Whoever decided to call it a “walk of shame” clearly didn’t have a good enough time the night before. Sure, you might be wearing yesterday’s clothes, with your panties inside out, and raccoon eyes from your smudged mascara, but I always like to think of the morning after as your merit badge for a night of hot sex—and anyone who thinks that’s shameful can bite me.

But trudging into my childhood bedroom less than a year shy of thirty, carrying two suitcases that represent the sum total of what’s left of my life? That’s a walk of shame I’d much rather skip.

I stop on the threshold and take a look around. My parents never redecorated after I moved out, so it’s like a time capsule of my teenage life: plush indigo comforter on the twin bed, fairy lights strung across the oak bookcase, orange-and-maroon shag rug I thought was so impressively retro, and posters and photos tacked all over the lavender walls.

Oh, God, the posters. Buffy The Vampire Slayer glowering from over my desk like she’s going to stake the posturing Justin Timberlake next to her, Avril Lavigne slathered with eyeliner beside him, a cluster of Harry Potter movie posters—one of them signed by half the cast, which I am still kind of proud of, thank you very much. And of course, Category 5 in all their gleaming boy band glory, in their place of honor above the head of my bed.

The room even smells like my teen years—the vanilla-jasmine perfume I bought for ten bucks a pop at the local Walgreens. And yep, it smells that cheap.

Maybe I can get a new cupcake flavor out of that. Nostalgia-No-Thanks: A vanilla cake base with a generous splash of Natty Light, buttercream icing in a teeth-achingly sweet bubblegum flavor, sprinkled with rebellious black licorice.

Nah. No one wants to eat that any more than I want to be living it.

I’d like to groan and flop headfirst onto the bed. But that would be horrifyingly teenager-y of me, wouldn’t it? Instead I heave the suitcases up there and pop them open to start unpacking. This arrangement is only temporary, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be stuck with wrinkled clothes and cosmetics arranged by Ziploc bag the whole time.

My ringtone sounds as I’m hanging up one of my dresses in a closet that is mercifully free of my high-school concept of fashion. It’s my cousin Brooke, and I wince, already knowing this is going to be an un-fun conversation, but that’s not her fault.

“Hey, cuz,” I say.

“Hey, Maggie!” Brooke all but chirps. She must realize she’s overdoing the upbeat cheer, because her voice drops. “So you got in from New York okay?”

“Of course, no problem at all. The train stayed on the tracks. We did not encounter a freak late-August snowstorm.”

“Maggie,” Brooke says, chiding and teasing at the same time. Our senses of humor don’t always line up perfectly. But my favorite cousin is a total sweetheart, which is why the next words out of her mouth are: “Are you okay? I mean, after . . .”

“After the bakery of my dreams got run out of town by Miss Big Shot Celebrity Chef in record time?” I think of Sunny Street’s perky grin, and I scowl. It took me ten years to save up to open my own cupcake emporium, a year of plans and preparation—and six weeks for her to open up down the block and steal every last one of my customers.

“My ego is wounded, but I’ve survived,” I tell Brooke with a sigh. “But let’s not get into the damage to my bank account.”

“It was just bad luck,” Brooke says. “I say with total objectivity that you make the best cakes in the world.”

“We’ll just have to clone a thousand of you, and then I’ll be in business for life,” I kid, but my smile feels forced. “This is just a stepping stone. I’ll be back on the horse in no time. Don’t worry about me. So how’s married life treating you these days?”

“Oh, you know, not much different from living-together-but-not-married life, other than there’s no immense looming event I need to plan. So pretty good. Where are you at in that department? Wasn’t there that guy you worked with—”

“Gio,” I say quickly. “That was never anything serious. Friends with benefits was about all I could handle with everything else I was juggling.” And the last time I talked to him, it was when he told me he was going to work for the woman who’d run me out of town. I was happy for him, and he deserved the opportunity, but didn’t I inspire any more loyalty than that?

“Well, I guess you have time to play the field now,” Brooke says hopefully. Trust her to find a positive spin.

“Of course. I’m sure the guys will be lining up. What could be sexier than a washed-up baker living with her parents, after all?”

“Maggie.”

“Brooke. I’m kidding. I’ll be fine.”

I steer the conversation back to any topic other than my epic Brooklyn failure while I unpack the rest of my things. Soon little bits and pieces of adult-me are marking territory around the room. I hang up the phone feeling slightly less like a disoriented time traveler—and my mother comes hustling through the doorway.

“Mags!” she cries, as if she hasn’t seen me in years. (We just did lunch in Brooklyn a few weeks ago.) She throws her arms around me and squeezes me tight. I’m enveloped in another familiar smell that goes back to childhood: roses and potting soil from the florist shop she’s just gotten home from.

“Okay, okay,” I say after a quick hug back. “Save some affection for later in the week when you’re starting to get sick of my face.”

Mom huffs, but when she steps back she’s beaming at me. “As if I’m going to get tired of having my dear daughter around. You know you can stay as long as you need to.”

Just what every almost-30-year-old wants to look forward to—settling in back home with the ’rents. “For both our sakes, let’s hope it’s not long at all,” I say dryly.

“Who were you talking to?” she asks, nodding to the phone I’m still holding.

“Oh, Brooke just wanted to check in. She says hi.”

Mom lights up even more, which I wouldn’t have thought was humanly possible. “It’s so lovely to see how happy she is, isn’t it? Married life suits her. It suits everyone,” she added with a meaningful look. “I don’t suppose you . . . hit it off with anyone, or whatever they’re calling it these days, while you were in New York?”

“Ah, no. I was a little busy flailing to keep my business afloat.” I don’t think Mom wants to hear about how I stole the occasional boink in the supply room between orders.

“Well,” Mom says, rubbing her chin, “let’s see. I’m sure there are a few eligible bachelors in the neighborhood now that you’re back.”

That didn’t take long. She may have just set a new world record. You’d think Mom would have learned better after the long parade of disastrous blind dates she’s set me up on, but no. There was the aspiring illusionist nephew of her hairdresser, who literally disappeared the second the dinner check appeared. Or our art gallery visit where we coincidentally ran into her racquetball partner with her much younger brother-in-law, who spent more time checking out my cleavage than the paintings.

“. . . and there’s Kyle Fredericks,” Mom is saying, “but of course he’s married now too—but you never know, they haven’t exactly looked happy, and there’s nothing wrong with divorces if you have the patience . . .”

A million times no.

“And then there’s Drew . . .” she muses. “I’ve heard he’s here in town.”

“What?” My head snaps up—and my gaze moves back to the Category 5 poster over my bed. To the singer in the middle with his artfully rumpled tawny hair, his cocky smile, and that knowing gleam in his bright hazel eyes.

Drew Delaney. Ex-teen heartthrob. Former boy-band megastar.

And oh, yeah: the boy next door.

“Drew’s back? Why?” I try to sound casual, even though my stomach still does that weird fluttery thing whenever I think about him. It’s pure reflex; I mean, it’s been a decade since his chart-topping heyday—and my epic crush—but I spent so long swooning over him in my teen years, my body is pretty much trained to react.

“Maybe he’s here for the reunion,” my mom suggests. “It’s next month, isn’t it?”

“My ten-year,” I say. “He was three grades higher.”

“Well, he might stop in with McKenna. Have you heard from her at all?”

I come back down to earth with a bump. “Nope,” I say. “Not since high school.”

“That’s a shame,” Mom says. “You two used to be so close.”

I nod. McKenna Delaney and I were BFFs back in high school—until she figured out I was nursing a massive crush on her big brother. Me, and approximately the entire female population of Rosemead High School (plus a few of the guys, too). After that blow-up, she pretty much cut me out of her life, and although I see her updates online sometimes, I don’t know what’s going on with her these days.

Someone fussing with my bangs snaps me out of the memories. “I don’t know what you’ve done with your hair.” Mom pushes them out of my eyes. “You really should stop by Marlena’s and let her trim these.”

“Mo-om,” I hear myself whine, swatting her hand away.

Oh, no, now I even sound like a teenager. I need to get out of here for an hour or two. “I’m going to the store,” I say, grabbing my purse. “The least I can do is grab some groceries to cover my meals when I’m here.”

Mom makes a noise of protest. I wave it away before she can turn it into words. “It’s only fair. I’m not that broke.”

I hope.

* * *

I head to the grocery store and meander down familiar aisles. Nothing in this place has changed in the past ten years—from the teetering displays to the woman behind the cart trying to distract herself from reality with food. Luckily, I managed to channel all that into a career in professional baking (not professional eating) but I still like to indulge and sample my wares. After all, nobody trusts a baker who looks like she’s allergic to carbs.

Except Sunny Street: shiny-haired, shiny-grinned, and stick-thin Food Network superstar. How was an ordinary Philly girl going to compete with that?

My hands tighten around the cart handle. It should have been perfect. I’d finally saved enough to make the move to Brooklyn, an amazing location for my dream bakery practically fell into my lap, and for a few weeks the place was full of smiles and laugher and my favorite sound: Mmmmm. I was working myself to the bone and baking up a storm every moment I wasn’t sleeping, but it was the best few weeks of my life.

The memory squeezes around my heart. A few weeks. And then Sunny Street decided that out of all the storefronts in New York, she absolutely had to open the newest branch of her baking empire just down the street from my little shop. Bye-bye customers, hello trays of uneaten cupcakes.

Is there anything sadder in the world than an uneaten cupcake? I think not.

“Maggie Hayes!” a high-pitched voice echoes down the dairy aisle.

I freeze. I don’t suppose the bakery counter lady would mind me ducking back there right now? Because strolling over with a shopping basket slung carelessly over her arm is a woman who could put Sunny’s glossy perfection to shame.

“Becky.” I try to smile, as I turn to face the former Queen B of Rosemead High. “Hello.”

“Look at you!” Becky squeals. She’s got blonde hair tied up in a perky ponytail, and she’s wearing a sports bra and Lululemon yoga pants that hug her ass like a second skin. Never mind a thigh gap, she’s got a thigh canyon down there. “It’s been so long,” she coos. “Isn’t this a trip?”

“Sure it is.” A one-way trip straight back to high-school insecurity. “You look great.”

“I do, don’t I?” she beams. “It’s the yoga, and the pilates. You know, once we hit twenty-five, it’s just a straight shot down, especially after two kids. You’ve got to fight to keep everything facing in the right direction!”

Judging by her perky rack, that’s straight to the plastic surgeon.

“Uh huh.” I begin to wish I’d worn something other than ratty cut-offs and a tank out. “How have you been?”

Her smile somehow stretches even wider. “Oh, you know. James just made partner at the firm, which we were so not expecting this soon. And you know I have the fastest-growing event-planning company in town, right? Everyone’s been so happy I can hardly keep up with the repeat business.”

“That’s great,” I say, which is obviously the response she’s looking for. I manage to keep smiling, because I’m picturing Buffy from my bedroom poster appearing behind her with stake raised.

“So you’re back in town,” Becky says. Her voice lowers dramatically. “I heard New York didn’t work out . . . Are you doing OK?”

Stabbity stabbity stab. She knows, at least enough to be digging for deets. Sorry, those are not on the menu.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Everything’s fine. I’m just taking a breather. Everyone needs a break now and then, right?”

“I find the opposite,” she smiles. “I tell my boys, the best remedy for feeling tired is doing something productive. They’re four now. Huck and Scout. Let me show you photos.”

I brace, but then deliverance comes: her phone chimes with a text.

“Another time!” I quickly start moving again, but she blocks my path.

She holds up her hand commandingly, her eyes fixed on her phone’s screen. “Before you go, I remember—Janice was raving about that pink cake you made for her a couple of years ago. I’ve got an engagement party tomorrow evening. Why don’t I hire you to bake one of those as a surprise special treat? It’ll be perfect. And I’m always happy to offer a helping hand to those in need.”

I tense. If I accept, I’m basically admitting I need a helping hand. I’m letting Becky Haverton treat me as a charity case.

But my bank account is empty. The food in my cart isn’t going to pay for itself. I bite my lip. Janice and the pink cake . . . That doesn’t really sound like a Becky-type request.

“The pink cake at Janice’s bachelorette party?” I check. “The huge one?”

“Uh huh.” Becky doesn’t look up from her phone. “What do you think?”

Teen-me would want to say, Yeah right, no way. But I’ve grown up a lot since then. Adult-me braces myself as I make myself say, “Sure. I can do that. Just send me the time and the address.”

What’s one more bruise to my ego at this point anyway?