Page 1 of Friends Don't Kiss

one

Kiara

“Whyareyousonervous?”

Willow watches as I pipe the final swirl of white chocolate ganache onto my grandmother’s birthday cake. She turns the plate so I can finish, then steps back, phone in hand, snapping photos while I arrange petal-shaped curls around the white chocolate roses. Grams will appreciate the extra touch.

I take a slow breath, trying to ease the tightness in my stomach. “I’m not nervous.”Just bracing myself for the family reunion.

“Uh-huh.” Willow tilts her head. “You’re biting the inside of your cheeks, and your place is serial-killer-level clean.”

I grunt.

“It’s super weird to see the Fearless Leader of the Bitch Brigade rattled,” she says.

Willow and I became friends not long after I moved to Emerald Creek a few years ago. She works at the bakery that hired me, so we’re constantly crossing paths—during shifts, at Lazy’s, the town bar, or at one of the girls’ nights out someone inevitably organizes. I’m the part-time pastry chef, and whenever I’m on the schedule, she gets bumped from the register to help me bake macarons and chocolate soufflés.

But today, she came to my place to help me bake for the family reunion. We’ve been at it since morning and through lunch, yet there’s not a fleck of flour on the floor, no stray utensils, not a dish soaking in the sink. The couch is pristine, books aligned, throw pillows fluffed, candles angled just right on the white coffee table.

My private space is the only thing I can control today, and I’m hanging onto that with desperation.

“I like my place under control. It’s more comfy that way.” Even I can hear the sarcasm in my tone.

Willow sees through my lie. “I’m sorry it has to be that way with your folks,” she says softly as she ties a ribbon around the boxes of petits fours we made together.

I shrug. “Eh, family. You know how it is.”

She gives a small chuckle. We both come from homes that are broken in different ways and understand there’s no fixing these things—just learning how to live with them, distance ourselves from them if we can, and build lives for ourselves that don’t feel like a constant struggle.

The cake is done. I step back to admire it, satisfaction settling in my chest. It’s everything I wanted for my grams’ birthday. Everythingshe’dwant. The seven-layer torte is cloaked in snow-white fondant, an elaborate arrangement of royal-icing roses artfully spilling down its sides, the most intricate piping I’ve ever done circling its base.

“Grams is going to love it,” I say as much for myself as for Willow.

“It’s gorgeous,” Willow whispers, awe in her voice. “Let’s take pictures and post it on socials. It looks like a wedding cake.” She pulls out her phone again. “And wait ’til she tastes it.”

The layers of dacquoise—maple, vanilla cream, and hazelnut crunch—are interspersed with dark chocolate ganache and fresh raspberries, all this on a base of Italian meringue. Just the thought of how my creation will bring her the joy she deserves is enough to chase away my family reunion-induced anxiety, at least for now.

“I was gonna say you outdid yourself, but that wouldn’t be fair. Everything you make is above and beyond,” Willow says as she turns the phone around the cake to capture the variations in the decor.

“Thanks.” The word comes out quieter than I intend, my thoughts drifting to the one thing that keeps me going now: establishing myself as a legit pastry chef. I’m almost there. Almost. But true success keeps eluding me.

I still don’t have my own shop. I still haven’t made a name for myself. No matter how hard I push, how many hours I put into my craft, I can’t seem to break through.

Glancing at this cake again, I can’t figure it out. What bride wouldn’t want something this beautiful, something that tastes as exquisite as it looks?

“How ’bout you make more of these,” Willow says, switching to pictures. “Different designs, different flavors, so you have more to show?”

I thought about that. About the flavor combos, too. “M-hm. Orange blossom, pistachio, and Meyer lemon. Pear, white chocolate, and chai. Mint, dark chocolate, and walnut.” I grab my notebook and write these ideas down, before something else takes over my brain and I forget. “I could make those next week. Pretend I’m swamped with orders. Fake-it-’til-you-make-it type of thing,” I mumble.

That means spending hours baking cakes no one ordered with supplies I can barely afford. I could eat them. Wouldn’t hurt to put on a few pounds.

“Tell me when, and I’ll come help. Hey, we should post on it on socials, saying we’re prepping tastings for next season’s brides?”

Wow. Why didn’t I think about that? “That’s brilliant!” I’m moved by the dimples forming on her cheeks, by the way her deep brown eyes are dancing with true happiness. Willow doesn’t have an easy life, yet she finds happiness in the smallest things.I need to be more like her.

“Okay, let’s put this baby away for now. Open the fridge for me?” she says, snapping me out of my thoughts.

Once the cake is cooling, I make us some coffee and we both plop on the kitchen chairs. For the first time today, I let myself relax.

---