Page 86 of Severance

At twelve thirty, there’s still no answer and my message remains unread. Panic and disappointment rattle my chest. Fighting tears, I pipe the mixture onto the tray, tap it, and while it sits before going into the oven, I move on to the cream.

Two hours and five dozen perfect macarons later, the lack of response from Mikah feels like the end of the world. It shouldn’t, because, obviously, the sex was just what I’ve thought from the beginning, drunk and meaningless. A mistake. But my stupid heart doesn’t get it.He acknowledged the fact that there’s anus! Taking it back without asking me is wrong.

I finish snapping the photos, clean up, pack a few macarons for my parents, and close the store. Outside, it smells like rain, and the sky is black and starless. Just like it always is before Portland gets hit with a thunderstorm.

After smoking two cigarettes, one after another, I slip into my Prius and attempt to get it running, but all it responds with is a buzzing sound.

* * *

My father’s car pulls up to Anna’s Pastry twenty minutes later, the bright headlights of his Subaru Outback slicing through the fresh mist like a hot knife through butter.

I’m on my sixth Midnight Rust song, and my body is half-shivering and half-numb because the resentment from being stood up has morphed into the worst kind of ache.

It was just sex, Alana, I tell myself as I watch my father step out of his car. Drunk sex that meant nothing to Mikah. Afuck.That’s what he called it.

I reach out for my phone and pause the music. Listening to the guy whose guts I’m currently hating play a guitar seems absurd. Even if heisextremely good. Apparently, I’m a masochist.

My father’s wearing a pajama shirt under his jacket, and his face, which looks sleepy and fatigued, gives away his irritation. A small part of me—the responsible daughter—feels like crap for waking him up in the middle of the night, but mostly, I’m shocked and confused by Mikah’s behavior. Does he have a list where he separates the girls he sleeps with into fucks-like-a-Virgin-Mary category or not?

My father taps on the windshield, snapping me out of my angry daze.

“How long will this be going on for?” he asks when I get out of the Prius. “Do you have to stay at work this late every night?”

“It’s just a short-term project, Dad,” I explain, rubbing my eyes.

“Are you getting paid for doing this?”

“Yes. I am.”

“I really don’t like you being here on your own at this hour.” My father shakes his head. He’d probably throw a fit if I wasn’t spending my nights at the bakery, but I suppose, in his mind, making cakes at three in the morning is better thansluttingaround in broad daylight.

In a way, I agree with him. This isn’t the safest neighborhood, but for some reason, I’ve never felt scared inside the bakery. At least, not when I’m alone. Being alone is better than being surrounded by hundreds of people whose thoughts you can’t read. Croissants aren’t going to pick up a gun and shoot, because croissants aren’t jealous creatures.

“I baked some macarons,” I tell my father, ignoring his last comment.

And he, in turn, ignores mine. “Let’s take a look.” He motions for me to move away and slips behind the wheel, his eyes scanning the dashboard. “I don’t understand. We just took it to the shop three weeks ago.”

“Maybe they should give us a refund.” I shrug, watching my father turn the key and listen to the sputtering sounds coming from my Prius.

He checks under the hood next, his face puzzled. “I’ll call a tow truck to take it to the shop again first thing in the morning.”

“Okay.” I nod, ducking inside to grab my things and my macarons.

I fish out my so-called diary full of useless doodles from the bottom of my bag and tear out an empty page to leave a note on the windshield for Mrs. Kaminski that the Prius is broken down.

My father’s waiting for me patiently, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket as a light drizzle sprinkles across his gray hair. He double checks all four doors once I lock the car, and we silently load into his Subaru.

The awkwardness between us is depressing.

“I believe you should make some adjustments to your schedule. This is too late to be baking, Alana,” my father expresses his concern again. He’s like a broken record.

The anger coursing through me becomes annoyance. My fingers fiddle with the handles of the paper bag I stuffed with macarons. “I can’t do this when the store is open. I can only do it after hours.”

“What if something happens? What if someone tries to break in?”

“Dad.” I mask my anxiety with a nervous laugh. “What’s there to steal? Butter and sprinkles?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, his gaze shifting back to the steering wheel.

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