Chapter Ten: Sam
It’s my first baking lesson with Zara, tonight. I’ve been looking forward to it all this week. Ever since our sexually charged limo ride home, she’s been on my mind. It’s crazy. We barely spoke to one another, but the glances she threw my way – she was feeling something, too. At least, I hope she was. I’m not sure how I would deal with her not wanting to be with me which is why I haven’t entertained the thought yet because why jinx yourself like that? If it comes to that then I’ll figure it out, but for now I’ll keep it easy breezy. I don’t like to overthink my relationships with women. It makes me feel muddled.
Speaking of my relationships, I haven’t really spoken to my family since the wedding. Sarah has been on her honeymoon with Neil, so that hasn’t been too hard, but my Mom – my family just likes to stay in contact, so it’s been weird. She’s called me a few times, but our conversations have been short. I would never completely ignore her, but what we’re doing is as close as we’d get to shutting one another out. Hopefully, this cake will help bridge the gap that’s appeared between us. Or maybe it’s always been there and I just hadn’t noticed.
I finish up at work and head over to Zara’s apartment. We decided to have our first lesson at her place because it would be easier. She already has all the stuff needed for baking and this way, I can see what I’ll need to buy.
I get to the apartment and Zara buzzes me up. I knock on the door and she lets me in within seconds. She’s got on a plain white apron, leggings, and a t-shirt. I feel a little overdressed for the occasion because I came straight from work. She looks me up and down, taking in my suit and, now, I know I’m overdressed.
“I hope you don’t mind getting your stuff dirty…” The look on her face is a mischievous one. It makes me suspect that she might get me dirty on purpose.
“I don’t mind.” It’s a lie. I’d rather not get flour all over my clothes, but I didn’t have the wherewithal to plan for a messy evening, so I’ll either need to be careful or get over it. Zara gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe me and then steps aside to let me in. I walk inside and take a quick look around her studio. The reason why the look is quick is because her apartment is so small. New York real estate is truly a trip. I bet she is paying way too much for the square footage, but what can we do except accept the tradition of overpriced living spaces in the city. It’s like a way of life.
I take off my jacket, rolling up my sleeves. Zara has grabbed something from the kitchen and she’s bring it over to me. She holds up another apron, presenting it to me. “I thought you might want to wear this. It should help with… containing any mess.” I take it from her, hanging it off my neck and tying it in the back. This one says Teenier Baker and I give Zara a questioning look. “That’s one of the apron I used to wear with my Mom when we would bake together. Hers said Bigger Baker.”
“Why aren’t you wearing that one?” Her cheeks turn a little pink and I wonder what’s gotten her so bashful.
“I am. I just…,” she takes her apron off and turns it around, revealing the print. Just like she said, Bigger Baker. “I was a little embarrassed. I didn’t expect to give you the other one.” I walk over and place a light hand on her shoulder.
“Well, I am more than honored to be your Teenier Baker.” She shakes her head, laughing at me.
“Whatever. Let’s get started.” She puts the apron back on, this time the print visible. We must look like quite the pair. Me in a suit, wearing an apron that is obviously functioning as an ironic statement on me and Zara actually properly dressed for the task at hand. We go to the kitchen and wash our hands before getting started. Zara has everything we’ll need laid out. I’m already intimidated just looking at all the ingredients. I’ve never baked before and now I’m planning on making a cake from scratch. Why did I think I could do this? My apprehension must be written on my face because Zara tries to cheer me up. “I know it’s looks like a lot, but tonight we’re just going to start with a simple vanilla cake and we’ll just make on tier.” It still sounds like a lot, but the way Zara is talking does reassure me.
“Okay. What do I have to do?” The ingredients look like they’ve already been measured. I guess I’ll just have to mix?
“First mix the dry ingredients – minus the sugar – in one bowl and then we’ll move on to the… wet.” She pauses before saying wet which makes me smile. It seems Zara’s a little shy. I’d very much love to open her up, but I’ve got to focus on baking right now. I’m doing this for my Mom, not as some twisted way to get into Zara’s pants. I look at everything laid before me and go for what looks like flour. I dump it into the bowl, but I think I made a mistake because some of it flies out and gets all over Zara and me.
“Oh!” She jumps a little when the flour gets on her. The particles float in the air for a little bit before also getting all over the table.
“Damnit! I’m sorry, Zara.” She wipes some of the flour off her face and giggles. Then she brushes some of the flour that got on me off. Her fingers are light on my clothes and I can feel them through the fabric. I want to take her hand and kiss each and every one of her fingers. Instead, I watch her.
“Don’t worry about it. Baking can get pretty messy. That’s part of the fun.” Her thumb swipes some of the powder off my cheek and I relax a little. I’m still on a bit edge, but it’s not as intense. We continue with the batter. Zara tells me what to do and you’d think it’d be easy because she has everything so neatly and nicely placed before me. It’s literally a perfectly mapped out step-by-step, but I still have some trouble. I have to do this thing called creaming and when I add the eggs, I get about fifty percent of the eggshell into the bowl and I’m not used to mixing things, so at least twenty-five percent of the food gets on the floor. My hands, body, and face are dirty and I have zero faith in myself. There is no way I can become a better baker in four weeks. This is a lot of dejection for one evening.
When I’m finally done fucking up the batter, Zara places her pinky finger into it to taste. I want her to offer that finger to me, so I can taste her. Jesus Christ, I need to not be doing this. Zara comments on the taste. “At least it tastes good, but I don’t think it’s worth baking given all the eggshells.” She laughs to herself, not getting bogged down in any of my seriousness. In fact, she’s been pretty pleasant throughout the entire night. I’m the only one being crochety. I shed this grumpy old man thing – a demeanor I’ve been putting on for a while – and smile down at Zara.
“Thanks for helping me out. As you can see, we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.” Zara leans against the counter and looks up at me, her head slightly tilted.
“Well, we’ve got time.” I take a deep breath and tell her why this is so important to me.
“I want this cake to be perfect. I need it to be. I’m only doing this because my Mom accused me of being selfish.” I hate to think that that is what she thinks of me. I know I sleep around, but I feel like that shouldn’t qualify me as selfish. And maybe my motivations are a little convoluted, but, at least, I’m trying to change. The intentions are good.
“I don’t think your selfish. I saw the way you were helping your sister at the wedding and you’re doing this for your Mom. You’re not selfish.” Zara shakes her head on the last sentence. She seems to want to believe that I’m a good guy and that makes me want to believe it too.
“That’s nice of you to say, but you’ve only known me for a couple of days.” It looks like she wants to say more, but drops it, moving the conversation back to baking.
“I think next time we’ll try something smaller. I don’t think you’re ready for a tiered cake, so we’ll start small and try out cupcakes. I’ll even let you measure out the ingredients.” Her smile is small, but contented. I’m not ready for the night to end, but I think it’s coming to an end.
“I like that idea.” I help clean up, throwing away my sad excuse for cake batter. I don’t just want to make something my family will like, but also Zara. I feel like impressing her would be the ultimate feat.
I try to help with washing the dishes, but she stops me, saying, “Don’t worry about those. I can take care of it.” I don’t want to push too much, so I say good night and leave. There are so many other things I want to say and do, but Zara doesn’t quite seem ready to hear any of it. I don’t want to scare her away – I’ve been known to be rather intense. I could tell at the wedding she was a little intimidated by me at first. I did come in hot, having just gotten out of two aggravating conversations. After we spoke for a couple minutes, she relaxed, though. It helped that I softened, not being in direct contact with what was making me mad. So, taking it slow is probably the best way to get her to like me. It’s a weird goal for me to have. It’s not like I’ve never invested time in a woman before, but I haven’t done my usual keep my distance speech. She does work for me, so it’s would have been weird to just whip that out. Presumptuous is probably what Zara would say. But maybe I didn’t give the speech because I don’t want to. Maybe because I want her to get close to me and I want to get close… to her. I don’t want to think about this now, so instead I go home and put my mind on business things. Work is a place where everything makes sense to me and I don’t have to wonder about underlying meanings.
I keep that guise up, avoiding deep thoughts on my family or Zara. I haven’t been this muddled up since my Dad died. Back then, I was avoiding having to take over his role of watching over the family. Maybe I never should have – taken over that is. It’s becoming painfully clear that I’m not my Dad. It’s one of the reasons my Mom is so mad at me. And Sarah gets annoyed too. They want me to act like a brother and son, not like – whatever I’ve been doing. But not now, I don’t want to think about it.
The days go by quickly until it’s time for my next baking lesson. It’s only a couple days, so it wasn’t that long of a wait to begin with, but the enthusiasm that I’ve been cultivating just for this evening has got me worried. For me, women float through my life. It’s how I like it because I don’t want any commitment. It’s just something I’ve never been interested in. Could that be changing? And after only spending a few hours with her? Is that even possible? There are so many things I don’t want to concern myself with. I’ve never consciously ignored so many of my feelings at once. It’s probably unhealthy, but I’m going to ignore that, too. Why not add more to this fire?
I get to Zara’s apartment for our second lesson. This time, she has me measure out everything. This creates ever more of a mess, but Zara keeps telling me not to worry about it. I finally get everything into the bowl – this time sans eggshells. Zara spent about thirty minutes teaching me how to properly break an egg and it paid off because now I’m cracking them like a pro.
“You’re doing a great job, Sam. So now you have to mix everything together. The butter and sugar mixture, the flour and baking powder, and then rest of the stuff – milk, salt, vanilla extract – just put it all into one bowl and stir.” She nods at me reassuringly, so I take all the ingredients and put them into a large mixing bowl. Zara brings out an electronic mixer which is a welcome change from the manual mixing we did last time. “So, I thought we could use this since you had a hard time doing the mixing it last time.” She plugs it in and has me place the bowl in the right spot. She explains the control and I turn it on, instantly freaked out by how powerful the mixer is. I think I overdid it because Zara shrieks and then turns it off after a few seconds. Some of the batter spilled out of the bowl and once again the two of us are covered in my mess.
“Uh, I’m sorry, Zara. I got you all messy again.” I wipe some of the batter off my apron and shake my hands above the sink. I look at Zara and she doesn’t seem mad, just amused. Some of the cake got on her face and she swipes at it, putting her finger in her mouth to lick the batter off. I watch as her eyes light up, a smile tugging at her lips.
“This one tastes even better than the last batter. I’m telling you, Sam. It’ll just take practice. I think you should try again. Make another batch.” Her belief in me and the fact that I want to do this for my Mom is keeping me going, so I measure everything out again and the second time around, I’m much more careful with the mixer. I turn it on slowly, paying close attention to the mixing speed. When I’m done, Zara looks over my finished work and gives it a thumbs-up. “I think you’re ready to finally use the oven.”
She shows me how to pour the batter into the cupcake tin and we slide them into the pre-heated oven. Zara wipes her forehead with the back of her hand and lets out a soft sigh.
“They should take about fifteen to twenty minutes and then we let them cool before frosting.” She looks around the room like she’s trying to decide what to do. She turns back to me and suggests, “We can take a seat on the couch and watch something while we wait.”
“That sounds fun.” I follow her to the other side of her studio and take a seat on the couch. She turns on Netflix, putting on some cartoon I’ve never heard of. “What’s this?”
“Oh, it’s Buddy Thunderstruck. It’s just a dumb cartoon I enjoy watching. He’s the number one racer in his town and every race is the race to save something like his Aunt’s diner. Her name is Auntie Uncle. Buddy’s like dumb, but also kind of lovable and it’s funny. I don’t know, I just really like cartoons.” Her cheeks tinge pink again. She gets embarrassed a lot. It’s cute. I wonder if this shyness extends to other aspects of her life.
I semi-watch the TV, but I mainly watch as she laughs at all the jokes. She bites her lip to contain it, but her laughter always escapes. She seems like a very contained person. I want to run my finger down her face, turn her laughter into gasps, see that shift from guarded to completely uninhibited. She notices me staring and stares right back. The smile on her face fades and turns into a curious gaze. I’m about to say something when the timer goes off and her eyes move from me to the oven. Pointing, she says, “We have to…” Her voice trails off, but I know what needs to be done. I get off the couch and put on an oven mitt. I take the cupcakes out of the oven and put them on the counter to cool.
They’re a little brown on the top and I’m pretty sure they look like I did it right, but I need Zara’s approval first. “What do you think?”
“I think you just baked your first cupcake.” She smiles and then adds, “It should take another fifteen or so minutes to cool.” This time we stay by the counter, watching the TV from the kitchen. I keep my eyes on her again, but this time I think that she’s ignoring me. She checks the cupcakes every couple of minutes. After some time, she’s happy with the results because she gets some frosting from the fridge. “I’m going to teach how to make your own frosting, but tonight I think you should learn the basics of frosting a cake – or cupcake, for tonight.” She takes out various things – things I’m not really sure how to use – at least properly.
I pick up one of the frosting bags and hold it up for Zara to see. “Are you going to show me how to use this?” I’ve seen them used, but, in actuality, I have no idea how they work. Not going to lie, but I’m kind of excited to learn how to do this.
“Yeah, if you don’t mind?” She looks at me from under her eyelashes and I feel like there is something else she’s asking, but I don’t want to be too pushy. I feel like the undertone of my Mother’s rant about my lifestyle was that I don’t consider others enough. While I think Zara is interested in me, the signs have all been nominal. I won’t assert my will on people without consideration for how it affects them – especially if I want my Mom to believe I’m not this guy she’s painted me as. Because I’m not. I think about others – at least I think I do. That’s why I’m so straight with women because I don’t want them to… I don’t know. I don’t want them to feel like I’m wasting their time. I’ll just make this another thing I don’t think about for now. My as well put something else on the backburner. Right now, I’m going to learn how to frost a cupcake.
“Go right ahead.” The first thing I learn is that it’s called a piping bag, not a frosting bag. The more you know and all. Zara then proceeds to show me all the different tips. There are some kinds that do so many different things – and the size matters a whole bunch too. It’s like information overload.
Zara puts a soft hand on my shoulder and asks, “Are you okay? You seem a little overwhelmed.”
I run my hand through my hair and look down at the counter. It shouldn’t be too hard to remember what she’s told me. Plus, we have over three weeks of lessons left. Not getting it on the first or second night shouldn’t freak me out.
“Yeah. I’m good. I just needed a little time to process,” I make a motion above all the tips, “all of this. But I’m okay.”
“Okay.” It’s said with a certain sweetness that lets me know she’s at least having a good time. “We’re going to use a plain round medium tip. It doesn’t make any fancy shapes or patterns, so it’s a good place to start.” She holds up a small plastic piece and then explains how to ready a piping bag. I follow her movements and soon we’re scooping frosting.
We remove all the cupcakes from the tin and then Zara demonstrates how to make a perfectly topped cupcake. I watch, mesmerized. She does it all so effortlessly and the way her body moves is almost like art. I could watch her do this all day.
She motions in my general direction and says, “Why don’t you give it a try?” a smirk on her lips. I snap out of my wistful daze, suddenly very aware that I must look creepy watching her all the time. I pick up my piping bag and do my best to mimic Zara’s movements. I’m not nearly as graceful as her – and my cupcake looks like a garbage fire comparatively – but the frosting ended up on top. We keep going until we’ve frosted all twelve. Near the end, I got a little better, with my last frosting job not one hundred percent sucking. Zara was mostly quiet while I frosted, her face surprisingly unexpressive. Even though we’ve only known one another a short time, I’d come to expect her face to be range of moods, but I guess she also knows how to quiet herself as well. “You did a really good job for your first time.”
She’s picked up one of the cupcakes I’ve frosted and is giving it an extended look. “Really?” I sound like I don’t believe her, but, honestly, the ones she made are just so much better. I can’t help but feel a little inadequate.
“Yeah.” She brings the treat to her mouth, twirling it as her tongue goes around the frosting’s edge. “And it tastes good, too. Try one.” I pick one up, biting beyond the soft barrier. I’m stunned by how not bad it tastes. It’s nowhere near the delicious wedding cake Zara made for my sister – that had more than just vanilla as a flavor. There were floral hints that I did not understand. Sarah had told me about her whole flower thing and how the baker had suggested infusing it into the cake. Basically, what Zara did with that wedding cake was genius and I’m pretty sure I’ll never bake anything close to what she can.
“It’s not bad.” We eat without talking, the cartoon continuing in the background. Zara swipes at the frosting with her finger, putting it into her mouth to lick it clean. I have to stop myself from audibly growing. I can feel my pants getting tighter, my body acknowledging what I want. What I want is her tongue licking me clean. I take a deep breath and do my best to calm down.
We finish eating and Zara offers to put the cupcakes in some Tupperware for me. “That way you can show off your burgeoning baking skills.” I shake my head, declining.
“I’d rather you keep them. That way a part of me stays here.” I’ve never said anything so corny in my life. Luckily, Zara doesn’t seem too turned off – in fact her cheeks flare up again, further giving me hope that she might like me back.
We’re looking at one another, not saying anything, but also not needing to. I know the night is coming to an end and what I want to do is move our relationship forward. Do we have a relationship? A lot of the steamier bits have been nonverbal, so I can’t be totally sure. I haven’t known Zara long enough to confidently say I can read her emotions. That would be too presumptuous of me. But why am I thinking so much? We’re having a good time, she’s looking at me, I’m looking at her – I should just go for it. Take that leap and… do it.
I take a few steps closer to her and Zara stands up straighter. Her breathing picks up, evident by the heightened movement of her chest. Her lips part ever so slightly and the pink of her cheeks deepen. I slowly bring my hand up from my side and lightly touch her chin, lifting it a little so I have even better access to her mouth. I make my movements slow, just in case she doesn’t want me touching her. Thankfully, she hasn’t pushed me away and I bring my face to hers, stopping for a few seconds to look into her eyes before finally touching my lips to hers. At first, she stays still and I’m worried I’ve miscalculated. I start to pull away, but her hands come to my chest, gripping my shirt and pulling me into her. Blood rushes through my body, a cold tingle running down me. The erection I’d manage to temper comes back at full force. I know tonight is not the night, so I’ll have to take care of myself when I get home.
Zara opens my mouth, running her tongue along my bottom lip. I take this as an invitation to explore. I move my hand down her body and around her back, pushing our bodies together. Zara pushes her pelvis into mine, lightly creating fiction and causing me to groan in her mouth. She counters with her own moan, but then I feel her pulling away to look at me. Her eyes search mine and I think she’s wondering why I just did that, so I answer,
“I wanted to say thank you.” A widened expression flashes before her face before she slowly maneuvers out of my hold. She looks down at the floor, bring her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Well, you’re welcome.” Her eyes flash back up to mine on the last word and she finally smiles. Looks like I made a good call. Her hands come together to anxiously fidget. I break the tension by asking a semi-related question.
“Why don’t we meet at my house this weekend?” Her face lights up, but then darkens. I wouldn’t be surprised if her mind went to where mine has been for the past few days.
“Your house?” I nod. There really isn’t a practical reason to have her over. I can feel us growing closer and having her in my bed – it’s what I’ve dreamed about. Making it a reality would be – it would be perfect. “Okay. Your house.” I grab my things and leave. Our goodbye is short. It seems Zara is still a little shocked from our kiss. Her sentences remained short and clipped, but I don’t take any offense. I’m still tasting her on my lips. My exit is shrouded in the fact that I’m trying to hide a raging boner. I’m pretty sure Zara felt it when our bodies were together, but that doesn’t mean that I wanted to have it out and on display.
I get into my car and drive back to my place. Even though I live in TriBeCa, the southernmost part of Manhattan therefore making it the closet to Brooklyn – the traffic on bridge added an extra twenty unneeded to my drive back. I don’t go to Brooklyn often, but I’m used to sitting in my car. It’s just the traffic in New York. And I don’t mind the extra time if it means I get to see Zara. Ugh, I’m becoming a bit of a sap and we’ve only kissed. I need to reign in these feelings. I don’t want to get too invested. My life has been going pretty great so far, the way I’ve lived it. Should I really make such a sudden change now?
Chapter Eleven: Sam
Today is Saturday and Zara and I are having our third baking lesson in my apartment. We spoke on the phone yesterday and she was telling me all the different things I would need. I basically had none of them and she insisted I not go out and waste money – which I found surprisingly sweet. Given how much money my family has, most people don’t think about those things.
Zara offered to bring over whatever she had and that’s when I had to step in. I didn’t want her lugging all of the equipment on the subway – and she still wouldn’t let me just buy the stuff – so I made her use my driver. That way he could help her and she wouldn’t be killing herself just to save me some money.
It’s been about thirty minutes since Rich told me he had picked up Zara which means they they’ll be here soon. I’ve never tried to make my apartment presentable before. I mean it’s clean and stuff – that’s just my all the time – but making it another level of nice is beyond me. Sarah told me to have some plants because it’ll make me seem like I care for living things – and she knew I wouldn’t get a pet. It’s the first time I contacted her since the wedding. It was a quick text, so we still haven’t spoken, but she could tell I’m a little wary. She’s not pushing the subject yet, though. Probably because she’s still on her honeymoon and she wants to stay in that blissful state for as long as possible. Maybe I’ll talk to her when she gets back.
I hear the intercom and Rich says that they’re here. I buzz them up and a few minutes later Rich, Zara, and all her baking whatnot are in my apartment. I give Rich the rest of the weekend off, thanking him for helping me out tonight. Zara’s in the kitchen, setting up her supplies. Or that’s what I thought. Once I’m done with Rich, I go to join her and she’s not where I originally thought. I hear some moving around in the living room and find her by my window looking down at the city. I go to take in the view with her.
“This is honestly amazing. I can’t believe you live here.” It’s easy for me to forget that my wealth can be a large and sudden shift for some people. I probably could have prepared Zara for my penthouse apartment in TriBeCa, especially because I know she has a very different standard of living than I do. Even the whole thing with her not wanting me to buy baking equipment. Initially – and still kind of currently – I could not understand her insistence that I save money – especially on something so small. But I figured it’s her way of showing me she cares. She doesn’t want to inconvenience me even if it inconveniences her.
“Yeah, it’s nice. I guess I’ve never really look at it though.” Since moving in, I haven’t spent too much time gazing at my view. It became a part of my everyday background and faded away. But seeing how amazed Zara is by it, I can appreciate it again.
“You should. It’s beautiful.” She places a hand on the glass, spreading her fingers slightly. The way she looks right now, I really want to kiss her again. She was eager last time and I hope she’d be eager the second time. I’d pick her up and put her back against the glass. With that memory, I’d never forget to appreciate this view again.
Zara’s head turns to me and it snaps me out of my fantasy. “We should probably get baking.” I think something akin to disappointment passes over her face, but it’s quickly gone.
“Okay.” We go back to the kitchen and Zara suggests that I try a cake tonight. “It doesn’t have to be anything too intense, but we should do tiers. At least two.” A cake. I remember my first attempt. It didn’t end go so well, but if I could cupcakes, maybe I can do a full cake.
“Yeah. If you think I’m ready. I mean it sounds like a lot of… work.” I don’t want to sound like I’m not ready to put in the work, it’s more like I’m intimidated by it. This week has been me trying a bunch of things I have zero expertise in.”
“If you try, I know you can do it.”
“Okay.” I can’t help but believe, so I move on. “What kind of cake would we make?” This question gets her excited and she starts listing all different kinds of cakes. I can tell that this is what she’s passionate about and that she’s given it a lot of thought.
A lot of the cakes she suggests seem a little complicated. I don’t want to take on too much and completely fail. Learning how make a tiered cake is what I’d like to do tonight. Then maybe next time I can do fancy flavor things.
Zara gets to something that sounds somewhat doable and I ask her about it. “Wait, I think that one could work. The strawberry cake?”
“Do you have strawberries?”
“I do.” I open up my fridge and take out all the cartons I have. I’m a big fruit guy, so I always have a bunch in stock. “Is this enough?”
“Yeah, more than. The strawberry cake is similar to the vanilla one, but there are key differences. Pay attention to what we do differently and how it affects the taste. This way you can learn how to maybe craft your own original recipe one day.” The way she talks to me really helps with how I receive her instructions. It never feels condescending and I can tell that she cares about me learning which makes me want to impress her.
We get down to business, each of us making our own batter. I follow by watching her. She goes slowly, explaining each step and why we’re doing it. I can tell mine’s a little different, but I’m starting to get the hang of all of it. She shows me how to pour it into the cake tin.
“We don’t want to fill the tin entirely because it’ll take too long to bake, burning the top, or if you take it out when it’s golden brown, you’ll end up with uncooked batter.” It’s turned out we made enough batter for three tins and place them in the oven. We spend the time waiting for the cake to bake, talking. She tells me about the bakery she owns in upstate New York, Baker’s Corner, but there’s definitely stuff she’s not telling me. I don’t want to force her to reveal her entire life story to me. I’m sure not ready to tell her mine.
After about an hour, the cake is done and we have to let it cool before frosting. The time to cool is considerably less and soon the two of us are making homemade frosting.
“It’s a buttercream. We’re going to do vanilla because it’s simple and lucky for us, it goes with strawberries.” Once again, we each have our own mixing bowl and I follow Zara’s instructions. We build the cake together, Zara giving tips on how to insure structural integrity and the best ways to get an aesthetically pleasing frost. In the end, it doesn’t look half bad and Zara cuts us each a slice, having us eat with our hands.
“It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“See. You’re getting the hang of it. This is a piece of the tier you made. You should believe in yourself more.” She’s right. I should have a little more confidence in myself. It’s weird to think of me as being underconfident because, so far in my life, I’ve navigated it with such self-assurance. But ever since my Dad died, I haven’t been so sure. I’m not sure of my place in my own family and because of this, I’ve begun to doubt the way I’ve lived my entire life. And with the speech my Mom gave me – it hasn’t gotten any better. I must be a lot more self-conscious than I originally thought.
“I’ll try. It helps that you have so much faith in me.” Zara’s eyes shy away from mine.
“Any time, Sam.” The night could stop here, but I don’t want it to. It’s getting pretty late. The two of us look over at the microwave clock and it’s midnight. Our eyes return to one another. We know it’s late, so, I ask,
“Do you have any plans, Zara?” I love the way her face shifts when I say her name, especially when I’m very pointed about it. She shakes her head, replying,
“No. I don’t really no anyone in the city. I’ve met some nice people, but I haven’t made it a point to call them. Except for Ruby, but she’s not returning any of my calls.” Her brow furrows, obviously unhappy with Ruby’s lack of communication.
“I’m sorry about that.” And I say it because I really mean it. When we spoke at the wedding, she seemed pretty excited to start working for Ruby. I wonder what’s going on with that woman. She must be insane not to hire a talent like Zara.
“It’s no big thing. At least I have this job, helping you.” Something in her seems muted. I motion to the barstool by the counter.
“Why don’t you take a seat. I’ll get us something to drink.” Zara perches herself on the stool while I get two glasses and the wine I picked out earlier today. I’d hoped we would get to this point. I sit at the stool near Zara’s and pour each of us a glass. I start drinking mine immediately, but Zara fingertips rub against the stem. She slowly brings it up to her lips and takes a sip. Her eyes widen and her next sip is a little longer. I’m pleased she likes it so much. I love watching everything she does. I’ve never been so taken by a woman and so quickly. She’s absolutely beautiful. What could I possibly want from her? This doesn’t feel like my usual thing, so that must mean that I want something above and beyond from… my usual thing. But do I really want to go for it? For tonight, I definitely went her in my bed. The two of us tangled up in one another. So, that’s what I’ll do – concern myself with the now… for now.