by Tif Marcelo
Disappointment added to Regina’s anger. Meeting Henry was supposed to be a bonus. She’d imagined a You’ve Got Mail scenario but without the power imbalance and the drama. A romantic first meeting.
She texted slowly, unsure what to say:
Thanks. I’m here actually. But
A knock sounded at the passenger-side window, interrupting her. Regina looked over; it was her nemesis.
Sophie pointed down at the seat.
“You want to come in here?” Regina asked aloud.
Sophie nodded.
Regina put away the phone and unlocked the door. She sat up in the bucket seat as Sophie entered the car, though unfortunately, Regina was still shorter than Sophie’s seated form. “What do you want?”
“Look. You can’t leave,” Sophie said. “Adelaide needs you.”
So Sophie was going to play the role of a martyr. Regina rolled her eyes. Immature, yes, but they were in her car, and she could do what she damn well pleased. “Looks to me you have that covered.”
“I’m mad at her, too, you know. I didn’t know you were coming. But we’re here now, and you heard what she said about needing the both of us.”
Regina snorted. “C’mon. You don’t believe that entirely, do you? One of us would have sufficed. She’s trying to get us to make up.”
“I thought of that. But she’s also one of the strongest women we know—we have to trust that she knows what she needs.”
“We don’t have to do anything.”
Sophie clasped her hands in her lap. “I tried. Stay or go. It’s your conscience.”
“Yeah, okay, thanks, Mom.” Regina looked away, toward the front windshield. Her actual mother would kill her for how rude she was being, but Sophie and her righteousness was the last thing she had expected or wanted today. Or any day of the last decade.
After seconds of silence in the car, she heard Sophie open the passenger-side door, slide out of her seat, and shut the door.
Without thinking, Regina placed Baby in drive.
Coming around the corner onto Burg Street, the main street of Old Town, the traffic was heavy. Cars cruised down the road at a snail’s pace, much slower than the tourists’ gaits on the sidewalk. The street bustled with a kind of optimism, the vibe quite the contrast to her sleepy military town, and a feeling bloomed in her belly. It might have been because DC was just a stone’s throw away that Old Town absorbed this energy. Or maybe because the old buildings carried their own history, inspiring a wish that her catering business could take up residence behind one of these shop windows.
It was only when she passed a bar called the Whistling Pig, written in a calligraphy font on a hanging wooden sign, that it dawned on her why her nostalgia had reared its ugly head: this place reminded her of Millersville’s Main Street.
She shook her head to derail her meandering thoughts and looked at the map on her phone. The freeway was up ahead about five miles. Five more miles, and she could put all of this behind her.
At a stoplight, a herd of people meandered past in the crosswalk. On the right, Regina spotted a shop’s purple-and-white awning. The front window, decorated with colorful vinyl lettering that spelled out Just Cakes, featured a white, four-tiered model cake on a stand. Two small children milled in front of the window, hands against the glass, peeking in, no doubt hoping to catch sight of more cakes inside.
Regina stilled. Just Cakes.
Henry Just of Just Cakes.
Her brain flipped to a new page.
He’s in there.
At that moment, those children at the front window were possibly watching Henry work. In real life.
Would it be weird for her to just show up unannounced?
What was there to lose, now that she’d walked out of her friend’s house?
Regina growled at her ping-pong of emotions and at the next street turned into an open parking space.
She swallowed her nervousness and sorted through her cluttered thoughts. She and Henry had had a revealing and intimate online friendship, DMs constantly flowing. They’d discussed everything business related; Regina had found solace writing to Henry’s beautiful face. There was a freedom in their veiled anonymity; the computer screen was like a confessional, and Henry had responded reliably and thoughtfully. He’d remembered the things she told him. He’d checked in on her on event days. Such small gestures, but gestures she’d wished her ex would’ve picked up on when they had been married.
But seeing Henry in real life… this was opening Pandora’s box, and especially now, in her grim mood. Would he be as gracious as he was online? Would he be as kind? What if he smelled or had bad breath?
A woman across the street called the children from the window, who bounded away, exposing the shadows of movement inside.
Don’t be a fraidy-cat, Regina. You’re friends.
She heaved a breath and straightened her posture.
Oh God, am I really doing this?
She stepped out of the car.
Yes, yes, I am.
With faux confidence, she jaywalked across the street, and upon reaching the door of Just Cakes, she opened it with much more strength than she’d anticipated and it flew inside with a bang.
The heads of the crowd inside swiveled toward her, and silence fell over the shop. Had she not been so consumed with the stares of the individuals, then she would have been able to adequately take in the bright room, the hanging star lights that added whimsy, and the high round tables where groups congregated for samples of cake. How quaint it all was.
She also didn’t fully grasp that the man she wanted to see was approaching her, not until he was two feet away. Henry Just, in all of his baker glory and then some. He wore an apron over an oxford shirt, with one of its collars caught in the apron’s neckline. His hair, curly up top and cropped on the sides, had bits of blond woven in with red, which hadn’t shown in his photographs.
This was the man who’d sent her that book package last week, a book that—while she hadn’t read it yet—she had placed on her bedside table, where only precious things like Miko’s framed picture resided.
“Hi, name, please?” Henry held a clipboard and hadn’t glanced up to look at her.
“Um, excuse me?”
The tip of his pen was poised on the list of names on the clipboard. “Last name of either party.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t… actually have an appointment.” Regina’s tongue tied at the tip. She gazed at the top of his head. Surely, any second now, he was going to look up.
Except, he didn’t. “Ah, I apologize, but all of our tastings are by appointment only. I hope you understand. I think that… hm… that we might have availability tomorrow.” He looked through the papers on his clipboard.
All around her, people focused in on their conversation. Regina’s face burned with the beginning of embarrassment.
“I’m actually here because…” She cleared her throat. “Hello, Henry.”
Henry stilled. Then, slowly, he looked up. Up close now, she took him in. Her mind cataloged the differences between Instagram Henry and For Real Henry. His eyes were a much clearer hazel in person, but the smile, the generous smile that appeared on his face, was definitely spot-on.
“Regina?”
“Hi. It’s me.”
Months. Months, they had been corresponding, almost every day, and this was all she could say? He was her pen pal. She had been looking forward to this. But instead of joy, what she felt seeing him this first time was relief. Relief that there was someone here in Old Town to turn to in the middle of her dysfunctional friendship-triangle with Adelaide and Sophie.
“Hey! Are… are you okay?” His expression changed from excitement to worry. He stepped into her, tentative, as she felt her face crumble.
She shook her head as a decade’s worth of memories and drama rushed toward her.
“Can I… Is this?” he asked, arms out, an awkward gesture.
He was asking her if she needed a hug. And in fact,
she did.
She stepped into his body, crowd be damned.
CHAPTER FIVE
Regina
July 2011—About Ten Years Ago
“No, no, no. This is not okay.”
Regina paused at the door of apartment E of 2100 Bell Street at the sound of her husband’s muffled voice. With a letter in her hand, she took a deep breath and turned the doorknob, popping it open with a crack. She peeked inside.
The hard bass guitar of rock music blared from the living room on the right, and the exhaust fan whirred from behind the wall on her left. And in the middle of the hallway was her cat, Shadow, nestled next to Logan’s boots, atop his discarded socks and uniform top. Shadow eyed her, in warning.
“He’s cooking again, isn’t he?” Regina asked Shadow.
The cat meowed.
Regina entered and bent down and rubbed the back of Shadow’s ear, then stepped over the pile of dirty clothes.
“Hey! Hey, I thought I heard you come in.” Logan stuck his head out from their galley kitchen and yelled above the exhaust. Behind him was a plume of smoke.
For a beat, Regina lost her train of thought. Her nose tickled at the scent of burnt cheese, a sure sign that Logan had somehow fried the boxed mac and cheese he had insisted on buying in bulk from the commissary. It was supposedly one of the only things he knew how to cook. Supposedly.
“Babe?” he said, with an expectant look and a frozen smile. A smile that said that he was trying. They were on the heels of a fight from the night before, this time about him taking the reins as a true partner in their home—since her role seemed to have evolved to a full-blown housekeeper and cook. The fight had ended with him doing exactly what he did each time they disagreed: leaving.
Regina wasn’t sure how to respond. Or which version of Logan this one was. So she shook a smile onto her face and pretended that she couldn’t hear the sizzle in the background. She lifted the letter in her hand. “I got invited to book club.”
The man cackled, ducking back into the kitchen.
“What’s so funny about that?” She unlaced her combat boots and propped them next to the front door and, in stocking feet, unbuttoned and hung her camouflaged shirt in the hallway closet. Their apartment was tiny, not quite what she had envisioned for their first home together, and had almost zero storage space. Their uniform tops were relegated to the hallway closet, where they’d become accustomed to dressing and undressing.
“You don’t like to read,” he said.
She gasped and went to their bedroom. “I take offense. Yes, I do.” She changed into her college sweatshirt and leggings, then stood at the kitchen’s entryway. She slung her arms across her chest to watch this man—her husband—attempt to cook. He was still in his brown T-shirt and camo pants and barefoot, and she couldn’t help but just look. Logan Hardin was handsome. Shy of six feet, he had these captivating light brown eyes and was built like a tank, muscle everywhere. They had married right after his graduation from West Point and hers from Villanova; after a short two months of Officer Basic Course, they’d transferred to Upstate New York’s Army post, Fort Fairfax, and there they were, almost two years married. Though, sometimes, like the night before, when their conversations ignited into a forest fire, it felt like they were still strangers.
“In fact, I have a book on my nightstand,” she pointed out.
He snorted. “The Bible is not, technically, a book.”
“Don’t let my mother hear you say that. It’s a family heirloom.”
Logan stretched out a hand, a signal for her to come close, to snuggle in. This was another routine step in their silent apologies to each other. Because he wasn’t the type to say sorry—and, well, she, she was always right, so why should she?—she stepped forward and buried her face in his chest while he kissed the top of her head.
“Lemme see that invite,” he said.
Regina placed the invitation in his hand and grabbed a soda from the fridge. She plopped down in one of the chairs of their two-person dining room set and brought her knees to her chest.
His eyes gleamed. “Oh, fancy.”
She popped the can open. “Hand-lettered. You know it’s serious.”
An eyebrow rose. He slipped the marbled paper from the envelope. “From Captain Chang’s wife? I didn’t realize they decided to live off post. Oh, and printed fancy paper, too. ‘Hello, neighbors! Since we’re all connected to Fort Fairfax but live off post, I thought I’d start a book club. For our first meeting, I picked the book just so we can get it started. It’s called The Hunger Games. It was just published a few years ago, but I hear it is a page-turner. Now, don’t be wary that it’s teen fiction! I know most of us have read Twilight—don’t pretend you haven’t! Book club will be four weeks from today, August 28, at my house: 2110 Bell Street Apartment A, Millersville Heights Apartments. Can’t wait to meet all of you.’” He snickered. “Book club. You’re more of a movie club kind of person, don’t you think? And even then, if it’s not up your alley, you fall right asleep. And snore, too, actually. Speaking of, that should have been covered in our premarriage counseling: how to handle each other’s snoring.” He was practically yelling over the exhaust, and with the kitchen window open to the expanse of the shared backyard, where kids were playing and parents hovering nearby, Regina winced. She imagined the quick spread of gossip like peanut butter on toast that ended up all over the gosh-damn place—Did you know that Regina Castro snores like a Mack truck? That is, if the neighbors already weren’t talking about their raised voices last night.
She could’ve clapped back that their premarriage counseling also didn’t cover a husband who seemed incapable of acting like an adult. That somehow, his bachelor housekeeping skills had disappeared the moment they got married. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t stay awake. She was exhausted.
And yet, when he ditched the letter and cursed the pot of burnt noodles as he plated the dish, worry etched in the lines of his forehead, she refrained from saying a word.
He was joking. And neither of them was perfect.
She countered. “I dunno. It sounds interesting. I’ve never been invited to spouse stuff.”
Being dual military sometimes put her in the between. She was sometimes accidentally excluded from spouse functions, because she herself was active duty. And the fact that she and Logan lived in the first community beyond Fort Fairfax’s gates often kept her out of the loop of social functions. Though, interestingly, while she and Logan had wanted to be away from the pressure of living next to people they worked with and opted for Millersville, they soon learned that every single neighbor was also connected to the post.
“Should I go?” Regina asked.
“It’s your call. Captain Chang is the new company XO. It would be a good way to get to know his wife before the unit deploys. He seems like a good guy, so she’s probably nice enough.”
Regina bit her lip, understanding the politics of it all. But she wasn’t good with women. Men, yes. She could banter with her brothers, could shoot the shit with her cousins. But women? Maybe she was meeting the wrong kind of friends, but she had always been labeled rough, sarcastic, and competitive.
But it was important in any line of work to get to know the leaders, and Logan was right. Since the 701st Infantry Battalion would soon pack up and head out for their routine cycle in Afghanistan in a little more than a month, it would behoove Regina to be plugged in. This was going to be their first deployment.
“The Hunger Games is a children’s book,” she said as a final objection.
“I’ve never even heard of it.” He hiked his hands on his hips; his forehead was sheened with sweat. “But, um, babe?”
“Let me guess. We should order in. Or I cook.”
He nodded guiltily.
Regina hefted herself to her feet and gestured toward the living room. “Out of my way, solider.”
She might not have been a big reader, but she could cook anything out of nothing.
CHAPTER SIX
August 2011
“This isn’t your first rodeo. Buck up,” Adelaide whispered into the antique gilded mirror she’d purchased from a Flohmarkt in Germany, she and Matt’s last duty station. She’d haggled and gotten it for a steal at fifteen euro, though it could easily have cost her over three hundred dollars in the States, because despite its age, there wasn’t a crack in the glass. And to her great amusement, it had fit into this tiny powder room in their new apartment.
Everything was minuscule in these Millersville Heights apartments. Small closets, tiny kitchen cupboards; arms out, Adelaide could’ve reached from one end of this bathroom to the other lengthwise. She wasn’t sure how the movers had gotten her antique German Schrank through the narrow hallway. But housing on Fort Fairfax, which was larger, didn’t allow certain dog breeds, and Scout, their seven-year-old bulldog, was like her son.
When Adelaide and her husband, Matt, moved in a month ago, it had seemed like a good idea to them to replace the standard-issue mirror with this one. It brought great light to the room. It also reflected off the framed prints of flowers hanging on the wall behind her, creating a chaos that caused her to shut her eyes as the sounds of laughter echoed through the door. The mirror showed every flaw on her face, from the dark hue of her evident exhaustion after unpacking feverishly the last month, to the blemishes that had erupted on her skin. It revealed the stress from the move, the upcoming deployment, and the nausea that had crept in the last two days.
She gripped the sides of the pedestal sink to settle her stomach. Nausea is good, she reminded herself. Nausea was perfect, because it might mean that she was pregnant. Her period—annotated in her bedside-table chart, along with her temperature and all the other tiny personal details—was two days late. She was cautiously ecstatic, though trying to appear her joyful, presentable self was another story. “You’re fine. Everything’s fine. You wanted this book club.”
Books were Adelaide’s escape. She read to experience. And she was tired of keeping her love of books incognito. During this time at Millersville, she’d made it her duty to get to know other readers. To boot, Matt was now in a leadership position, and she would be like Mama had been: a steadfast, optimistic military spouse that others could look up to.
