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Snickers leave us both, yet it’s me who directs the conversation, “You know serving some type of cupcake at this thing was T’s idea.”
Slater strolls around to grab the items we’ll need. “Really?”
“Yeah, I think it’s one of those old habits die hard kind of things.”
Amusement along with curiosity cloud his crystal gaze. “Explain.”
“When we were in high school, I spent most of my Friday nights at home baking with our mom.” I cross over to join him at the counter space closer to the oven. “Socializing is hard for me now but back then?” The slow headshake he’s presented is painful. “Between being in the same grade as my brother but two years younger and seeing things float through the air that others don’t, people either treated me like I had leprosy-”
“Hansen’s disease,” Slater casually corrects in between separating the pans.
“-or should’ve been wearing something white and tight and full of buckles.”
“You can be my buckle bunny anytime, Angel Cake.”
His teasing receives a playful elbow prior to me accepting a stack of liners. “My Friday and Saturday nights didn’t consist of dates or dances or live sporting events, but watching televised hockey highlights with my dad and baking with my mom.” Pulling the first object out occurs with a smile. “She’d put on a little Patti LaBelle or Gladys Knight-”
“Classics.”
“And turn the music way, way up, so I could dance around the colors in the air while creating colors on the counter. She always had the most colorful ingredients for us to work with, and I think it was because she wanted me to learn to have control over them versus letting them have control over me.” The two of us each begin putting the pastel-colored sheets into place. “We’d make rainbow cake batter truffles and rainbow Jell-O stacks and Rice Krispy Treats with sprinkles and different berry cakes in mason jars and almost always – we’re talking practically every baking session – some sort of cupcake. Always different types of frostings and toppings and you can bet your ass come Sunday morning, the good ones would be gone, and the less good ones would become treats for the neighbors.”
Slater warmly chuckles as he adjusts the liners he’s responsible for.
“Around prom – our junior year – I found out that T had this system he had been using to impress girls. Each weekend, he’d stash one of the good cupcakes when he got home from his date after everyone was asleep and then take it to whatever girl he was into on Monday morning and claimhebaked it, just for her.”
“Slick.” My best friend hits me with an amused gaze. “Deceptive as fuck butslick.”
“Yup. Evidently, my cupcakes got my brother laida lotin high school.”
More snickers precede a headshake.
“He had no choice but to come clean to me about his scheme when one of the girls asked for a list of ingredients due to an allergy and he had to fake a stomachache to get out of answering.”
“I think the patron saint of baking calls that Karma.”
It’s my turn to chuckle. “On one hand, I was pissed he was taking credit for my work-”
“Rightfully so.”
“But on the other,” Slater switches to the remaining pan that needs to be lined at the same time I finish up mine, “I was flattered that they had somehow managed to makehimmore popular. That they had been bringingjoyto his life. And I loved the notion that I was making people’s day a little brighter…a little more…colorful…like my own.”
He pauses his actions to meet my stare again.
“Eventually, he started making requests-”
“Ballsy.”
“Yeah, but he’d tell me all about her – whoever her was that week – and why he liked her and why he wanted to impress her and how she was the reason for him getting out of bed in the morning. It was romantic and melodramatic and funny enough, how me and him grew closer. He trusted me not to harp on him for getting all in his feelings over a girl and he gave me all sorts of dating advice I later –much later– put to use.” Turning to rest my hip on the counter while Slater completes his task is mindlessly done. “I kind of think that’s why he wants them served at his engagement shower. Like a subtle nod to that time in our lives.”
“I get the feelin’ you’re givin’ him credit where credit isn’t due again,” my best friend good naturedly jokes.
This time it’s me who tips my head back in laughter.
Freely giggles and grins like it’s the only thing I have to do in the world.
“Huh.” Slater grunts, tosses the unused liners to the side, and angles himself to face me. “Is that why you have that cupcake tattoo behind your ear?”
An enthusiastic nod instantly occurs.
