PRE-HEAT
Jack
I’m freezing my balls off for whoopie.
I—a steadfast southern Californian—am burrowing into my newly purchased Tom Ford cashmere scarf as the cold from the cobblestone sidewalk seeps into my leather Cole Haan loafers and my testicles stage a full retreat.
And all because of a Freudian-named pastry sold in an innuendo-laden bakery called Making Whoopie.
“Isn’t this fantastic?” Amanda Willis, actress, celebrity, and the reason I’m standing outside a bakery in a fishing village at the ass-end of Maine, clasps her mittened hands together and inhales like the air itself is cinnamon-sugar flavored.
I scan the scene—Main Street, Hideaway Harbor. No palm trees. No women in bikinis. Just a ridiculous numberof Fraser firs and townspeople wearing enough buffalo plaid to start a lumberjack militia. “‘Fantastic’ is not the word that comes to mind.”
Amanda’s been riding a high since we crested the hill and rolled into town this morning. We flew a red-eye from LA to Bangor, rented a car, drove through a postcard, and landed in a town that looks like a Hallmark movie exploded only to spend what was supposed to be a scenic one-hour drive from Bangor white-knuckling the steering wheel, dodging snowbanks while the GPS glitched—all as Amanda waxed poetic about the storybook scenery and holiday charm.
Stamping my feet, I knock snow off my shoes. “What evenisa whoopie pie?”
Amanda hugs her coat tighter. “Two soft cookie-sized cakes—chocolate, pumpkin, red velvet, you name it—sandwiched around a fluffy cream filling. They’re Maine’s state dessert.”
I arch a brow, not having realized states had their own official desserts. “And you think that’s worth frostbite?”
She tips her head, eyes glittering. “Well, it’s also a long-standing euphemism for sex.Making whoopie.So technically, we’re freezing for dessert and innuendo.”
The cold catches my exhale, turning my exaggerated sigh into one giant puff of smoke. “Figures you’d drag me across the country for pastry foreplay.”
Amanda just laughs. I glower.
It’s during times like this that I remember the psych survey I took for extra credit in college—the one that declared I had “high responsibility” as my top personality strengths.
Other times include when I left corporate law for entertainment law after Felix decided to become an actor. Or when I took on Amanda after her coming out scandal during that movie she and Felix shot last year—even though I’d already started thinking about a career change.
“I read all about this place online.” Amanda pivots in her sheepskin-lined boots and nods toward the large bakery window, where the lucky early birds are inside, warm and content, selecting their sweets under the glow of central heating.
With her shearling-collared red plaid coat and matching ear-flapped hat, my friend, nee client, looks less like the Oscar-winning actress she is and more like the Grand Axewoman of the aforementioned militia.
“Today’s the first day Making Whoopie rolls out their holiday-themed whoopie pies.” She’s practically vibrating. “That’s why it’s so packed.”
I’d chalk up her excitement to how different the colonial Northeast coastal holiday culture is from her everyday West Coast Hollywood-hippie lifestyle, but as we’rebothCalifornians andIfeel nothing close to her level of enthusiasm by my surroundings, I don’t.
“I can’t feel my toes.” Chin tucked, my lips move against my too-thin scarf. “Amongst other things.”
“What was that?” Amanda eyes me sideways, her expression equal parts feigned innocence and amusement.
The bell above the door chimes as one happy pie-holding customer leaves, holding the door open so the person at the front of the line can slip in.
“Nothing,” I grumble, herding her forward in line.
She rolls her eyes before facing the window, nearlypressing her nose against the glass trying to see the whoopie pies past the crowd inside. “If you hate the cold so much, why did you follow me to Maine for the holidays?” Her breath fogs the window in front of her.
I’m about to blame it on my impulsive sense of duty but stop myself. It’s not the truth. Because while I may skirt around honesty with legalese and vague Hollywood agent-speak, I make it a point not to lie to my friends. And a year in to taking on Amanda as my client after her “scandal,” that’s exactly what she’s become. A friend.
So instead of telling the truth, I lean into the Scrooge aesthetic and glare at the tinsel-covered storefronts.
“Men in flannel. Environmentally questionable vintage trucks. Axe throwing as a viable dating activity.” I shrug. A gust of wind slips between my scarf and my double-breasted Burberry. “I was curious.”
“You were bored.” Amanda smirks, shuffling backward as the line creeps forward. “And maybe a little lonely.” She nudges my shoe with her boot. “Admit it.”
She’s not wrong. But it’s more than that.
