“Oh no, it’s selling it perfectly,” she insists. “Three tiers. Buttercream frosting. Something described to me as ‘whimsical but bold.’ I don’t know what that means, but it sounds like a cake with opinions.”
I snort. “Theo would love that.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Also, before you say no, I already told them it was for a kid’s party, gave them your name and said you’d be in touch.”
I close my eyes. “Vivian.”
“What? It felt right.”
I hesitate, that familiar tightness creeping in. “I don’t want to be a burden,” I say quietly.
“You’re not,” she says immediately, her voice softening just enough to catch me off guard. “You’re my friend. This is mebeing excited that I get to contribute a giant cake to celebrate your kid.”
I let out a slow breath. Somewhere between the plant tutorial email waiting on my laptop and my mother’s voice telling me to stop punching metaphorical horses, something in me loosens.
“Cake does make things better,” I admit.
“Yes,” Vivian says triumphantly. “Yes, it does.”
“And itwouldsave me money.”
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
I glance around my living room. I can’t let my pride be wounded over this, not when it’s such a generous and loving present from a friend.
“Okay,” I say finally. “Yes. We’ll take the cake.”
She whoops so loudly I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “Excellent. I’ll text you the bakery details.”
I smile, shaking my head. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” she says. “Now go back to whatever you were doing on your day off. I’ll talk to you later.”
The call ends, leaving the apartment still again—but this time, it feels different. I feel different. Lighter. Peaceful in the way that comes after talking to a good friend.
I stay where I am for a moment, phone still in my hand, letting the last hour replay in my head. Somewhere between my mother’s tough love and Vivian’s aggressive generosity, I’ve agreed to two things I never would’ve said yes to this morning. I let out a slow breath and shake my head, half amused, half overwhelmed.
Apparently, today is the day I stop hiding. Or at least pause it.
My laptop waits on the coffee table, Carol’s email draft still unwritten, its blinking cursor quietly judging me. I stare at it for a second longer, then close the lid instead.
“Not yet,” I murmur to the empty room. “We’re taking a minute.”
I stand, fill the kettle, and move through the familiar motions of making tea—something herbal and calming. I need floral notes to pretend they can solve all my problems from a steaming mug. When I settle back onto the couch, I turn on the television more for background noise than anything else.
The screen flickers to life mid-segment.
“…and all eyes are still on Alexandria’s newest NHL expansion team,” a bright, polished reporter says, standing rinkside with a microphone. “The Dominion have landed and they’re taking no prisoners in their inaugural year. Especially after last night’s win.”
My stomach gives a small, traitorous flip as the camera cuts to b-roll. Players streak across the ice in a blur of navy blue, gold, and white. Someone takes a shot, and the crowd erupts.
I squint at the screen, because I genuinely have no idea where the puck is. It’s manic to watch, even if it’s considered to be controlled. Sticks clashing, skates carving sharp lines into the ice, and not to mention the large bodies colliding with a kind of considered violence I will never fully understand. How does anyone follow this?
I don’t have too much time to reflect before the footage shifts. Now it’s Sawyer who appears on my screen, laughing as a teammate elbows him in the ribs. He ducks his head, grin wide and unguarded, then pushes off the boards and launches back onto the ice.
He’s focused and fast, but you can tell from a first glance that he is entirely in his element, and it’s a beautiful thing to witness firsthand. My breath catches as I watch him moving on the screen. The camera tracks him as he skates hard, shoulders squared, eyes locked forward. Then, like he knows it’s watching him, he glances up at the lens. Just for a second. Clearly caught off guard.
And then he smiles.
