It felt like the only way to honor it.
Honorher. Alana.
God, she should’ve been here.
I pulled the pastry cream off the heat and set it aside to cool. Then I moved onto the fruit tarts. Kiwis, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries. I even had those tiny mint leaves she liked to add for decoration, not that I was going to use them.
They felt like Alana’s thing. I didn’t have the right to replicate it.
As I arranged the fruit, I kept thinking about how she’d hover beside me with her eyebrows furrowed in that way she always did when she was focused. She had this way of biting her lip without realizing it. And she’d hum when she was happy with something.
I missed that hum more than anything. I hadn’t heard it since… God, since before she cut me off. Before I messed everything up.
“I think she still likes someone else.”
That’s what I told my mom. But the truth? I didn’t know what to believe anymore. I didn’t even know if it mattered. She was gone. And she wasn’t coming back just because I missed her so much that my heart was in physical pain.
I’d spent hours this week getting everything ready for Brooke’s baby shower. Running from store to store to get the best ingredients, perfecting the dough, freezing batches ahead of time.
It wasn’t about impressing anyone. I just wanted to make something that felt meaningful. Something she would’ve been proud of.
But the more I worked, the more it hurt.
Every step felt like a reminder.
Rolling out the puff pastry? I remembered how we laughed until we cried when mine ended up shaped like Texas.
Cracking eggs? I remembered how she dared me to crack one single-handedly and I got it all over my sleeve.
Making cupcakes? She’d told me they were the easiest thing in the world, then teased me when I somehow managed to burn a whole tray anyway.
Now, there was no laughter. Just the ticking of the kitchen clock and the low hum of the fridge. No jokes, no sarcastic comments, no hums. Just me and the memories.
I piped buttercream onto the cupcakes like Alana taught me, and it was like my hands were on autopilot. I didn’t even realize I was whispering her name under my breath until I caught myself.
I stopped piping.
My hand trembled slightly, and I set the piping bag down before I ruined the next swirl.
She should’ve been here. Not just because she helped me learn all this, but because… she would’ve liked it. The decorations, the effort, the way Brooke had been buzzing with excitement every time I updated her on my progress. Alana was sentimental like that. She loved when things were done with heart.
And I’d done all of this with heart.
With her in my heart.
God, I wanted to call her.
Even if she didn’t answer. Even if she blocked me. Even if she deleted the voicemail the second she heard my voice. I just wanted her to know.
I wanted her to know I still remembered everything she taught me. That I cared. That I was sorry.
But mostly, I wanted her to know how much I missed her.
I missed her when I opened the fridge and saw the little cartons of cream she always insisted I buy from the expensive store, because apparently the cheap stuff “didn’t whip good enough.”
I missed her when I looked at my playlist and skipped every song we used to play on loop. I missed her when I woke up and didn’t have a single good reason to check my phone anymore.
I missed her now. With every cupcake or tart I filled. With every damn swirl of icing. With every breath I took in this kitchen.
