Page 4 of Be Mine

“Just a family thing, you know how it is.” I casually brush her off, adding some food coloring to the container of icing, trying to get the right shade of pink, before loading it into my piping bag.

“I call bullshit. You barely speak to your family.”

She’s right. I don’t speak to my family much. I’m the black sheep. The outcast. I didn’t follow the path my parents so desperately wanted me to, so my brother gets to play the favorite child while I’m the one they like to pretend doesn’t exist. Do I try to act like it doesn’t eat away at me, that I was cast away so thoughtlessly? Sure. But deep down, it fucking cuts me open to think I was discarded so easily because I didn’t fit into their cookie cutter-mold.

Taylor’s baby blue eyes soften as she watches me, as if she can see the tumultuous feelings brimming to the surface. I continue to pipe a shell border along the base of the cake, even though my eyes are glossing over with unshed tears. She peels the oven mitts off and leans against my workstation. “Hey, you don’t have to talk to me yet. But I’m here for you, ok?”

I offer her a smile, because it’s all I can do right now. I know if I open my mouth to speak, the dam will break. “I know, and I appreciate you.”

“Back at ya, babe.” She winks before walking back to her table to ready some cinnamon rolls.

The bakery is a flurry of people, bustling along, prepping and packaging baked goods. It’s a madhouse on the best of days, but on holidays, it's worse. There are bodies everywhere trying to navigate around each other.

I try to stay out of the way, in my corner of the department, immersing myself in my work, focusing intently on piping beautiful flowers and designs on each cake. On writing confessions of love in pinks and reds, each sprinkled heart a reminder of the authentic one I received in a box this morning that I’m trying desperately to forget. But my mind fixates on the cool temperature of the organ. The way the blood trickled slowly, slightly congealed. The sickly-sweet coppery tang that filled my apartment as soon as I opened the box.It’s likely a cruel prank and pig.Officer Barde’s words echo in my mind, I cling to those words like they’ll offer me solace, but there’s no alternative here that isn’t terror inducing.

The piping bag trembles in my hands and that claustrophobic feeling from earlier returns. I’m too hot.The sounds in the bakery too loud. Each one blending with the other until it’s nothing but chaotic noise and I can’t distinguish one from the next. Sweat pools on my brow and at the small of myback. I need to take a break. I have ten orders boxed, priced, and ready in the cooler. I’m close to being caught up, Cynthia won’t mind if I take lunch.

I put my bag down and carry the unfinished cake to the fridge for now, quickly tidying up my station.

“Hey Taylor, I’m gonna sneak out for a quick lunch. Can you let Cynthia know?”

“Sure thing, babe.”

Chapter Four

Noah

I’m biding my time. Everything is set in motion. All my perfectly laid plans coming to fruition. For too long I’ve lingered in the shadows. Watching. Waiting. Soon, I get to claim what was always meant to be mine.

Chapter Five

Frankie

I ascend the two sets of stairs up to the break room. I’m not sure who decided to put it up here rather than on the main floor, but I curse them each and every time I have to haul my lazy ass up them. I’m practically panting by the time I reach the top. This body wasn’t built for cardio.

Swinging open the door, I notice the tables are empty except the one in the far corner, currently occupied by a guy named Noah who works in the meat department. I’m thankful for the reprieve, I just need a few quiet moments.

Food is the last thing on my mind right now, but I know if I don’t at least try to eat, my sugar will be out of whack. Digging through the fridge, I pull out my lunch bag, pop my leftover fettuccine in the microwave, and press start. I chance a glance at Noah. He hasn’t acknowledged my presence since entering the room. Instead, he seems to be deeply immersed in his book.

I take the opportunity to peruse him. There’s something vaguely familiar about him. He’s got that hot nerd thing going on. And by nerd, I mean in the Clark Kent kind of way. The whole tall, bulky, muscles straining in his butcher’s coat, probably can bench press double my weight but also looks approachable, look. Except he’s not. The guy may as well be a mute, ‘cause he doesn’t engage in any form of conversation,much to half the female employees’ dismay. I always figured it's one of three things:

He has really high standards.

Is gay.

Or likes his women of the anime variety.

Not that it affects me in any way. I prefer my men more rugged-looking. Tattoos. Piercings. Bad decisions. That’s more my speed. Still, I can appreciate a decent looking specimen when I see one.

A worn copy ofThe Picture of Dorian Grayis clutched in his hand, he licks his thumb and turns the pages with care. Why am I not surprised he reads the classics? The black rimmed glasses he wears slide halfway down his aquiline nose and he mindlessly pushes them up with his index finger in the sexiest way possible.Jesus.I'd like to see his parents. For scientific purposes, obviously. Genes that flawless can’t be legal, right?

I’m so engrossed in watching Noah, the beeping of the microwave makes me jolt. My hand reaches out to the countertop for stability, knocking over my cutlery in the process.

His eyes snap up and meet mine.Blue. Not like warm, sandy beaches and gentle waves lapping at your feet. No, these are cold. Inhabitable. Like the Artic. His frosty gaze stuns me. His nostrils flare with an intake of breath. His jaw tics. Once. Twice. Three times. The clanking of the fork and knife on the floor dulled by the thrum of my heart.Boom. Boom. Boom.It pounds in my ears at an alarming rate. My mouth gapes. To say something. To apologize. I don’t know. I’ve obviously infuriated him, but the words are lost on my tongue. That icy glare holds me hostage making my limbs feel like Jell-O. And then it’s gone. He averts his eyes back to his book and continues reading.

A whoosh of air escapes me and I bend over on shaky legs to pick up the fork and knife sprawled at my feet. Turning towards the sink, I turn on the water and let it run until itgets hot while squirting copious amounts of dish soap on the cutlery. When I'm satisfied and the water has reached scalding temperatures, I scrub them much more vigorously than needed. I just need to busy my hands.

I hear the faint closing of a book, the scraping of a chair across the floor, but I don’t dare look. My posture stays ramrod straight as I continue to wash the cutlery that I’m sure is now thoroughly clean.

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