Page 69 of Building What's Meant to Be

He explains. “You see, originally, I made a cake but it turned out more like a hockey puck, or, and I quote, ‘the kind of thing that will require dental surgery after one bite.’ Not my best work. Anyway, I drew my girlfriend a picture of what I’d meant, but distracted, I added the letter E at the end of the wordhug. Now, it’s kind of like an inside joke. But thankfully, this one will be edible.”

“That’s so romantic.” And maybe misspelling simple words likehughappens to people who’re in love.

After I ring him up, he leaves with a little bounce in his step.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” I holler, leaning back on the counter with relief.

The rest of the morning I experience several more close shaves but manage not to mess anything else up too bad—except I lock myself out of the register. Thankfully, Camellia picks up the shift after me. She’s all sunshine and smiles. After she gives me a tutorial on how to fix the register, Aiden saunters in.

My stomach has had a pretty regular swooping habit since he’s become part of my life, but after the kiss, it hits basement level before doubling back and shooting through the ceiling.

Take any damages out of my pay!

In reality, I don’t move, frozen to the spot. Camellia hides a smile like word of our hand-holding last night spread among the ladybosses. Or perhaps it’s down to the way he’s looking at me right now.

When I first arrived at the jail, I thought Aiden looked at me once, but not twice. I’m not used to being ignored. Overlooked. Actually, that’s not true at all when it comes to my family but not by men. Perhaps I was wrong because he sure seems to be looking...and likes what he sees.

As the day goes on and we’re doing our community service, I realize that he hasn’t stopped looking at me. Not when I emerged from Toby fresh this morning, when he picked me up at Sweethearts, or now when I’m already sweaty midafternoon from toiling at Bubba’s.

Today is what he called a demolition day. Bubba hung a handwritten sign that says,Pardone our mess. Renovations in progress.

I have to admit, I appreciate that extra E, and I appreciate Bubba. His wife is a lucky woman. His kids too. Today, two of them help us haul chunks of linoleum and hunks of wood to a dumpster that’s nearly as big as the building.

The kitchen remains open and we moved the picnic tables to the other side where Bubba has a window for orders. I’ll be the first to admit that clearing and cleaning are a lot easier than baking.

Bubba comes out with four cups with straws. The kids take a sip and go wild.

“Don’t tell Mama.”

I take a sip and taste Dr. Pepper. All of a sudden my eyes feel damp. While Aiden gives Bubba a progress update, I wander to the back of the restaurant. The kids run around in the field, already hopped up on sugar.

The nearly forgotten memory of the one time we visited my grandparents in Texas filters to me as if from a dream. I remember Mom was grumpy the whole time. Dad was busy with work stuff. My brothers and sister were older and wanted to be at the “cottage.” But our grandparents were thrilled at our visit.

The memory of their house is vague, but the fragments remind me a bit of Bubba’s BBQ. Well, before we tore into it today. In other words, modest. My grandmother had white hair and an apron to match. My grandfather was bowlegged and quiet.

They gave us each a can of Dr. Pepper. While my grandmother took in the laundry, I ran around in a field. I picked flowers. I helped her in the kitchen. My grandfather put me on a horse. I’d never been so happy as I was that day...until my mom flipped out about something and we left early the next morning.

I never saw them again, but know they passed away some years ago. The tears bubble up along with questions. I’ll probably never know much about my mother’s relationship with her mom and dad, but what’s wrong withme? Why didn’t I ever call or visit them? Why is my family so dysfunctional?

I wipe my face and wander down to where the kids play. Taking one more sip of soda, I jump into their game of chase. While we run, the wind makes my hair tickle my neck, the sun shines in my eyes, and sweat pools on my skin, but I don’t care because the kids and I are laughing and smiling.

This is the answer—jumping into what matters. Not waiting for an invitation or expecting life to be one big shiny event. It’s this, right now.

As one of the kids chases me, something pings off my skin. It almost feels like a sting, a pricker. Then another.

The kids go still. So do I as a swarm of bees surrounds me.

“Dad,” one of them calls.

“Are you allergic?” the other whispers.

I don’t know. As the buzz builds in my ears, a vision of a swollen tongue and difficulty breathing replace my fear of hives like I get from tarragon. I don’t know if I’d have a reaction and would rather not find out.

Aiden and Bubba hustle down the hill toward me. But what can they do? How do you ward off a swarm of bees?

Closing my eyes and praying I don’t get stung, Bubba calls, “Don’t panic. Stay still.”

“I am,” I say through a clenched jaw.

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