Page 53 of When Lemons Give You Life

My first boss told me that no dish is ever perfect. The contents of the clear container beg to differ. I carry it onto the patio where two dozen of our friends are gathered beneath warm festoon lanterns for our engagement party. A golden beam hits the chocolate cake like a spotlight. Divine endorsement.

The garden buzzes with music and laughter. Tables are piled with Chinese takeaway, chopsticks tap plates, and people toast with plastic cups. Beau insisted I didn’t lift a finger, but I had to make our Laughing Cake. The first time I baked it, it was so ridiculously good we burst into giggles: rich, warm, and fudgy, with a hint of cinnamon that hits the back of the throat like a secret. It was pure goodness. And maybe that’s why I made it tonight, because deep down, I believe I’m not good enough for him. So I do the one thing I know how to do: I cook. Tonight, I give him the best of me in butter and sugar and dark chocolate.

I place it gently on Mum’s old china cake stand. I wish she could see me now. She’d be proud. At least, I like to think so. But part of me will always wonder if she could ever really see me without seeing what she lost.

Still, tonight feels full of promise. Over the past twelve months, Beau has helped soften the edges between Lisa and me. We still don’t talk about the past; I stick to the script, as Mum instructed.

Lisa’s late, no surprise. She’s already missed Beau’s viola solo, a melody he wrote just for me. I’m turning to ask if he’s heard from her when she stumbles through the gate, hair wild, eyeliner smudged, half-empty bottle of wine in hand. She makes a wobbling beeline for the porch. Before anyone can stop her, she grabs the mic off its stand. “Hellllloooo!” she sings into it, far too loud. “Sorry I’m late, everyone!”

Beau catches my eye. His look says it all.

“Tonight, we celebrate my brother and my best mate finding love,” Lisa slurs, swaying slightly. “Don’t they look like the perfect couple?”

A few polite laughs. Beau winks at me; I try to smile back. It isn’t like her to drink this much.

“I’ve known Griff my whole life,” she continues. “There’s a reason I used to call him Ratbag . . .”

The crowd chuckles, but my grip on the cake stand tightens.

She gestures toward me, voice fraying. “He wasn’t exactly the world’s best big brother. Do you all know he left our mum when she was dying?”

The laughter falters.

Beau tries to cut through the crowd. “Lisa, that’s enough.”

She waves him away. “Yep, just packed a bag and disappeared. I stayed. I did everything, while he was off making freaking croissants.” She lets out a bitter laugh and drops the bottle with a thud. “But lately . . . I thought maybe we could find our way back to something. To family. I thought maybe all that coldness was just who Griff was and I couldn’t change that.” She shakes her head, blinking hard at Beau. “But tonight I realized . . . Griff is capable of love—there’s even a party tonight to prove it. He just chose not to love me. I’m happy for you, Beau, I am. But please . . . be careful.”

Beau takes a step forward. “Lisa—”

She cuts him off. “I’ve spent years trying to be someone Griff could love. But I was always too loud. Too messy. Too much.” Her voice lowers, tight and cracked. “You don’t know what he’s like when it gets hard. When someone needs too much. When things get too inconvenient. He pushes family members away, he runs. He leaves then pretends it never happened.” She looks to Beau with glassy eyes. “You’re too good for that. You’re too good for him.”

She clutches the mic tighter, stepping sideways to avoid Beau’s reach. “Lisa, stop.”

Something seems to break open inside her. “Griff will never choose me, but maybe there’s a world in which you can. See me, Beau. Want me. I would treat you right.”

And then, suddenly, she stumbles forward.

Beau jerks away, but not fast enough. Their lips meet and she kisses him, sloppy and desperate.

Everything halts.

Beau stumbles back. “LISA, STOP!” His sharp voice cuts through the thick air.

I stare down at the cake. The one that used to make us laugh. It feels ridiculous now.

Without a word, I turn and walk. Past the garden, the music, the embarrassment blooming across every face. Lisa’s slurred words ring in my ears, feeding the gnawing terror that I’ll never be good enough for Beau.

At home, I eat the entire cake straight from the container, standing alone in the kitchen. It doesn’t make me laugh. Not this time. Not ever again.

32

Griff

How many times does the calming effect of a midnight pancake need to be documented before it becomes an official scientific fact? I’m convinced it’s better than Valium for settling Rob.

He’s having a rough night. I discovered him wandering the hall, confused and shivering, so I wrapped him and his toy cat up in a crocheted beige cocoon, found some abandoned art supplies and set him up at the kitchen countertop. He puts a final touch on his painting, a streak of yellow on his knuckle, eyes clearer than when I found him. It’s only been fifteen minutes, and he’s knocked out a still life of a fruit bowl that puts my stick figures to shame.

Wide-eyed, he peeks out from the folds of the blanket like an elderly caterpillar, as I heft the four-liter bottle of milk and ten-kilo bag of flour onto the countertop.