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She sniffles and gives a watery laugh. “I just ruined your nice hankie, so that’s something.”
I laugh. “Keep it. You’re allowed to ruin anything you want of mine; all you have to do is reach out and take it.”
I’m no longer talking about my pocket square but about the bleeding, broken organ that beats just beneath the place where the pocket square goes.
Chapter Seven
Cherise
I feel the presence of a man I’m not allowed to think about. Bishop’s hankie, the press of his finger against my cheek, the hard stare directly into my true self. And his words. What had he said? He’d kiss me so hard I’d feel it last week?
Give me strength.
And the thing about sexing his woman so thoroughly she wouldn’t be able to walk? Lord almighty. Yeah. That. That had my mind reeling and my body buzzing with curiosity every time I recalled that moment.
I don’t cheat. I certainly don’t break up with someone just to hop into someone else’s lap. That’s not who I am.
Then who are you, Cherise?
I roll out the dough for the cinnamon rolls as I ask myself this question.
The answer is, I’m a woman who has been living in denial of what she needs to do.
A woman who does not feel loved by the person who is supposed to love her beyond measure. A chef avoiding her boss and friend Bishop by sending one of her staffers to deliver his cinnamon buns to his office this morning. A sexually frustrated bride who could very well continue to be so, even after the stress of a wedding calms down. Who’s to say marriage won’t be more stressful than the last few days?
And today is the day I’m supposed to send the invitations.
I check my phone, and there are about half a dozen calls and texts from Augie, which came in while I was working. Despite what I know is right, I scroll on past until I see one, just one, from Bishop.
“We need to talk, friend. Preferably before you send those invitations.”
He’s right. We do need to talk. After I do what needs to be done.
Scrolling back up, I take a minute to read Augie’s messages. All of them are a variation on an apology for his snappish behavior while he was here earlier. “I’m sorry for not listening to your ideas. I’m sorry for not reining in Myrtle. You know how she is.”
So, not exactly remorseful and committed to do better, but this is as close as Augie gets.
When the dough rises, I complete the day’s project of making my practice wedding cake.
I snap a picture and send it to Augie with the question, “What do you think?”
He replies immediately. “What do I think of what? A pyramid of sticky buns? Have you sent the invitations yet? My mother has a few more business associates to add.”
I reply, “That’s not a pyramid. It’s a three-tiered cake made of cinnamon buns. Not sticky buns. I thought it was very us.”
He’s worried about the invitations, not about me.
After a minute, he replies. “That’s very you, but not very us. I’d go with something a little more traditional. Chocolate?”
At that moment, I know what I’ve done. I look at the cake, and I see exactly what he means. It’s not “us.” Or it’s not the “us” that I thought it was.
I text Bishop back: “I need some space to clear my head.”
I may not be a woman who cheats or leaves one man to hop into the lap of a second man, or a woman who ever lets anyone down.
But I am a woman who knows what she has to do.
I have to leave town.
