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Moments later, I’m staring at a three-ring binder that’s opened to a two-page spread of wedding gowns.
“This goes against everything I stand for as a professional, but you need to see this,” she says.
My brow furrowed in confusion, all I see on the left side is a magazine photo of a plain but sleek white satin bridal gown with a modest neckline and capped sleeves. On the right is a picture of a diaphanous, flowing gown with ridiculously long sleeves and a sheer outer layer of embroidered flowers and lace.
“I ordered two dresses. Cherise thinks I ordered only this one,” Henrietta says, pointing to the dress on the left. “This is the one her fiancé approves. And this one,” she says, pointing to the right, “is the one she wants. The one she needs. Are you picking up what I’m putting down, former brother-in-law?”
I scoff. “I don’t know shit about bridal gowns, but the one with the crazy long impractical sleeves is Cherise, through and through.”
Henrietta looks up at me. “It comes with optional fairy wings attached to the back.”
I can’t help but laugh, even though it feels like I’m puncturing my own lungs with the pain of knowing I’m not going to be marrying the woman wearing either of those dresses. “That’s not an option. She needs those wings.”
Henrietta nods and smiles. “And there’s something else. Something that she’s not compromising on.”
“I don’t know if I can take any more,” I say.
“Bear with me,” the wedding planner says with a smirk. She flips the page and rotates the binder forty-five degrees. There is a hand-drawn sketch of a three-tiered wedding cake. Made of cinnamon buns.
I snort, fighting back against the ache at the back of my throat. “That’s Cherise. I could have called it.”
Henrietta looks at me. “Bishop. You know who this cake is for. And it ain’t for that troglodyte fiancé in Charlotte.”
I haven’t breathed a word of how I feel to anyone, and I don’t intend to start with Henrietta.
“What am I going to do, Hen?”
She turns fully in my direction and rests a hand on my bicep. “You’re going to do what you did when I had nowhere else to turn. When your brother started on the pills again.”
“Give her a job and help her find an apartment? I think she already has all that.”
Henrietta punches me in the arm. “No, dummy. Tell her to dump the wet blanket and help her move on.”
Chapter Nine
Cherise
“I broke it off with Augie,”
“Holy shit,” Cecily breathes. “Are you okay?”
The airport cab drops me off at my apartment, and I continue this phone conversation on the sidewalk while I take in a beautiful desert sunset.
This is why I’m tightest with my youngest sister rather than my older three. It’s almost never “holy shit, what did you do?” Or “Holy shit, Mom’s going to freak.”
With Cecily, I’m not Chef Cherise, not Williams sister Cherise. With her, I’m just me. This is why when we’re old and gray, we’ll be doing crimes together in the nursing home.
I inhale a shaky breath. “Right before I broke it off, I felt like I was in free fall without a parachute. But once I spoke the words to him out loud, I felt oddly at peace. I’m a little sad, but more that I wasted so many years of my life. I think we were always better off as friends.”
Cecily huffs. “If I could grab your shoulders through the phone, I would. Listen to me. You didn’t waste those years. Look what you accomplished. You’re a freaking shooting star. If anyone wasted any time the last few years, it was Augie.”
I am not expecting that. “Excuse me? He wasted his time with me?”
Cecily laughs, “Let me finish. No, you’re a catch. I don’t have to tell you that. He wasted his time not being your biggest cheerleader. With his family’s connections, he could have sent a ton of business your way. You could be making wedding cakes for rock stars. But no. And why? Because he’s jealous.”
This was almost point-by-point the things that Bishop had been subtly pointing out to me for weeks. One, Bishop verbally reminded me of my accomplishments. Two, by being my biggest fan, he was low-key illustrating that Augie simply was not rooting for me hard enough. It all lined up. They were all rooting for me—everyone except Augie. I would spend no more time thinking about someone who didn’t bother trying to lift me up. I’m not a person who expects favors to be returned or keeps score, but here’s the thing: I do need the people closest to me to tell me they’re proud of me.
“Does the rest of the family know yet?”
