Page 9 of Sugar Coated Secrets

“Hang tight,” he says, walking back to his cruiser.

This cop is a dick. I don’t know what crawled up his ass or what donut he didn’t get to eat this morning. Not that he looks like he eats donuts.

He looks in his late twenties. One of his toned and sun-bronzed forearms has a sleeve tattoo of skulls and other random shit. With a clean-shaven face, gelled dark hair, and eyes hidden behind mirrored glasses, he looks like he belongs in a “Say No To Drugs” ad.

He walks back. “You were going ninety-five in a forty-five. I could arrest you. This isn’t Le Mans, F1, or whatever you race, kid.”

Kid?

“So I’m guessing you don’t want my autograph?”

“Sure I do. You can sign your ticket.”

“Can I go now?” I say caustically.

He hands me my license, rental agreement, and speeding ticket. “You can go. Be sure to slow down… have a nice rest of your day.”

I rev the engine to annoy him. His jaw grows tight. I rev it again like a visceral snarl. “You too, officer.”

I wait until he gets in his car and drives off to get back on the road.

Dick.

I drive steadily into town, turn left at the light, then right on Wilson Street. I’ve been thinking about coming home for the past six months. I’m tired of random hotel rooms and living out of a designer suitcase while flying to different countries. Eating gourmet meals that taste like shit. Drinking until I didn’t know what day it was. Sleeping with different women who didn’t fill the void. The only thing that kept me going was winning, but when the race was over, I was right back where I started. Unstable.

Rolling down the street, I notice the town looks the same. The same stores line Main Street with fresh paint. The antique turret clock tower that sits in the center of city hall at the end of the street, the black streetlights that line the sidewalks, and the grocery mart that closes at six every weeknight.

I drive to the next block and see the sign Sugar Coated Sweets Bakery. There is an old van parked out front with the bakery’s logo. I wonder if she is in there now. I check the time and see that I’m early.

I don’t know what I’m going to say to her. Will she remember me? And if she does, will she tell me to go fuck myself? I’ve thought about her a lot over the years. I could never get her out of my mind if I tried. The way she looked at me the last time I saw her. The way she smelled when she got in my car soaking wet that day after school. She smelled of rain and sugar. I imagined tasting it on her skin. I’ve had a lot of women sincethen, but I don’t remember any of their scents except hers. I also remember the regret I felt when I dropped her off without asking her out. For not telling her how beautiful she was when they would call her ugly or how delicious her cookies were.

I’ve ordered a batch every week for the past four years online. I also made sure everyone knew that her grandmother’s bakery was the best since she doesn’t have a social media account.

I park near the high-end boutique stores to avoid drawing any attention to myself as I’m sitting there idling in the expensive rental car.

It’s almost five o’clock. The jewelry store is about to close. I don’t want an audience when I finally get to see her.

When it’s five minutes until pickup time, I run across the crosswalk. I hesitate, but if I’m going to see her, it’s now or never.

When I’m almost to the door, an elderly woman walks out with a big box cake in her hand. I catch the door above her head to let her pass.

She turns her weathered face to look at me. “Oh…thank you, young man,” she says with a slight quiver to her voice.

I give her a polite smile. “You’re welcome.”

The smell of sugar, cake batter, cinnamon, vanilla, and even a hint of chocolate from baked goods lends a sugary note that hits me, followed by the bell as the door closes.

From behind the counter, not looking this way, Dulce’s busy setting a platter of muffins onto the display.I remain motionless for a moment, taken aback.

She's beautiful without trying— her long, straight dark brown hair is tied back in a ponytail, a few strands framing her face. Her lips are plump but not too big. Pretty brown eyes that slant a bit at the ends. Skin clear and smooth. She is wearing a pink dress with folded sleeves on her slim arms. Her waist is still small like I remember. I swear I could wrap my hands around it.

I walk casually to the counter.

“We’re almost closed for the day,” she says. “We’re all sold out except for muffins.”

“I’m actually here to pick up an order I placed.”

She looks up with a polite, blank expression.

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