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“Yours, Callyn.”
“Right,” I said, pointing at her with my glass. I set it down so I wasn’t tempted to down the entire thing in one go. “Most ideas that blow up in my face are mine.” I hated facing the consequences of my own actions.
“But we all agreed to it, so it wasn’t completely on you.”
“That’s right,” I said.
The timer dinged and Emma went to the oven. It was time for the big reveal. She pulled out a Bundt pan with a chocolate cake in it and then set it down to cool before getting out some more ingredients for what I assumed was frosting.
“Em, that’s just a chocolate cake. I guessed that.” Emma put some sugar into a mixing bowl.
“No, you didn’t guess exactly what kind of cake this is. That’s the rule. This is a triple-chocolate buttermilk pound cake that I’m going to glaze in chocolate and buttermilk.” I grabbed the remains of the takeout bags and the bowl full of discarded bones and put them in the trash.
“Like I was going to guess that exact kind of cake? Come on, Emma. That’s just mean. There’s probably billions of desserts out there,” I said. She smiled and turned on the mixer, making sure that the sugar didn’t go flying all over the kitchen as she did it.
I watched in rapt attention as Emma made two different glazes, turned the cake out, and waited for it to cool. That was the worst part: waiting for the dessert to be ready. The apartment was too quiet so I went and turned on some music and bopped around the living room.
“Typical. Me, working my ass off to make you a cake, and you, dancing your ass off in my living room.” I spun around and did a goofy little wiggle that made her laugh every single time I did it.
“One of us has to have these sweet moves,” I said, doing a shimmy that I knew looked completely ridiculous. I could actually dance well, but I preferred to dance like a dork to make Emma laugh.
“You should have left those moves in Vegas,” she said, but she grabbed her wine and came to join me in the living room. Her place was miles above mine in quality, since my apartment hadn’t been upgraded since before I was born and hers had new everything. It was no wonder that I loved being here more than I liked being at my cramped place with the inconsistent heating and the angry dishwasher that only worked half the time and the annoying roommates.
Emma sat on the couch and I wiggled over to join her.
“How much longer until we have cake?” I whined.
“Soon. You’re always so impatient.” She said it with fondness, though. I knew she loved me. We wouldn’t have been best friends this long if she didn’t.
“Ugh, I don’t want later cake. I wantnowcake.” I rubbed my stomach. “I need the cake, Em. Deep in my soul.” With a sigh, she got up and checked the cake.
“Still not cool yet.” So she poured another glass of wine for me instead. Almost as good, I guess.
I had to wait another ten minutes for the cake to be done, for Emma to put the glaze on, and for her to take enough pictures of it for her social to be satisfied that the cake had been documented. It felt like an eternity.
“Finally,” I said, picking it up in my hand and shoving one third of the piece in my mouth. Emma gasped in shock, but I just grinned at her with my cheeks full of the incredible cake.
“You cretin,” she said after a moment, her lips fighting a smile. I almost choked as I chewed and swallowed the enormous piece. Maybe this had been a mistake.
I was more conservative with my second bite and I opted to use the fork instead, after slapping the piece down on a plate. Like a fucking lady.
“This is incredible. I know I inhaled it, so you think I couldn’t tell, but seriously. So good. You gonna give me some to smuggle home?” I always had to hide my sweets in my room or else my roommates would eat them before you could say cupcake.
“Sure thing,” she said, eating her cake in dainty bites. She was quiet tonight and I wondered if she was still thinking about this whole marrying in Vegas thing.
“What’s up, wife?” I asked and her eyes snapped up from her plate.
“That’s not funny.”
I started licking off my fingers and she passed me a napkin. “Why not? It’s not like we really meant to do it. We just got drunk.” Why was she being so weird about this? “Are you worried about your parents finding out?”
She looked at her plate again and nodded slowly.
“Maybe. I just don’t want them to say anything about me making bad decisions, because of quitting my job and all that.” I swigged my wine.
“Shit happens. Have you looked up how difficult it would be for us to undo it yet?” I knew she had. Emma set her plate down and went to the second bedroom where she had a little office and came back with a stack of printed papers.
“Wow, okay,” I said. “So you did look it up.”
