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To love me.
So I’m trying to respect Rosy’s wish to give her space, because I can understand her needing to protect herself. Except I’m struggling with the idea that she might choose to leave me too.
The thought is bitter to swallow, and my throat tightens with the bulky sensation. We had such a short time of everything feeling…perfect.
The dynamic has shuffled without us even realising it as she slotted into our lives. Our family felt complete.
The more I think about it, the more my mind aches at the indecision, wondering if I should’ve agreed with Nate. An itching urge to do something rather than stew in my thoughts gnaws at me.
She loves when I bake and cook for her.
I’ll make her some cupcakes. That might ease her forgiveness when we see her tomorrow. Setting my mind on a task, I can feel the clutches of worry loosen slightly, not enough to fade away but enough to allow the distraction to start baking an apology offering.
I rifle through the kitchen cupboards, plucking out the ingredients I’ll need.
A flicker of noise signals the TV being turned on. I glance over. Max has sprawled across the sofa, the remote in his hand as he flicks from one station to the next, not actually paying attention to any of them. Noah looks heavy, an invisible weight pushing down on his usually self-assured posture as he stares out the window.
It feels hollow to have no contact with her, to not be able to check in and see how her day’s going. Not that I imagine she’d be having a good one as she’s still hurt from what we did.
It’s just been easy to fall into the routine of us together and in each other’s lives.
Me
Thinking of you. I can leave some food at your door if you’d like any. Just send a thumbs up emoji or something if you want some. X
My wrist cramps as I pipe the kirsch-infused buttercream rosette onto the last cupcake, but I ignore the pain as I place a cherry-shaped chocolate truffle on top. I’ve spent hours working on getting the cupcakes right, the pile of rejected attempts out of view on the work surface behind me.
They have to be perfect.
Not that she wants them. She hasn’t responded to my earlier message.
I step back to look over the finished cupcake, identical to the other six completed on the side.
On the outside, it looks right. So I cut into it, pulling the two halves apart and leaning over to inspect the inside. My back and neck protest at the position, a sharp reminder that I’ve been at this for too long.
It’s worth it for Rosy.
The buttercream to sponge ratio is exactly what it should be. The cherry filling is situated right in the centre. Biting into a half, I close my eyes and try to savour the taste. It’s good, really good.
However, if she’s not in the mood for chocolate and cherry, then I need an alternative for her.
I pick up my phone, swiping the screen to check again if I might’ve missed a message from her.
There are order emails, baking enquiries, social media notifications, but nothing holds my interest. None of them are from Rosy.
A pang hits my chest hard, and my fists clench. Sticky filling and buttercream spill out between the cracks of my fingers. I force in a deep breath, unclench my fingers, and drop the ruined pieces into the bin.
“It’s late, Bry. You should get some sleep. Let me help you clean up.” His voice startles me, and I look up to see Noah stepping into the kitchen from the shadows.
“I can’t. I need to make a different flavour in case this isn’t the right one.” I thrust my hands under the tap and wash away the sticky crumbed mess, my movements sharp and jerky.
“Rosy seems to like just about anything you make; she always does because you’ve made it. What’s making you think she won’t?”
“Because people change their minds. Sometimes they like something, then the next day they don’t. Which is fine. People are allowed to change their minds. But I need to know why, so I can make something better.” It comes out in an agitated staccato, and I drop the mixing bowls loudly into the sink.
“Why do you think she’ll change her mind?” Noah replies all too calmly as he leans against the counter next to the sink. He’s watching me, but I refuse to look up, thrusting my hands into the sink under the scalding water to scrub the bowls.
“Because that’s what people do. They change their minds about things. They’ll love something one day and never want to eat it again the next. People change.” The bowl in my grip slips and clatters back into the sink, cracking in half.
