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We lay lazily in bed, each of us lost in our own dreams. I spent so long convincing myself to give up on my bakery, only to have the opportunity to get it back throw itself right in my lap.
“What are you thinking about?” Ethan asks, lazily rolling onto his side.
“Dark chocolate ganache,” I confess. “People love it and it seems easy enough to pull it off, but really it’s not. Trying to get the balance between the bitterness and the sweetness right while keeping the ganache velvety and smooth is a real pain.”
Ethan frowns confused, “So you’re thinking about baking then?”
“Yes,” I sigh.
Instead of just disappearing, all the thoughts I’ve been working so hard not to think seem to have just been stored at the back of the mind. Like they’ve been waiting to explode and fill my thoughts with all things cake.
Finally I am allowed to be excited again, to know that things are going to work out for me in the end. There is no questioning it. The bet is as good as won and, with Ethan’s help, my Bakery is going to be a booming success this time.
“Do you want to know what I’m thinking about?” Ethan asks.
I narrow my eyes playfully pretending to read his mind, “Is it a dirty thought?” I ask.
Ethan laughs and rolls off the bed onto his feet.
He is so different, more handsome, relaxed. His always neat hair tousled about his head making him look younger, more boyish.
“I’m also thinking about your bakery,” he says, throwing a pillow at me to soften the blow of what he is going to say next. “I’m thinking you could do a lot better than selling cupcakes and sweet treats. The world is changing, the cupcake revolution is over and we have more than enough bakeries,” he says seriously.
I hold the pillow close to my chest, so much for perfect. I’ve heard what Ethan is saying many times before. But coming from him, the person who is supposed to make sure I succeed this time, it’s a new wound.
“No,” I say simply. “I don’t think so. And, not for the first time since we’ve met, I don’t think you have any idea what you’re talking about.”
Ethan doubles over recovering from the imaginary blow, “Then enlighten me, oh wise one,” he says.
“What do you remember about being seven years old?” I ask.
“Not much,” Ethan admits, "I had a cowboy themed birthday party and I hated it. Two boys in my class already had the exact same birthday party that month and mine wasn’t the best of the three,” he laughs. “Geez, I must have been such a brat,” he laughs.
I raise an eyebrow, waiting for the penny to drop. He still doesn’t get it.
“What flavor was your birthday cake?” I ask, urging him along, steering him to think the way I do.
“Chocolate fudge,” Ethan smiles, “I think my aunt made it from a box mix.”
I raise my palms, “And you still think there is no place for bakeries?” I ask.
Ethan shakes his head, “Come on, little kids like birthday cake. It’s nothing new, nothing earth shattering,” he says. “Let’s go eat.”
I follow Ethan out to the kitchen all the while trying to show him how all his happiest moments are likely linked to the taste and flavors of the food he ate during those moments.
“You told me yourself, you like key lime pie because you associate the taste with the memory of your first big deal,” I say as we get to the kitchen.
Ethan peers into the fridge. I can tell he has no idea what goes where or what we could possibly eat even though his fridge is fully stocked with absolutely everything a person could want.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t mean I want to eat pie every day,” he shrugs.
I stand next to him and start pulling out ingredients. Things I’m sure look random to Ethan.
“You know what I’ve learned from you?” I ask him.
Ethan looks at me waiting, watching as I pull one thing after the other. First from the fridge and then the cupboards.
“Successful businesses don’t sell products, they sell feelings,” I say, hands on my naked waist.
