Page 7 of Date Notes

“Well, it’s just . . . I didn’t forget, but, um, Dan thought maybe you’d prefer to go alone.”

Alone?My eyes widened as she plowed on.

“I mean, I know it’s tradition, but we got to talking, and he thinks maybe it’s kind of childish, like we should’ve outgrown the tradition. And I know since they put in the new bakery, more of your peers hang out there, so . . .” She glanced up at Dan who nodded in approval before she reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “We thought you might rather go by yourself or invite some friends?” She said it like a question. “Maybe you could even call up that nice girl from your chem class and take her?”

I stared down at the money, gobsmacked. Only seconds ago, I’d been thinking along those lines—that I was probably too old for such a tradition—but now, at the prospect of skipping it, I felt cheated. Heading to Bake and Batter at the end of every grading period wasourthing. A semesterly rite of passage. Like a kid who no longer believed in Santa, I still wanted to go through all the motions of Christmas, cookies and milk and all. But it was more than that. Something else pinched in my chest, a feeling far worse than disappointment. I felt . . . replaced.

I glanced over at Bat Man as I took the offered money, not wanting to let him see how much it affected me. “Um, yeah. Okay.”

Mom dipped her head to meet my eyes, her own baby blues widening with alarm. “You’re sure?”

“Of course, he’s sure,” Bat Man intervened, slapping me on the back. “He’s eighteen, for heaven’s sake. The last thing he wants is to be seen at a local hangout with his mom. Right, kiddo?”

I stared at him, my jaw hard as stone. The man was unreal. In one breath, he insisted I grow up and my mother treat me like a man, and in the next, he called me “kiddo.” It was the type of passive aggressive bullshit he pulled all the time.

“Sure,” I said between clenched teeth. If I stared at him any harder, my eyes might pop from my skull.

“Okay.” Mom reached out and touched my arm. “Well, tell me what you get, will you? Ooh, or take a picture and send it to me. Yeah, do that.”

My eyes lingered on her face, and I could tell it was killing her to let me go alone. After all, I was her only baby, as she reminded me all the time. But she was doing what she honestly thought was best for me. What Dan had convinced her was best, anyway. And though a part of me wanted to wait for another day, one where he wasn’t around so we could go together like old times, part of me was a little mad at her, too. For not seeing through his “good guy” facade to the manipulation and belligerence just below the surface. She had a mind of her own; she needed to use it.

When she turned her eyes back to Dan and started to ask him what he wanted for dinner, I took that as my cue to leave. Pocketing the money, I turned for the door and headed to my car.

Our Bake and Batter tradition started in kindergarten as a way to motivate me to work hard and get good grades, not that it was all that difficult at that age. Though it seemed juvenile, every nine weeks we’d step into the sugar-scented air of the little shop and share several pastries while chatting about what lay ahead. Every nine weeks until today, that is.

I stared up at the new-and-improved Bake and Batter from my car. It was a far cry from the tiny hometown shop I knew, complete with gingerbread molding, a grand entryway with outdoor seating, and large glass windows. I hadn’t been inside since last semester, when Mom and I came, which was before the fire that burned it to the ground. Back then, it was still only a tiny hole in the wall with a reputation bigger than the brick and mortar that surrounded it.

As I stared up at the grand building now, I was glad it had changed because it somehow made coming here without her sting a little less.

I stepped out of the car as a family of four spilled out of the doors, each of them juggling a drink and a pastry bag in their hands. Holding the heavy glass door open for them, I waited until they’d cleared the entrance, then stepped inside. My feet dragged over the tile as I made my way to the back of a small line of customers waiting in front of the huge glass display cases. Pedestals of varying sizes with artfully arranged stacks of pastries, cookies, and cakes filled them, all of them familiar favorites. In the amount of times Mom and I came, we’d sampled all of them at one point or the other.

My gaze slid past the display case to the double doors that led back to the kitchen when a familiar face appeared. Scarlett headed toward the counter carrying a large pastry box, then handed it over to the customer. “Here it is. Have a sweet day,” she said in an overly chipper tone.

After watching them go, her gaze shifted and landed on mine. “Hey!” She raised a hand and waved me over, away from the display case and toward a little counter off to the side.

Her presence made me feel at least a fraction better about having come alone. Ever since her boyfriend, Hollywood star Thorne Roberts, took me under his wing, I’d become friendly with her and her best friend Penelope, and at the moment, it felt good to see a friendly face.

“What are you doing here? Come for a coffee?”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

“Whatcha want?”

I pursed my lips, unsure. Truthfully, I wasn’t a big fan of coffee. “Whatever. You can decide.”

“Anything to eat?” she asked as she turned and busied herself at the counter with a fancy espresso machine.

Mom’s request I take a photo of something flashed in my head. “Uh, yeah.” Even though I’d lost my desire for something sweet, I knew if I didn’t send her a pic like she asked, she’d forever pester me about it. The projected guilt alone would drive me crazy. “I’ll just take one of those fudge brownies.” I pointed to one with thick mocha frosting.

“Good choice.” She slid the coffee concoction over the counter, along with the plated brownie, then sighed as the door chimed once more and she glanced up to a fresh wave of customers.

“Busy?” I asked, snapping a quick pic of the brownie and sending it.

“That’s an understatement.” Scarlett wiped her palms on the front of her apron and headed toward the front display case while I followed. “It’s been like this ever since the rebuild. We’ve tried to hire but can’t seem to find anyone reliable.”

I noted the single girl helping her with a name tag that readJenny, along with the throng of people now in line. Then I thought of Bat Man and Mom waiting for me at home. He’d probably hover over her while she cooked dinner like he always did, tasting whatever was simmering on the stove every time she turned around.

I had zero desire to hurry back. “Want some help?”