Page 13 of Stealing His Cupcake
Yeah. I watch too much TV. Anyway, I never had any real relationship with Craig’s parents, so I wasn’t surprised they hadn’t reached out to me after his death. Seeing a public invite to a wake in Craig’s honor on theirFacebook did hurt a little, but I tried not to let it get to me. They’re grieving too. Having lost their only son, they must be devastated. Why should they care about the feelings of a girl they never really liked?
I wasn’t exactly invited to the event taking place in their spacious mansion, but since the Facebook invite stated that all of Craig’s friends were welcome and I had been his girlfriend, I sort of invited myself. I did feel bad about it, though, so I spent most of the night baking Craig’s favorite cupcakes.
You see, I bake. It’s something I’ve always loved, something I turn to whenever I feel a little down. Muffins, cupcakes, cakes, and pastries of all kinds, I’ve made it all and then some. I’m not very good at it, of course. I don’t have any fancy schools or courses and I’d never dare to apply for a job at an actual bakery because I know they’d turn me away, but I dare to say that my cakes are better than the ones we serve at the coffee shop I work at. I mean, worked at. Damn, I’ll have to find a new job.
As I ring the doorbell, I take a mental note to add crippling anxiety to my ever-growing list of emotions I’m making for my next visit with Miranda.
Craig’s mother opens the door, dressed in a stylish black dress. The string of pearls around her neck probably cost more than I make in a year. Her eyes sweep over the box in my arms and she frowns. “You’re with the caterer? I told them to use the back entrance. And—” Her frown deepens as she hones in on my bruises. I did my best to cover them up with makeup and my dark complexion does a good job of helping hide them as well, but they’re too prominent to disguise completely. “You can’t come inside looking like this! We have important guests. I’ll be talking to your employer. Such audacity. I strictly requested only the best-looking servers.”
My heart makes a painful thump in my chest. She didn’t recognize me. Of course, she only saw me twice, and she spent most of our meetings pointedly looking in the other direction. That’s probably why.
It feels like something sharp is lodged in the center of my chest, sending ripples of pain through my entire being, but I ignore it. Craig’s motherlooks distressed and her eyes are red-rimmed from crying, just like mine. I can’t blame her for not realizing who I am.
“I-I’m Amy, Mrs. Denver. Amy Hudges.” Then, because no understanding dawns on her face, I add in a whisper, “Craig’s girlfriend.”
Her smile morphs into a furious glare in a microsecond. “You?!” she hisses. Stepping out, she shuts the door behind her, muting the din of voices.
I’m forced to step back as she advances against me, and nearly lose my balance at the top porch step. I manage to regain my balance and even save the box I’m still holding, but it’s touch and go. All the while, Craig’s mother looks like she’s a hair away from pushing me down the stairs herself.
“You’re the junkie filth that’s been bothering my precious boy,” Mrs. Denver all but snarls, baring her perfectly white teeth. “It’s all your fault! You did this to him. My son didn’t do drugs. It was you. You dragged him into your mess and now,” a sob tears from her, “now he’s gone. All because of you. How dare you show your face here?!”
Each word is a spike right through my heart. “I-I…” I try to speak, but no words come out.
“Just look at you,” Mrs. Denver goes on, spewing more vitriol in my face. “All battered like some back-alley prostitute. Did you have a fight with your dealer? Is that why Craig went to that part of the city? To buy drugs for you? His death is your fault, you conniving little bitch, and I’ll make sure everyone knows that.”
“But I—”
“Shut up!”
Startled by her shouting, I take a step back, forgetting I’m on the stairs. Fortunately, it’s just three low steps, but I still tumble down, scraping my hands and knees. The cupcakes spill over the driveway as the box slips out of my hands.
Craig’s mother doesn’t follow me. She stays at the top of the stairs, glaring down at me like a goddess of revenge. “Pick up that trash,” sheorders, “and get lost. If I ever see your face around here again, I’ll have you arrested.”
“O-okay,” I stutter out but I needn’t have bothered. Mrs. Denver turns on the heel of her designer stilettos and marches back inside, the door slamming behind her with a loud bang.
That sharp object in my chest pulsates, cutting deeper and deeper, until all I can feel is pain throbbing in time with the hiccuping sobs.
My fault. She has the facts wrong, but not that one. Everything is my fault. It always is. That’s why no one loves me. Everyone leaves me until I’m all alone, broken and sobbing on the ground like the pathetic loser I am.
Or maybe I’m not all alone right now. The hair on the back of my neck rises and I snap my eyes to the mansion windows. Someone must be watching me, even if I can’t spot anyone through the haze of my tears. Not Craig’s mother, she was disgusted by my mere presence, but what if they have a bodyguard? Will someone come to drag me out of sight and perhaps give me a beating to dissuade me from showing up again?
A shiver crawls up my spine. Yes, someone is definitely watching me.
Wiping my face with my forearm makes an even worse mess of my makeup than it already is, but I don’t care. Hastily, I pick up all the scattered cupcakes, shove them back into the box, and get up. Wincing at the sight of my torn skirt and bleeding knees, I hurry away from the house. The skin on my knees will heal. The brand new skirt I bought to fit in with the rich guests will not. I don’t normally dwell on clothes or other possessions, but this skirt was expensive and fits me so well and no one even saw me wearing it and—oh my god, what is wrong with me? Craig died and it’s all my fault, and here I am, worrying about a damned skirt.
In a pained daze, I walk and walk. Perhaps if I walk far enough, my life will start making sense again. It feels like I’m in a bad dream. A week ago, everything was great. I had a boyfriend, a job, and everything was right. Now, I have no one and nothing, other than the squashed box of cupcakes I’m still carrying for some reason. Normally, I’d take them home and eataway my feelings, but now I can’t even look at them. They were a terrible idea. Who brings cupcakes to a wake? It’s no wonder Mrs. Denver kicked me out. I can’t even get one thing right.
I set the box by the nearest dumpster. The neighborhood where Craig’s parents live is too fancy to have homeless people, but I seem to have walked far enough to get back into the more “normal” part of the city where someone might be grateful for free pastries, even if they’re a bit smashed and some have pieces of gravel stuck to the frosting.
The feeling of being watched resurfaces, but it’s no wonder. I’m a sobbing mess. People cast strange looks in my direction, but no one stops me to ask if I’m okay. That’s just as well. I’m not okay, and I don’t think I could manage a convincing lie.
Somehow, I make it to my apartment. Not even the TV can dispel the crushing silence anymore. I contemplate calling Kayla, but decide against it. Hearing me like this, she’d drop everything she’s doing and rush back here, and I can’t be the reason she gets fired and messes up her career. I crawl into bed instead, put on random music just so it feels like there are people here with me, and wrap myself in a blanket.
Over the past days, I’ve become a pro at crying myself to sleep, but today, it takes ages before I exhaust myself enough to fall into fitful sleep. Even then, nightmares haunt me, faceless people pointing fingers at me and yelling how everything is my fault. They’re right.
Chapter 9
Wyatt
