Page 128 of Love You Madly

The kitchen looks like a flour tornado hit, and I’m stuck in the middle of it, holding a mixing spoon like a lifeline. My pinkChicago Bearsapron is covered in streaks of batter and flour, and Brooke, who’s somehow managed to stay spotless, is watching me with a mix of amusement and concern. She’s the real hero of this operation, her calm demeanor a stark contrast to my baking-induced panic. I can’t help but think that this whole thing is way out of my league and I bit off more than I can chew.

I tried testing this recipe last week, so I had time to perfect it, but I could never quite get it right. The last time I tried this was the night Owen officially moved in, and I’d had to take out three messed-up batches in the garbage before he got home. Now, I’m running out of time again and called in Brook for reinforcements.

“Callie, it’s going to be fine,” Brooke says, her voice gentle but firm, like she’s reassuring a frazzled child. She’s got thiswhole ‘calm under pressure’ thing down, which is probably why she’s the successful owner of the coffee shop where I work and not a perpetual mess like me. “Just take it one step at a time. They’re just cupcakes. Nothing’s going to explode… At least… I don’t think anything will.”

I laugh nervously, eyeing the batter like it’s a ticking time bomb. “Yeah, except I’m the one baking them, so anything’s possible. I’m not exactly known for my kitchen skills. If this goes wrong, Owen’s getting a birthday frozen pizza and store-bought cupcakes.”

Brooke chuckles, expertly whisking the batter as I attempt to measure out flour, managing to spill more than half of it onto the counter. The flour poofs up like a cloud, dusting everything, including my hair. I sneeze, sending a fresh burst of flour into the air. Brooke raises an eyebrow, passing me a wet towel with the patience of a saint.

“Okay, maybe try to keep the flour in the bowl,” she jokes, a light laugh escaping her. “Just let me handle the tricky parts. You focus on the blow pop bouquet.” She gestures to the messy but colorful lollipop project on the kitchen table.

The bouquet is a jumbled mess of blow pops poking out at random angles, stuck together with hot glue and probably some of my skin since I keep burning myself with it. The bright, crooked “32 Blows” sign is my clumsy attempt at humor, but I know Owen will love it. It’s silly, sweet, and completely impractical—just like our relationship sometimes feels, but in the best way.

Brooke’s daughter Lexi is playing with Barrett and Sara in the living room. Lexi, just a little older than Sara, has them enthralled with some kind of game that involves Sara’s dolls riding on Barrett’s toy cars. Barrett, the eldest at three and a half, is in charge, issuing commands in his toddler voice that’s just shy of bossy. Watching them play together, I can’t help butsmile. It’s Barrett’s first week with us, and I’ve been worrying about every little thing—whether he’s comfortable, if he’s missing his usual routines, if I’m doing enough to make him feel at home. But seeing him here, laughing and playing with Lexi and Sara, it feels like maybe, just maybe, we’re getting this right.

Brooke nudges me gently. “You’re doing that thing where you zone out again.”

“Sorry,” I say, snapping back to reality and the flour-coated kitchen. “Just trying to keep it together. I really want this to be special for Owen.”

“It will be,” Brooke assures me, brushing some of the flour off my shoulder. “He’s gonna love it. He’s not gonna care if the cupcakes are a little… unconventional.” She glances at the uneven batter blobs in the cupcake tray and smiles. “It’s the thought that counts, and you’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

We finally get the cupcakes into the oven, and Brooke helps me clean up the worst of the mess before she and Lexi head out. Lexi hugs Barrett and Sara, and they pout like she’s leaving for a year-long trip instead of just going home. I take a deep breath, check the timer on the oven, and try to relax, but my nerves are still buzzing.

While the cupcakes bake, I keep peeking into the oven like I’m expecting them to morph into something else. I can’t stop pacing, my mind running through all the ways this could go wrong. It’s just Owen’s birthday, and it’s just cupcakes, but it feels like so much more. It’s our first time celebrating together in our new house, with Barrett and Sara playing in the next room, and I want it to be perfect—or as close to perfect as I can manage without burning the place down. I also got him a variety six-pack of beers from BNG Brewery that I think he will enjoy.

The timer finally dings, and I pull the cupcakes out with amix of relief and dread. They’re slightly uneven, a little over-baked on one side, but they haven’t burst into flames, so I’m calling it a win. Once the cupcakes are cool enough, I smear on the Blue Moon frosting Brooke whipped up, trying to cover the imperfections with extra icing. They’re not exactly bakery quality, but they smell amazing, and I’m clinging to that small victory.

The door opens, and my heart skips a beat. Owen walks in, looking worn out but grinning, and his eyes immediately scan the kitchen. He takes in the flour-covered counter, the lopsided cupcakes, and finally me, standing there with flour streaked across my hair and a sheepish smile plastered on my face.

Fuck, I didn’t give myself enough time to shower before he got home.

“Wow, it smells… like a lot happened in here,” he says, laughing as he takes in the scene. “And you look like you’ve been through a blizzard.”

I laugh, brushing at the flour on my face. “Oh, this? Just trying out a new look. I call it ‘domesticated disaster.’”

Owen steps closer, his eyes softening as he gently wipes some flour from my cheek. “I think you’re beautiful, disaster and all. And I love that you did all this for me.”

His words sink in, warm and sincere, and I feel the tension in my shoulders ease just a little. He spots the blow pop bouquet and lets out a genuine laugh, picking it up and reading the “32 Blows” sign with delight.

I’m not Martha Stewart, but if he thinks this is perfect, then maybe, just maybe, it is.

“This is incredible,” he says, holding the bouquet up like a prestigious award. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I figured it was practical,” I say with a grin. “You can eat it or use it as a home-defense weapon.”

He laughs again, the sound filling the room, and it’s like thewhole place brightens. We settle at the kitchen table, Barrett and Sara still happily playing nearby. I hand Owen a cupcake, holding my breath as he takes a bite. His eyes light up, and he does an exaggerated ‘chef’s kiss’ that sends me into a fit of giggles.

“These are actually really good,” he says, genuinely impressed. “You nailed it, babe.”

“Brooke did most of the work,” I admit, leaning into him, feeling the warmth of his arm around me. “I was just the assistant. The messy, flour-covered assistant.”

He pulls me closer, his laughter a gentle rumble that vibrates through his chest as he presses a kiss to the top of my head. The simple gesture feels like a promise, warm and reassuring, grounding me in this perfectly imperfect moment. “Honestly, Callie,” he murmurs against my hair, his voice filled with sincerity, “this is the best birthday I’ve ever had. Thank you for making it so special.” His words wrap around my heart, making all the mess, the chaos, and the effort feel completely worth it.

The moment feels cozy and perfect as we sit together, enjoying the sugary goodness of the cupcakes. The kitchen is a mess, flour still clinging to the air, and the cupcakes aren’t perfect, but somehow that makes everything feel even more right. As Owen wraps his arms around me, pulling me close, I realize that this—our chaotic, beautifully flawed slice of life—is exactly what I wanted to give him. I might be a domesticated disaster, but in Owen’s arm, amid our mess, I feel safer and more at home than ever.

Hours later, I tiptoe out of Sara’s room just as Owen is coming out of Barrett’s and I cannot help but smile. Owen spent a lot of time over the last week getting things situated for Barrett, and I know it must mean the world to Owen that we have Barrett here to celebrate his birthday.

With the kids finally asleep, we slip back into the living room and settle on the couch. Owen grabs the remote and quickly lands on reruns ofThat 70’s Show. It’s been our go-to comfort lately–nostalgic, hilarious, and just the kind of mindless backdrop we need after a long day.

---