Page 37 of The Accidental Honeymoon

“O-kay…,” I say. We give him a wide berth as we continue down the jam-packed street. Out of curiosity, I tug the flyer from Jay's hand. It's covered in cartoonish fruitcake graphics that seem to be competing with one another for the title of ‘most garish’. It’s a list of the events today and the corresponding times. I fold it and stuff it in my pocket.

“Hey, I just realized that there’s no camera crew today.” I raise my brows and rub my hands together for warmth. My tattooed wrist, freshly anointed with lotion, tingles faintly. “What gives?”

“The company van had a flat tire.” Jay flaps a hand. “It’ll be back on the road soon enough.”

“So it’s just us today, huh?”

Jay smirks. “Yup. Just you and me. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

The way he’s looking at me makes my cheeks flush. But I can’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he made me look away, so I keep full eye contact.

“I can’t imagine it will be,” I reply as sweetly as possible. “I didn’t get that much sleep last night, so?—”

Jay trips over his feet, looking like a startled baby bunny. “Uh, yeah. Same.”

I clear my throat. I didn’t realize that things could be this awkward between Jay and me. But here we are, not talking about the elephant in the room.

Jay points to a building that people are streaming in and out of. “Maybe we should head in there. The Fruitcake Bakery should be… safe.”

I nod and let him usher me along as I let that word sink in. Safe? Safe? What am I supposed to read into that? We hurry inside while I ponder the meaning of the word.

The Fruitcake Bakery is a shrine to bad taste in every sense of the word. Shelves groan under the weight of neon-colored fruitcakes, each more hideous than the last. A glass display case at the counter showcases slices in a dizzying array of flavors. It seems to dare anyone to take a bite.

Jay and I step further inside, and I take in the décor: a Christmas tree made entirely of stacked fruitcake rounds.The tree twinkles with tinsel and ornament shards. It’s like a holiday hallucination coming to life.

"Can you believe this place? It's like walking into a time capsule from the 1950s." Jay looks as happy as a kid on his birthday. He seems to take joy in these weird, horrible, kitschy places.

His attitude is kind of admirable, if you can get past how tiring it can be. Places that I would never in a million years deign to go? Jay dives into them headfirst and smiles while he does it! He is either secretly a serial killer… or he’s just a counterbalance against my practical,occasionallyterrible, attitude.

I make a noncommittal noise and focus on the menu board above the counter. It lists flavors in a curly, hand-painted script. Each name is more absurd than the last: Tropical Temptation, Berry Suspicious, Citrus Surprise, Nuts About Bacon, Pickle Me Fancy.

They all sound inedible.

A woman in a flour-dusted apron steps out from the kitchen. She scans the crowd, but most of the tourists are clearly still looking around. Her eyes lock on me. "What can I get for you folks?"

Jay leans on the counter with the casual grace of a man who’s never had to rush for anything in his life. "We're here for the samples."

The woman beams. "Help yourselves!" She gestures to a platter laden with bite-sized pieces of fruitcake. Each one is stuck with a toothpick and labeled with a flavor tag.

I hang back as Jay grabs a handful. He stuffs a few in his mouth before passing me one. "You have to try this one. It's actually pretty good."

I take a piece of Berry Suspicious and reluctantly nibble the corner. He’s right. The fruitcake is moist. The spices areheavy but nicely balanced. It tastes like a bite of autumn. Overall, I’m disarmed by how not terrible it is.

"See?" Jay says. He pops another piece into his mouth. "Told you." I just shrug. He pulls out his phone and puts his arm around me. “Come on. Act like you like me,” he jokes.

You’re not the worst guy in the world. And you gave me multiple orgasms last night. That is very much the problem in this scenario.

Instead of saying that, I smile for the camera and kiss Jay’s cheek.

We work our way through the platter, commenting on each flavor like judges on a reality cooking show. Some have a nice tartness; others are overly sweet but bearable. Some flavors are so insane that it’s comical. The pickle cake is the actual worst. It’s the only one that makes me gag and I spit it out.

Jay insists on bringing an entire Pickle Me Fancy cake home with us.

“As long as I don’t have to eat it,” I shrug. “I just hope you give anyone that tries it fair warning.”

“Where would the fun be in that?” Jay asks.

When he looks at me with the biggest grin on his face, I’m pretty sure he is the devil incarnate. I suppose I should be happy that his devilry is not directed atme.

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