Page 305 of A Taste of Vanilla

That is different.

Happiness is fine in theory. I support it at a safe distance, behind glass.

What I hate is inconvenience.

Unfortunately, happiness is usually inconvenient.

Case in point: Bitter Bloom.

Six months ago, the bakery next door was a moderately chaotic business owned by a woman who forced me to be her friend in high school and who I’m not sure has listened to me once, ever. She was known for having a few too many feelings, too many latte names, and a questionable relationship with her car’s gas gauge.

Now, the bakery is thriving. It always was. But this is a whole other level.

There’s a difference. And it mostly involves my life becoming worse.

Every morning, people line up outside for Halston’s pastry like it contains the secrets of the universe. One man called it “the pastry that saved my marriage” the other day, which made Halston cry for eleven minutes and made me ban him from talking near the pastry case.

He still comes in twice a week.

Bitter Bloom’s coconut latte has become a problem.

It’s too sweet. It’s absurd.

She has another salted caramel and banana one that makes me feel sick.

Warren claims not to like them, but Warren is a liar.

He still orders black coffee in public like a man with principles, but I’ve seen him drink Coconut Bloom lattes in the alley when he thinks no one is looking. Once, he had foam in his mustache and tried to tell me it was only quality control.

Halston knows this. But she knows everything now, mostly because Warren no longer treats communication like a guarded secret family recipe for some reason.

They keep notes everywhere. Halston’s most recent note says:

CHAOS BUDGET REMAINS SACRED.

I hate that one the most because Halston invokes it whenever she wants to do something unreasonable, like creating a limited-edition maple brown sugar latte named after a fictional mule from her D&D campaign.

It sold out in thirty-seven minutes.

I refuse to discuss it.

Warren works beside her now, his sleeves rolled up and his hands dusted with flour. His severe face is bent over a tray while Halston talks with both hands and changes the name of something ten minutes before opening.

His lists still exist. A man like Warren King does not abandon lists.

But they’re softer now.

There are columns for mandatory tasks and flexible ones. There are notes about Halston’s pain days and a section called Last-Minute Joy Adjustments, which I refuse to call by its full name because Things Halston Is Allowed to Change at the Last Minute Because Apparently Joy Requires Chaos is too long and sounds like a cry for help.

Marley forgave them.

Mostly.

She still threatens them regularly, which seems healthy.

If Warren looks too intense near Halston, Marley says, “Remember, I know about your piercing, so act accordingly.”

If either of them forgets to eat, Marley sends them a photo of a shovel.