Page 18 of Didn't See That Coming

Somehow, the mention of Silmerrov Gulch wakes me up enough to move my fingers across the keyboard once more.

Dudebro10:Sorry, I gtg. I have a ton of homework. From school.

Oh god. Of-freaking-course any homework I have would be from school. Where the hell else would it be from? Before I can say anything dumb and accidentally out myself, I hit close on the app. I lean back in my chair and release a ridiculously long breath. Holy shit. What just happened? I try to slow down my thoughts. Okay, so Sourdawg is at Xingfa—

Just the thought of it triggers my mind into a hundred thousand squealing thoughts screamingOmigod whaaaat!

Yep, this is it. This is how I perish. Through my heart climbing up my rib cage and esophagus and lodging in my skull and then exploding. Because of course. Of COURSE Sourdawg is at Xingfa, where I am considered the loseriest loser that ever lost. And he’s definitely going to find out that I’m Dudebro10 and that I’ve been lying to him this whole time. Then another horrible thought crawls its way into the center of my brain:I know at least one other person at Xingfa who playsWarfront Heroes.Jonas.GROSSS ARGGGH ARGH ARGH! What if Sourdawg is Jonas?!

Oh god, this is a huge freaking mess, and I have no idea how I’m going to fix it.

This is hopeless. I need help. I can’t process this on my own. I pounce on my phone and send a text to Cassie:SOS!!!!

Cassie’s reply is almost immediate:Meet at Cake Ho?

Despite the explosions going off in my head, I have to smile at that. There isn’t much that can’t be made better by a cake from Cake Ho and a good scream with my bestie.

According to Papi, Jakarta’s food scene used to be pretty boring—nothing but traditional Indonesian and Chinese restaurants everywhere. I mean, not to say that Indonesian and Chinese food isn’t good, but there was very little variety. Here and there, you’d find the odd Italian or French restaurant, but they weren’t well-known, and they were really overpriced. When I was a kid, Mami and Papi only ever took me to Chinese restaurants. But in the last few years, Indonesians who wentto college overseas came back and opened up new restaurants, and suddenly, the food scene in Jakarta exploded. We went through a fusion phase, where everything was fusion—Italian Japanese, Indonesian Vietnamese, Indonesian Italian, Chinese Indian, Korean American, and so on. Then we went through a café phase, where you couldn’t throw a stone without hitting a picturesque shop boasting local, artisanal coffee. Now we’re in the cake phase, and I fully approve of the cake phase. I mean, I fully approved of all the previous phases too, but the cake phase is particularly delightful.

Because there isn’t much to do in Jakarta other than eat, restaurant owners pour all their money into making sure their restaurants and cafés are beautiful places you want to spend hours at. Take Cake Ho, for example: it looks like Willy Wonka’s dream come true, if Willy Wonka were French and had actual good taste. Okay, so maybe not at all like Willy Wonka. The walls are painted a luxurious green, and there are soft pink peonies everywhere and hardcover books with pastel spines lined neatly in the bookshelves. Then there are the cakes. Towering behemoths slathered in rich buttercream, displayed proudly in their glass cases, the cakes look almost too pretty and too decadent to eat. Each has at least eight thick layers, and usually, Cassie and I would go straight from Mingyang after school and share a slice between the two of us and still have enough to take home.

The bell above the door chimes as I enter, and the owner, Tessa, glances up from behind the counter. She smiles whenshe sees me, then cranes her neck with a quizzical expression when nobody comes in after me.

“Where’s Cassie? You two usually arrive together.”

My throat closes up ever so slightly. I know it’s stupid to get emotional over such an innocuous question, but it’s been a long day. “Oh, Cassie will be here in a minute.”

She must have caught something in my voice, because her expression turns soft, understanding lighting her eyes. “Take a seat. The usual drink?”

My usual drink is what Cassie affectionately calls the Embarrassment of Indonesia. It’s an iced latte but with just half the espresso shot. No self-respecting Indonesian café serves decaf, and if I drink coffee past noon, I’ll stay awake the rest of the night, so as a compromise, I order half shots.

“Yeah, and Cassie’s usual, please. And can we have a slice of…” I hesitate, scanning the glass display case. There are the usual favorites: carrot cake, red velvet, German chocolate, nastar crumble (nastar is an Indonesian butter cookie filled with thick pineapple jam), and pandan coconut. Today, there’s also a giant cake that’s a deep purple.

“Japanese ubi,” Tessa says, following my gaze. “With palm sugar frosting.”

“Ooh, yes, that one.” Of course, as soon as I say it, I realize my stomach is in such a tight knot that I don’t really have much of an appetite, not even for one of Tessa’s magical cakes. Still, no harm in trying to fix my problems with cake.

“Okay, coming right up.”

Cassie arrives just as our drinks and stupidly huge slice of cake arrive, and I practically leap up from my seat to hug her.

“Uh-oh. Okay, so it’s arealemergency. Oh god. Are you—please tell me you’re not, like, seriously ill.” She actually looks like she’s about to cry.

“No! God, nothing like that.” Great, now I feel terrible for making Cassie worry. “It’s just—Sourdawg.”

“Oh?” Cassie looks confused for a second before understanding dawns. “Oh no! Did your starter die?”

“My starter?” Now it’s my turn to look confused.

“Your sourdough starter. Remember? We all made one during the pandemic, and yours was the only one that’s lasted this long. Aww, I would hate for Francine to die!”

“Oh, right. No, Francine’s okay…I think.” To be fair, Francine’s probably close to death. I wouldn’t know; I threw her in the freezer a couple of months ago and have pretty much forgotten about her. “This isn’t about sourdough, it’s about Sourdawg.”

“Sour…dog.” Cassie eyes me warily. “Is that some weird sex position you just read about on Reddit?”

“Oh my god, you perv. No, Sourdawg is my online friend, remember? The one inWarfront Heroes?”

“Ooohhh. Right, yeah. The rando you’ve been chatting with for—what, a year now? The one who thinks you’re a guy? You do realize he’s probably a fifty-year-old dude living in his mom’s basement in, like, Arkansas or something?”

---