Page 22 of Five Years
The pink box poking its edge from the welcome basket was unrecognisable at first. Leah edged closer, conscious that it wasn’t even her trip—she hadn’t paid for anything. She was an unsought guest at best, basically excess baggage that Grace insisted on carrying when everyone else packed light.
The house was quiet. Everyone else had gone for lunch—a place with 4.7 stars online. According to Grace’s dad, they served the best mussels, something to do with New Zealand and being sautéed in garlic butter. A quick internet search instantly had Leah regretting her decision to stay behind.
The first letters of the pink packaging became visible. The well-thought-out aesthetic made Leah want to explore whatever was inside. She tugged the corner carefully, removing the box from the basket, trying to remember exactly how it was positioned so she could place it back neatly.
Mackinac Island fudge.
She turned her head from side to side, as though someone might be watching. Hidden cameras? She shook her head. The contents of the little pink box would be enough to send her into a sugar-fuelled coma. It was a nice touch by the owners to leave a basket of gifts—some necessities, others niceties.
The combination of the two? An ingenious review booster.
Don’t open the box.
She stared at it like some crazed calorie-controlled lunatic with ten abs and pronounced arm veins you only got from years of obsessive gym-going, finally about to crack.
She loved fudge.
She loved Mackinac Island fudge in particular.
The obsession stemmed from childhood. Her parents used to take her there occasionally, before the downward spiral toward divorce. She had a picture of the three of them outside thefamous Grand Hotel in the summer of ‘99. The pristine white exterior, accented with pops of yellow, pink, and red tulips, was her favourite family photo—her parents genuinely looked happy.
Oh, and Mackinac Island also happened to be the place she fell in love with Ariana.
Leah peeled the small sticky seal from the box and carefully removed the lid to reveal six impeccably sliced pieces of fudge. Identical in width, length, and shape. A small menu card gave a brief description of each slice. The smell reminded Leah of a warm summer’s day—the sweet combination of chocolate, butter, vanilla, and sugar was inviting and oddly comforting.
Chocolate Peanut Butter Fudge had always been her favourite—surprisingly, it wasn’t among the pieces. But another flavour was, one she recognised instantly from the caramel and pecan top layer.
Turtle Fudge.
She laughed to herself. The memory of a conversation with Ariana flooded her mind. A three-hour drive to Mackinaw City had been their first road trip, and it proved their compatibility. Leah believed a road trip was the defining test of any relationship. Add 100-degree heat and busted air-conditioning? That exposed everything.
Ariana powered through, gritted teeth, sweat pouring down her face. She didn’t complain, didn’t snap when Leah said she might explode for the fifth time. The minute the cool air of the air-conditioned ferry hit Leah’s skin, she knew: if they could survive what felt like a week in the Sahara, they could survive anything.
Naturally, she hadn’t foreseen the thrown object being an ex-fiancée of eight years.
Mackinac Island was exactly how Leah remembered it from her teens. A tourist haven with charming architecture, scenichiking trails, and a 100% car-free atmosphere. The landmarks, eateries, and shops felt familiar, and Leah got to play tour guide.
They’d stumbled upon a fudge store with a line stretching from the flower-covered entrance. Leah remembered the hand-written sign on the paving stones out front with perfect clarity. In fact, she still had the picture somewhere in a box labelled: “DO NOT OPEN UNLESS YOU WANT TO BREAK DOWN.”
The sign had very accurate little white chalk-drawn turtles, and in thick pink writing, it read: “Get your fresh Turtle Fudge here today!” In tiny script below: “No turtles were harmed in the making of our fudge.”
Ariana read the sign. Then read it again. The confusion on her face was obvious.
She turned to Leah. “There’s not really turtle in the fudge, right?”
Leah burst out laughing. “You’re not serious.”
“It’s called Turtle Fudge. That would indicate it has something to do with turtles.” Ariana pointed to the sign.
“Erm, yes—it’s named after the candy Turtles. You know, with pecans and caramel? Same ingredients, no turtle meat...eww.” Leah shuddered.
“Are you sure?”
“Would you like to go inside and ask the owner?” Leah smirked.
“Would that be embarrassing?”
“Very,” Leah laughed.
