Page 229 of Sweet Ruin

She raps me on the head with her fork. “It won’t be short,” she agrees. “Hear ye, hear ye. I have been instructed to say nice things about Delilah Dorsey.”

I balk. “By whom?”

“Kane. He threatened to bake again if I refused. And I’m threatening you with grievous bodily harm if you interrupt me again. So shush, okay, you beautiful creature, you? I’m trying to pay you compliments.”

I mime zipping my lips, though there’s no way I can hide away my smile.

Pri clears her throat. “Two years ago, I was working at a nameless shithole—sorry, Zara; I mean, craphole—in Bay Ridge where the owner docked me half an hour of pay for every one minute I was late. Then Delilah fell from heaven into my lap, hired me and gave me a schedule I could put on a fridge and a wage I could plan a life on. When my life fell apart in January, she swore she wouldn’t let me go hungry before I even asked her.” Her chin starts to wobble, but she powers through it.

I blush. “You’re really laying it on thick.”

She glares at me until I shut up again. “That being said, she’s a little bit thick-headed sometimes. I could go on and on about all the kind things she does, but in some ways, that’s actually a mistake. It reinforces her worst opinion. She thinks we love her for what she does. But she’s so, so wrong about that. We love her for who she is.”

My eyes fill up with tears.

“So,” she concludes, lifting her glass. “To Delilah. Who takes care of everybody. And who is going to sit there tonight and let us take care of her, because we outnumber her and she can’t win.”

Everybody cheers and drinks.

What I want to do more than anything, more than breathing, is make a self-deprecating joke to defuse all this lovey-dovey attention. I’ve got one locked and loaded, about how payroll is cheaper than therapy.

But I swallow it down.

Let yourself be loved. I can almost hear Kane whispering that in my ear.

For once, I take his advice.

“Thank you,” I say instead. “All of you came here for me. That’s…” I have to stop for a second and collect myself. “That’s new. So—thanks.”

Then the lights go out.

I panic for half a second before a familiar glowing figure emerges from the kitchen.

It’s Kane, holding…

Well, I guess it technically meets the requirements for a cake. The two vanilla layers list toward the left. Chocolate frosting has been applied with more determination than skill. HAPPY 32 LILAH stretches across the top, although the final H has wandered into the border and may never find its family again.

“He made it himself from scratch. Wouldn’t let me touch it,” Priya explains in my ear, delighted beyond words. “I offered. I begged. But nope. He holed himself up for five hours, and by the sounds of the curses erupting from the kitchen while I was setting up the decorations, he spilled a lot of blood, sweat, tears, and flour along the way.”

My tears threaten to escape and run free as everyone sings Happy Birthday at the top of their lungs. Kane sets the cake-like concoction down in front of me.

It takes a few big blows to get all thirty-two candles extinguished, but in the end, I manage to complete the job. I’d make a wish, but why bother?

Everything I need is right here.

Kane hands me a knife as the lights come back up.

The crumb is tight and rubbery near the middle. Overmixed—he beat the flour in like it owed him money—and there’s a dense band along the bottom where the batter sat while the second pan went in. The icing is too sweet. He didn’t sift the cocoa, so there are little pockets of raw powder in it.

I know all of that by the end of the first bite.

And yet it is, without a doubt, the best birthday cake I’ve ever had.

I look up at him and grin with a mouthful of frosting.

“Well?” he asks.

“I love it.”