drained cold. I needed to nip this in the bud, and fast. Before our entire friendship blew up in our faces. “I can’t get into this right now. I have to go.”

  He rose to meet me at eye level, trapping me with his intensity. “You walk away from everything and everyone! And you think it means you’re strong?” His laugh was a bitter bark. “All your love ’em and leave ’em bravado . . . more like fuck and forget. What the hell are you so afraid of?”

  I was afraid of losing our friendship. Of losing him.

  “I’m afraid of making the wrong choice!” I hollered, pushing my chair back. “Like I always do!”

  “Like choosing Dex over me? That day of the funeral?”

  The look on his face was a strange mix of tortured release. As if, like me, he had been wrestling with some unspoken secret since the day we met.

  Maybe he had.

  I had lost my virginity to Dex that day. Along with every bit of faith in myself.

  “Did you honestly think he could resist telling me all about it?” Jax shook his head, his lips thin as he pressed them into the saddest smile. “It never mattered to me that you hooked up with my brother, never.”

  I had always been Jax’s rock, and he mine. But with the mere mention of his brother’s name, it was like he had turned over a part of me, exposing something I had been hiding, dank and grubby, in the dark for so long.

  And it didn’t matter?

  I turned to leave, smacking right into all six feet, four inches of Nash. Relief hit me back, and I realized that while our engagement arrangement had focused on me being exclusively
there for him, I had come to rely on Nash as well. Whatever fucked-up journey of discovery we were on, we had been on it together since the first night we met.

  “Hey,” I said angrily. “I’m about to be up one on you. Think fast.”

  He got the reference. “Drinks are on me.”

  Shots of Patrón were on the bar in no time, and in a blur of stinging swallows and salty tears, I was sucking a lime out of my fiancé’s mouth.

  Nash responded, capturing my lips, taking my tongue hungrily against his. But there was a detached air, an absence. I don’t think either of our hearts were really in it.

  “Hey.” I finally took the plunge into the jaded green depths of his eyes. “I thought Nash Drama doesn’t like doing things half-assed.”

  Nash accepted my breathy challenge for what it was, fingers snaking down the crack of my bottom, grabbing bunches of my thin cotton dress as he pulled me against his frame.

  Money smacked down on the bar next to me, and I sensed a hint of chilled cucumber with a citrus bite breeze past as Jax stormed out.

  “What the fuck was that?” Nash broke away, skipping the lime and salt this time, and went straight for the shot.

  “That was me, burning the last bridge I ever dreamed I’d burn.”

  Had my fear of losing Jax become a self-fulfilling prophesy, the minute I realized my fears had been unfounded, all this time? Shock and shame replaced any other emotions I was feeling. The tequila didn’t exactly hurt, either.

  I had had to protect my heart, after the rest of me was discarded by Dex, all those years ago.

  Nash didn’t press me. He just passed me another round.

  “It’s over, China Doll.”

  “What is?”

  “Everything.” He waved his hand. “The tour. The band dropped off it. Cutting their losses. Oh, and they kicked me out. I’m too much of a liability, apparently.”

  “What? Can they do that? What about contracts?”

  “I wasn’t a founding member and I was dragging them down. So . . .”

  “No!” I was outraged. “You do better when you are active. Getting you back on the road would be a win-win. I’ll call Riggs—”

  His hand fell heavily on mine. “No.”

  “Then what?” I asked, echoing our strange question from the mountaintop.

  Nash gave a tired smile. The rock-and-roll dream had gone belly-up, as he had feared. With me by his side this past week, he had seen his friends, had gotten to know his kid. As he had intended. I guessed it was now time for him to cash in on that shoulder to lean on. If the rocker needed a rock, it might as well be me. It’s what I did best.

  In some sort of unspoken agreement, we both threw back our final shots in the marriage-proposal drinking game.

  Game on.

  “Thank you, China Doll.”

  Nash grabbed the Vera and my hand, led me to the Porsche and back out of town.

  I had the ring and the dress. All there was left to do was choose a cake . . . and finally lose any dreams left lingering of Mick.

  Dani

  HEAVEN’S HALF ACRE

  New York seemed to bring a cloud of bad moods back on the Half Acre. There were so few topics acceptable to talk about without arguments or slammed doors. Nash and I were at loose ends. He was pulling away from me, and lashing out at everyone else.

  “Don’t worry,” Nash lobbed to Quinn. “As soon as I accept my key to the city—”

  “It’s a borough,” Bear interjected.

  “Whatever. As soon as I accept it, I’m out of here.”

  “Nice to know where your priorities lie, Dad,” Quinn seethed as she spooned fruit onto Logan’s plate. “You care more about that ornamental key than your flesh and blood! I’ll bet it’s plastic, and it’s not going to magically open any doors around here for you! One freakin’ night out of the year. You can’t spare that?” She stabbed chunks of watermelon, Logan’s favorite fruit, with a huge serving fork and practically flung them onto his plate.

  “Then Dani should go, too,” Nash argued.

  “Go where?” I asked warily. I’d been upstairs and had missed out on the bulk of the conversation.

  “Open School Night this week,” Bear supplied. “First public appearance together since—”

  Nash threw his own fork down with a clang. “Jesus Christ, Bear.”

  Logan had been moving a hand over his fist as his mother had absently pushed more food on him, but now he was bringing the back of his hand up under his chin.

  “Enough.” I blurted out the word, loud enough for Quinn and Nash to pause for a second. “Listen to your son.”

  “You’re full, honey?” Quinn asked, looking down at his plate.

  Logan made the same gesture, his young face full of fury. That’s all it took to change the meaning of his sign for having had enough to eat, to having had it up to “here” with the lot of them. He pushed back his chair, and stomped to his room. Soon we could hear him crunching out frustrated bar chords on the guitar.

  “He’s had enough of the fighting.” I placed a hand on Nash’s shoulder. “Remember what Sindy said. This is a gift of time.”

  Quinn rubbed her temple. “God, could you at least tune that goddamn guitar for him? I wish you’d never brought it for him in the first place.”

  “Is that really what you want to waste your wish on, Quinn?”

  Nash was up and stomping the stairs before she could respond. Quinn just put her head in her hands.

  “I’ll talk to him about Open School Night,” I said to her. “I think it is important for the both of you to go.” She didn’t protest, but she didn’t say thank you, either.

  Mick appeared in the doorway then, but he wasn’t alone. Two young guys, probably in their twenties, stood there, fidgeting nervously. “Quinn.” There was a trace of cautious amusement in his tone. “You have some customers.”

  Quinn bolted up in her seat, blinking rapidly. “Welcome to the Half Acre. You’re looking for a room?”

  The guys glanced, horrified, at each other. “Two,” the taller one said hastily. “We’re not together, together. We’re just . . . traveling together.”

  “Yeah, we heard—” The shorter guy got a bony elbow in the ribs, but ignored it. “Is this where Nash Drama is staying?”

  “We don’t want to stalk him or anything,” the taller guy quickly assured. “We’re just . . .” He smiled and appealed to all of us with his hands. “. . . huge, huge music fans, we’re totally chill, and we were on a road trip. Once Go Get Her dropped off the tour, we’ve been . . .” He glanced at his friend, a little embarrassed. “We’ve been visiting rock-and-roll meccas, you know . . . and birthplaces of our favorite musicians and stuff.” He had a slight drawl, as if he might hail from a southern state.

  Bear stood up proudly. “Welcome to the Half Acre, and New Hope. This is where Nash Drama grew up.” The guys threw triumphant glances at each other. “I can’t guarantee you’ll get a glimpse of him while you’re here, but I can totally show you around. Where he went to high school, where we used to jam—”

  “You played with him?” The shorter guy had worship in his eyes.

  Bear nodded the affirmative. “I’ve even got a VHS of us performing for the Battle of the Bands. Totally won that year.”

  I recognized the Holy Grail moment in Tall Guy’s eyes, as he forked his credit card over to Quinn. “I’m Justin,” he said. “And this is Rob. We’d like to stay a week.”

  “Bear,” Quinn said, amazement in her voice. “Can you show Justin and Rob to rooms two and four?”

  • • •

  “Those can wait,” Mick said to me, nodding at the dirty plates I had stacked by the sink. “And you’re a guest, you don’t have to—”

  “Please.” I gave him a look. By now Nash and I had moved beyond guest status. To what, I didn’t know. F
reak show? Tourist attraction? I hope he chilled out before making any sort of public appearance.

  “Let’s take a walk.” Mick tossed down the dish towel he was holding. He had on a pair of battered suede Vans on his normally bare feet. And a shirt.

  “You don’t have to get to the shop?”

  “The shop can wait.”

  Small, hard apples had begun to form on the trees of the orchard. Mick scooped up a couple from the ground and tossed them between his hands in a halfhearted juggle as we wound our way through the trees toward the river.

  “Ever wonder what it’s like to be famous?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “I grew up with a guy who ended up making it really big with his band. Sorta saw what he went through.” I didn’t mention who it was—Allen Burnside—or how fame, and cancer, had abbreviated his life spent with Laney. “Plus I’ve always worked around famous people. So, yeah. I guess the thought’s occurred to me.”

  Mick threw one of the apples, with a side flick of his wrist, and it skipped like a stone across the water. “Growing up, we used to debate. Would we rather be rich, or famous? Money sounded pretty good to me. But Nash. He always picked fame.”

  He handed me the other apple to throw, but I held on to it instead. We kept walking along the river, the trees to our right. I rubbed its smooth, hard surface like a worry stone.

  “Famous means people thinking they deserve to know your business. That doesn’t really appeal to me at all.” He turned to me suddenly. “Does Nash put butter or jam on his toast?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Butter or jam . . . I wondered if this was another test, like the strange wedding-induced “Coke or Pepsi” game everyone insisted on playing with us around the fire pit, ever since Nash and I first opened our mouths with conflicting information about our plans. They thought it was funny we couldn’t agree . . . and seemed to have a vested interest in our “Big Day.”

  “Come on. How does Nash like his toast?” Mick insisted.

  “Burnt?” I joked. “He puts butter on it, I guess.”