Page 42 of A Love Like Christmas Time
There is not much I find more satisfying to watch on TikTok than people piping intricate buttercream borders on cakes. And a toxic little voice in my head keeps whispering, ‘That looks easy. You can do that.’
Yes, I know, the videos are sped up, but there are not many things that give me as much satisfaction as watching a woman on TikTok decorate one of those cute vintage heart cakes with buttercream frills or in those super-cute pie-inspired patterns.
Of course, I ordered myself some equipment and tried it out before committing to the idea for the Christmas market booth. Reality turned out rather disappointing when I noticed that it would take hours of practice to get piping somewhat even, or get the hang of swirl directions.
The hardest thing about it though? Writing. No, I can write, thank you very much, but with pens, maybe a paintbrush if I’m feeling fancy. But icing? That was certainly an experience. However, it’s a skill I’m now determined to learn out of sheer spite. And because it seems slightly easier to learn than soap making or crocheting.
“Heedless of the wind and weather,” I grit out another verse that’s definitely not in the right order, when it starts to snow and pick up my pace.
Snow is beautiful, snow is great, but only when I don’t have pizza boxes in my hands that have a great potential to soak through, thus ruining my dinner. And I’m excited about this pizza.
The streets of Wayward Hollow are empty. Well, mostly. Courtney is closing up her flower shop, carrying a box of wreaths inside.
Through the giant window lining her reception, I can see Andrea in her hotel, sitting behind the counter with a book in her hand, the orange glow of her lamp a beacon on this cloudy night.
Finally, Caleb’s comes into sight. I’ve almost made it. And there’s no snow pile on the boxes, and I haven’t lost my footing on the sidewalk—which, honestly, I didn’t expect. Yay for me.
“Falalala- huh?” I wonder out loud. It’s well past six already, so why is the light inside his café still on?
We are supposed to meet at Henry’s vet clinic, which is apparently where he lives. Above it, to be precise. Interesting. I was sure he’d live above his café for the ultimate commute-efficiency.
So why is the light still on at Caleb?
I walk a few steps further and peek inside through one of the windows facing onto the street. The chairs are still neatly arranged around the tables. Curious. Usually, he sets them on the tables to make it easier for his vacuum robot to run through the café overnight. Or for him to sweep the floor in the morning. There are even some dishes left on one of the tables.
I’m growing worried. That’s not like him at all. Is he okay?
My eyes trail along the counter, trying to catch a glimpse of him. Then I see him, and my heart drops.
He’s hunched over a table, face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
“What the hell?” I mutter and almost let the pizza boxes fall in shock. What is going on here? Whose behind do I need to kick? Quickly, grasp the pizza boxes with both hands and hurry to the door, somehow managing to wedge it open with my elbow and bursting inside.
“Caleb?”
With jerky movements, he turns his head and looks up. My heart skips a beat. Without taking my eyes off him, I put the boxes I brought on the counter and hurry over to him.
His complexion rivals the snow outside, and his eyes are red. Anger is written all over his face, with a deep crease between his eyebrows, cheeks a piercing red against his pale face andeyes glossy, his jaw set, his muscles wound tighter than a coil spring.
“What happened?” I ask, my voice smaller than I intend. I sit beside him, careful not to get too close.
His eyes keep moving — to the floor, the wall, anywhere but me. My stomach twists. I want to help, but I don’t even know what I’m supposed to fix. I have no idea what to say, or whether I should say anything at all. Pain etches a crease between his eyebrows, his quivering lip revealing he’s only a hair’s length away from full breaking down.
I wait, not moving a muscle. He gulps heavily, pulling his cheek between his teeth, then his lips, like he’s swallowing down words. I wait right next to him until his shoulders lose some of their tension and his expression finally softens.
“Are you okay?” I ask in a whisper. My fingers are tingling, urging to reach out to him.
“No.” The word comes out in a regular volume that sounds louder than a scream with the emotions it conveys. Pain. Anger.
He jumps up, agitated, the chair clattering behind him as it tips over with the force.
“No, I’m not okay.” His voice breaks, and he runs his palm over his face.
He starts pacing, shooting the chair a glare that could kill before he picks it up and roughly sets it upright.
“How dare they come in here?” he mutters under his breath, walking a few steps, then turning back around. His hand trembles as he lifts it to his head, taking off his beanie and chucking it in the corner, then runs his hands through his hair.
“Fuck,” he curses and pulls on it.
