Page 17 of Severance

“Earth to Alana!” Jess waves her hand in front of my face.

“Do you think he’s talking to me because he likes me or because he just wants to sleep with me?” I ask, tearing my gaze away from the laptop.

She studies me for a few seconds. “Both.”

I stifle a groan, wondering if that’s a joke. If it is, it’s pretty cruel.

“I’m serious,” Jess says as if she’s reading my mind. “I’m gonna tell you something right now.” She lifts her head off the pillow and props it up with her hand. “Guys always say they want a bad girl, because it makes them look cool. But they’re all liars. What they want is a girl like you. A nice girl who hasn’t been fucked by three dozen other dudes. They just don’t say it out loud. Trust me, if he’s texting you like crazy, it’s because he wants all of you. Mind, body, and soul.”

I roll my eyes. Parts of me feel warm, fuzzy, and a little uncomfortable. Jess isn’t the kind of a friend who has a sensitivity filter. She’s more of a brutal truth and ugly metaphors type of person.

“Those creative writing classes are really paying off,” I say with a bit of sarcasm.

“Have you looked in the mirror lately?” Jess gives me a toothy grin.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” I brush her off, minimizing the window with the band’s photos.

“You are aware you’re smoking hot, right?” Her eyebrow jumps up her forehead. “Like get-the-hell-out-of-here hot.”

“And you’re aware you aren’t allowed to say the H-word in my house?” I grab one of the pillows and toss it at her.

She ducks and rolls to her back to avoid the impact. “Is your dad home?”

“I think so. Why?”

“Smoking, devil-melting-hell hot!” her voice booms through my room like thunder.

“My father’s going to ban you from our house.” I throw another pillow at her and we laugh until my cheeks begin to hurt.

“Do you know what you’re baking for your Christmas post?” Jess changes the subject once we calm down.

“Red velvet cupcakes.”

“We did those last year.”

“No, they were Nutella cupcakes.” I slide from the bed and go to my closet to grab my khakis and work shirt.

Jess closes the laptop and checks her phone. “Do you need a ride?”

“No. It’s fine. I’ll drive myself.”

Who knows? Maybe these are my final weeks to use the Prius. Maybe my father won’t let me have it after I move out.

* * *

I baked my first cupcake when I was fourteen. It was a simple vanilla one with buttercream frosting and sprinkles on top, and I was over the moon when my father ate the whole thing. Six months and twenty different recipes later, he drove me to Anna’s Pastry to meet Mrs. Kaminski and find out if she needed help.

That’s how I got my first job and how my blog started.

The thought of telling the woman who took a chance on me when I was a clueless teenager that I no longer want to work with her makes me feel guilty. Especially now, right before the holiday season when it’s the busiest time of the year for the shop.

My phone pings in my pocket, jarring me back to reality, and I realize it’s almost ten and I’ve only swept half of the dining room.

“Can you come in at two tomorrow, Alana?” Mrs. Kaminski yells from the back. She still has a bit of an accent. Unlike my father, whose parents immigrated to the States from Poland long before he was born, she came here as a grown woman in the nineties, along with her husband and kids. Her family has owned this bakery for over a decade.

“I have class until one,” I say. “I’ll do my best to be here by two.”

My anxiety pushes me to sweep faster. I know the message that just came in is from Dakota. I spent a good portion of my shift searching for covert places to text him back. Freezer, restroom, three trips outside to the dumpster to take out the trash.

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