Page 2 of A Taste of Vanilla

Next door, my bakery is dark.

Bitter Bloom.

My little kingdom of espresso, butter, sugar, banana-vanilla muffins, emotionally unstable latte specials, and one chalkboard menu that Oliver claims is an assault on typography.

I can see the side door from where I sit. The one that connects his back hallway to the alley between our businesses. Oliver tends to keep the door open to the kitchen with the hopes that no stranger wanders down the alley and decides to scare him.

My shop is closed for the night, the ovens cooling. The pastry cases are empty, and the counters are wiped down, because even in a full emotional collapse, I do not leave buttercream frosting to crust on stainless steel.

I have standards. Not romantic standards, apparently. But sanitation standards.

“Suzy Homemaker,” I continue, because Oliver has failed to participate and therefore has forced me to carry the conversation alone, “would have had matching canisters.”

Oliver blinks. “What?”

“On the counter. Flour, sugar, coffee. Maybe something unsettling.” I think for a moment. “Like lentils.”

“Why are lentils unsettling?”

I shrug. “They imply preparedness.”

“Preparedness is not unsettling.”

“It is when it comes from a woman with a perfect husband and a pantry label maker.”

Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose.

I take a sip of the drink he made me twenty minutes ago after taking away the drink I actually wanted. It’s mostly soda waterwith lime and what I suspect is a ceremonial amount of vodka. He called it a cocktail, but I call it a betrayal with bubbles.

But I’m sad, so I drink it in an attempt to not think about the fact that a week ago, I had been engaged.

One week. Seven days.

An entire lifetime if you measured time by just how many times you almost text a man who had ruined you before remembering that you have self-respect, and two best friends. One of which just so happens to be a bar owner who has no problem locking your phone in a jar of maraschino cherries.

My phone is currently behind the bar in an empty rocks glass with a cocktail napkin draped over it like a body at a crime scene. Oliver even labeled it BAD IDEA in Sharpie. He even underlined it. Twice. With aggression.

“I could have been more like that,” I say with a sigh.

Oliver’s gaze cuts back to mine. “Like what?” His body coils like he’s expecting me to say something stupid.

“Organized.”

“You own a bakery,” he deadpans.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“My bakery is organized because it has to be. My personal life is more of an experimental jazz piece.”

He leans against the bar. “Jazz has structure, Halston.”

I throw my hands up. “Okay, well my personal life is more like a raccoon falling down an elevator shaft.”

“There it is.”

I ignore him. “Maybe I should have had the canisters. Maybe Grant wanted canisters.”