Page 78 of Severance

I’m sitting at the corner table in Anna’s Pastry’s dining room, my phone on my lap, my new portfolio my mother helped me pick out the other day next to me on the bench. The speech I’ve been preparing all week is a little jumbled inside my head right now and I almost regret not writing it down, but reading it off a note would probably lessen my chances of convincing Mrs. Kaminski my ideas are solid.

Lifting my gaze from the lifeless screen of my phone, I make an attempt to smile. “Hey.” Waiting for Mikah to return my text is like waiting for hell to freeze over.

“How have you been?” Mrs. Kaminski settles across from me.

“I’m good. I appreciate you taking the time to see me.” My gaze darts to the crowd lining up in front of the register. The new girl is older and seems to be catching on quickly.

You’d wonder what could possibly go wrong at a place that sells mostly cake. At a burger place, people always find plenty of reasons to complain. The meat turns out to be undercookedafterthey’ve finished their sandwich. Even I know it’s just an old trick to get a freebie. Bakery clients aren’t any better. Wrong color frosting. Wrong size sprinkles. Box shape doesn’t match the shape of the cake. Dog got sick after eating the leftovers. All these things seemed like the end of the world to me when my biggest worry was getting an A. But now, these complaints feel contrived and silly, and a C is more than enough.

“Of course.” Mrs. Kaminski smiles a warm smile. “Are you hungry? How about a vanilla éclair?” She remembers the smallest details, like my obsession with French pastry.

“No, it’s okay. I already ate.”

The truth is, I’m too nervous. My stomach is queasy and my heart’s flatlining. I’m not certain whether it’s because Mikah has been ignoring me for over five days or because Mrs. Kaminski might not want to give me my old job back.

“I thought you found another job?” Mrs. Kaminski asks once we get down to the business of why I’m here. “Your father said you were working in some fancy restaurant downtown.” She looks at me long and hard.

“I was, but I had to take a leave of absence and they let me go,” I confess, setting my portfolio on the table. “I have some ideas for the bakery.” My heart rate picks up and the words in my head begin to trip one over the other. “And I really want to return to work.”

The printouts in my shaking hands rustle as I lay them out on the table in front of Mrs. Kaminski. “There’s a lot of cool stuff we can do… Like a blog…or rebrand the Instagram account… You haven’t been posting any stories at all. We can go live from the kitchen too…” My mouth is dry and I’m starting to forget the rest of the speech.

“Hmm…” Mrs. Kaminski’s gaze darts from me to the mess on the table that’s supposed to look like a business presentation. She picks up one of the printouts and her face tenses. “Why don’t you tell me about the blog, and then we can talk about the stories and the rest of your ideas and see what we can do, huh? How does that sound?”

“Sure.” I set my portfolio aside, my heart dancing.

I’m not sure if Mrs. Kaminski agrees to hear my thoughts on how to rebrand her store because she feels sorry for me or because she’s genuinely interested, but thirty minutes later when I leave the bakery, I have my old job back.

* * *

Mikah’s text must have come in while I was in the middle of my nerve-racking business meeting with Mrs. Kaminski, because I don’t see it until I get to my car. It’s his favorite three-letter word “hey” and a blushing emoji, which makes me think something’s wrong with him. Blushing emojis are not his thing.

A light flutter wrapped in panic rolls through my stomach as I dial his number. The spoiled brat in me is pissed at him for not returning my texts, but the girl who’s struggling to grasp the true nature of the confusing feelings she has for her boyfriend’s brother is ready to jump with joy and scream his name. Five days of radio silence is overkill.

“What’s up?” His voice is rough, but it stirs me up anyway, making every cell in my body buzz.

So it’s no surprise that my brain short-circuits. “You didn’t say anything about my cheesecake.” I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, because I don’t want to sound pathetic and go straight to accusations.

“I haven’t tried it. How am I supposed to know if it’s any good?” Typical Mikah response. “Maybe you took that picture off whatchamacallit?” He pauses for a second to look for a word. “Pinterest?”

I feel my lips stretching into a smile. “No. My mom and I made it.”

“Well”—he clears his throat—“you’ve got a great eye. You take nice pictures of cakes.”

“Is that all you have to say about my cheesecake?”

“I can’t say more unless you bake one for me.”

The memories crash at me all at once. Sometimes I don’t get how he and Dakota could be so different yet so alike. I wonder if they ever noticed how they mirrored each other’s words, actions, and thoughts. It’s both fascinating and scary. And it hurts a little because it reminds me of our loss.

“Maybe one day,” I say, trying to get my emotions under control.

Mikah doesn’t respond. The tension between us grows thicker, and I use my fresh rush of courage to ask him the question that’s been spinning in my head for five days now. “Why didn’t you text me back?”

His response is cryptic and a lot like a punch in the gut. “I was busy.”

“Are you still in Seattle?”

“I came home two days ago.”

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